Hi! I'm Ruth, they/them pronouns, 26, and I enjoy most types of whump! I do art, graphic design and writing.
I try my best to tag, but if I miss a content warning you'd like added, please just shoot me an ask! I won't tag lady whump as a content warning, but anything else I will if you ask.
Whump 2024 advent calendar
Favourite tropes:
RECOVERY WHUMP!!!
Found family
Gagging
Muzzles
Pet whump
Whumper pressing down on whumpee's back to keep them from getting up
Branding
Whipping
Caretaker turned whumpee/whumpee turned caretaker
Hero/villain whump
Tall whumpee/small caretaker (or vice versa)
Tall whumpee/small whumper
G/t whump
Whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper
Incompetent/clueless caretaker (they're trying their best but they have no idea they're doing)
General contents: pet whump, dehumanisation, amnesia, PTSD
Sam and Lucan 'verse
In a world where non-humans are enslaved, our characters are just trying to live out their lives in peace. And failing, mostly.
General contents: non-human characters, institutionalised slavery, fantasy racism, dehumanisation, PTSD
A Death in the Family
When his estranged father dies, Tristam, against his better judgement, attends the will reading, and ends up leaving with long-term bloodbag Sunday Afolayan and Eldrida, his father's former employee (and a terribly mistreated one at that, it turns out).
Even with Aileen and Evelyn's expert advice and friendship, it's tricky to bring Sunday back from the depths of his enthrallment, and Eldrida's struggling too. Six years under the cruel fist of Barnabas Sharpe was hard to survive.
It's a difficult recovery for both of them. But surely, things can't get worse now.
Contains: vampire whumper, non-human whumpee (vampire), lady whump, conditioned whumpee, disabled characters (Tristam has ADHD, Eldrida has anophthalmia, and Sunday has joint problems, a badly-healed arm, and an absence epilepsy-like condition), recovery whump, multiple whumpees
Botanist Whumpee
When the rich and powerful Sebastian Beaumont offers Alyssa a place to stay, she doesn’t expect to become his captive for three years. And when Silver rescues her at a party… well, the only thing she’s absolutely sure is better is that they don’t have a basement. They don’t have much of anything, actually. And she doesn’t know whether she can trust them or not, but she stays anyway. With no-one left to care about her, and Beaumont using all his money and connections to search for the pair of them, where else is she supposed to go?
Contains: recovery whump, captivity, lady whump, somewhat defiant whumpee, found family, intimate whumper
Cian and Row
In a world where superpowers are real, heroes and villains exist, and there's a large black market in powered people, Rowan's been enslaved for as long as they can remember. They're befriended when they're three by Cian Sinclair, a local empathic five year old, and at the age of eleven is rescued and adopted by the Sinclairs. Years later they become a supervillain, disappear for five years and reappear to reunite with their family, and attract another enemy, one far more powerful than their previous captors and obsessed with their healing powers.
Contains: slavery, PTSD, minor whump, past minor whump, immortal whumpee, discrimination, villain whump
Immortal Cannon Fodder
Masterlist part 2 - character profiles, character asks
Phoenix, an immortal hero, joins a team that hurts them and uses them as cannon fodder. But their teammates are only doing what's necessary to help them all survive. Phoenix's regular sacrifices are necessary. And it's not like they've got anywhere else to go anyway.
It takes the arrival of Kai, a wolf-shifter and telekinetic, to help them see what's going on. But a friendship and a promised eventual transfer can't fix everything.
Contains: hero whump, abuse, past abuse, immortal whumpee
MD-264N
When MD-264N, the government's best weapon, runs to avoid being decommissioned and collapses on the doorstep of a small ragtag team of rebels, it's a surprise to everyone. But despite resistance, the weapon, now known as Morgan, starts to find their place, and the rebels soon find that they'll do anything to keep them free.
Contains: living weapon, found family, dehumanisation/self dehumanisation, team dynamics, reluctant caretaker (not the main caretaker), recovery whump, caretaker whump, disabled caretaker (forearm amputee)
Operation Badger
In the year 2037, Earth is invaded by the Stex. 14 years later, superpowers start appearing in teenagers, and are apparently humanity's best defence against the aliens. What is Earth Security to do but train these people up as weapons?
Contains: sci-fi, living weapons, team whump, multiple whumpees, minor whump, aliens, disabled character
Out of the Frying Pan
Five years ago Elis, former bodyguard and weapon of Lord Wulfric, was rescued from a fiery death by Col and Sæwin. He now lives in relative peace with them in Sorestan, a peace that's abruptly disrupted after an unwelcome visitor brings his past colliding with the present.
Contains: medieval whump, fantasy elements, living weapon
Out of the Water
Túathal, a merman, is captured and kept prisoner by pirates for his valuable scales. While Robyn, the youngest of the crew and not very popular, takes care of him, the others only bother with his scales (and anything that makes their extraction easier). Especially James. And once the rest of the pirates discover that Robyn and Túathal have become fond of each other, things only get worse.
Whumpee is captured by a Whumper who wants to teach them survival skills. Painfully.
Contains: survival skills whump, sadistic whumper
The Greatest Show on Earth
Damon and Pythias are an unwilling two-person sideshow act in The Greatest Show on Earth, Pythias forced to kill Damon multiple times a day for the entertainment of paying circus patrons. Damon has been in captivity since birth, Pythias not quite so long (although certainly long enough), and they're both ready to get out.
But the outside world is even trickier to navigate than they imagined.
Contains: non-human whumpees, multiple whumpees, immortal whumpee, lady whump, circus whump, public whump, captivity, recovery whump, temporary character death (both implied and shown at times), guilty whumpee, whumpee as caretaker
Other writing:
Non-series whump masterlist
Miscellaneous writing, art and graphics
Fanfic/fanart (AO3)
BBC Merlin, Good Omens, Doctor Who, The Sandman, The Murderbot Diaries
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At first, no one noticed him as an emergency and that was the point.
They found him in the clinic waiting room between the lunch rush and the afternoon wound-care block. He’d been placed carefully in the blue chair by the radiator. A coat lay folded over his lap. His hands rested on top of it. His hair was comb. His shoes were tied. His posture was perfect enough for him to disappear in the busy room. He sat with his knees together and his shoulders relaxed in a way that wasn't relaxation at all. His face was empty and plenty if no one looked too closely.
Romantic training did that sometimes. It made suffering pretty.
There was a note pinned to his coat. A silver safety pin through wool, paper, and the edge of his sweater beneath, because whoever left him had not bothered to check whether they were pinning fabric or skin.
Lucky saw that first and his face went blank.
“Rho.”
Rho looked up from the intake desk. “What?”
He nodded toward the blue chair. When the man didn't move, Rho’s expression changed.
The waiting room went quiet in the strange ripple-pattern of places that knew how to recognize danger late. A mother pulled her child closer. A volunteer stopped stacking cups. Someone near the coffee station whispered, “Was he there before?”
“Yes,” Dami said from the hallway.
Everyone looked at them.
Dami’s voice was flat. “Came in with a family. Four people. Left without him eleven minutes ago.”
Rho’s hands curled around the clipboard. “And you didn’t stop them?”
They shrugged lightly. “Looked like donors.”
That wasn't’t an excuse. It was an indictment.
Lucky crossed the waiting room slowly, stopping several feet from the man in the blue chair.
“Hello,” Lucky said. “My name’s Lucky. You’re at the Bartlett clinic.”
The man blinked. He didn't look up.
Lucky glanced at the note, then back at him.
“Can I remove the paper from your coat?”
The man smiled immediately, beautiful and wrong.
“If it pleases you,” he said lightly, low and breathless in the way every Romantic had been trained.
Rho swore under her breath and Dami stilled.
Lucky’s mouth tightened. “It doesn’t please me. I’m asking if you want it removed.”
The man’s smile trembled. He blinked. The script had failed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Okay,” Lucky said. “Then I won’t.”
The clinic door opened.
“No,” Kestrel said into the phone. “No public comment until counsel sees the draft. If they use the word recovery, send it back.”
She stopped. Her eyes moved once across the room.
Lucky.
Rho.
Dami.
The man in the blue chair.
The note.
She ended the call without saying goodbye.
No one spoke. The man noticed the silence before he noticed her. His posture sharpened, adjusting itself for attention. His chin lowered. His mouth softened. His hands stilled.
Kestrel crossed the room slowly. Hurrying would have made him responsible for her urgency. She stopped in front of him but to the side, not blocking his view of the door.
“What name do you want used?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to her shoes. Then her hands. Then the floor.
“Whatever you prefer.”
“No.”
His lips parted.
Kestrel’s voice stayed level. “That wasn’t a command. It was an answer. We don’t choose that for you.”
Something moved beneath his face. A tiny, trapped thing.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
Kestrel looked at the note. The safety pin had gone through the sweater. Not skin, thank God. The paper was folded once, his name written on the outside in neat blue ink.
Not his name.
A name.
Adrian.
“May I remove the note?” she asked.
The man’s hands flexed.
“I was told to keep it visible.”
“By the people who left?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“They’re gone.”
His eyes closed for half a second. Pain crossed his face so quickly it almost looked like relief.
“May I remove it?” Kestrel asked again.
He nodded.
She unfastened the safety pin with hands steady enough to make the whole room colder. She removed the paper from his coat. Then she folded the pin closed and set it on the side table instead of keeping it.
Small things mattered. Sharp things mattered. Ownership hid in small, sharp things.
The man watched the safety pin like it might be returned to him as punishment.
Kestrel unfolded the note. Rho stepped closer. Lucky did not. Dami looked at her face.
The note was short. That made it worse.
To whom it may concern,
This is Adrian. He belonged to our father, Daniel Whitcomb, who passed last month. Adrian is trained Romantic and light Domestic. He is well behaved but emotionally dependent and no longer appropriate for our household. We understand your Foundation works with displaced persons and difficult cases.
Please do not contact us regarding return. We are not interested in reclaiming him. His documents are in the envelope in his coat pocket. He has no known medical conditions except occasional hysteria and poor appetite when ignored.
He responds best to firm affection and routine.
Thank you for your understanding.
Kestrel read it once.
Only once.
Her face did not change.
Rho’s eyes filled with furious tears. Lucky looked away toward the clinic windows, jaw tight. Dami’s hands closed at their sides.
The man in the chair smiled up at Kestrel like he was waiting for her to decide whether the note had lowered his value beyond use.
Kestrel folded the paper along its original crease. Then folded it again. Then put it in her coat pocket.
“Lucky,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Medical intake. Not in this room.”
Lucky nodded. “Adrian, can you stand?”
The man’s eyes moved to her.
“You can answer him.”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Do you want to?”
That question broke something. His hands lost their perfect stillness
“I don’t know what happens if I don’t.”
Lucky’s voice stayed even. “Then you sit in the chair until you decide, unless there’s a medical emergency.”
The man stared at him.
“I’m getting tea,” Rho said. “I’m going to make tea available. He doesn’t have to drink it.”
The man’s gaze moved between them, terrified by every ordinary adjustment made around his will.
Dami stepped closer to Kestrel. “Where are you going?”
Kestrel did not look at them.
“Out.”
“Kes.”
She turned. Dami stopped. Whatever they saw in her face made them step back.
Wick chose that moment to arrive from the hall, moving carefully on his crutches because the clinic’s elevator was down again and he’d made bad decisions about stairs. He took in the room the way Kestrel had.
The man in the blue chair.
Lucky beside him.
Rho at the counter, shaking with anger.
Dami silent.
Kestrel with nothing in her hands and a note in her pocket.
His face changed.
“Kestrel,” he said softly.
She didn't look at him for long. It was long enough. Not long.
Oh yes. This would be a game right up his alley. Not that he'd test them on himself, or participate in the game.
Our willing participate would be sneering and snarling bucking against leather restraints on a table with her sleeve rolled up.
Perhaps he'd appreciate it so much, that even he wouldn't know what was in which syringe :) Like, let's try this, no, I don't know which juice this is, actually I don't even know what any of them do. Let's find out!
WARNING: Unauthorized access, reproduction, disclosure, or removal of this document is grounds for immediate termination, civil action, and criminal referral.
SUBJECT FILE 01
CHRISTOPHER WICKHAM
FILE NUMBER: CID-WF-001
SUBJECT STATUS: ACTIVE
LEGAL NAME: Christopher Wickham
KNOWN NAMES: Wick; Mr. Wickham
SUBJECT TYPE: Civilian Hostile Actor
PRIMARY AFFILIATIONS: Asryn Pharmaceutical; The Wickham Foundation; Falwell Memorial Hospital
Christopher Wickham is assessed as the principal financial and institutional sponsor of the Wickham Foundation’s recovery-obstruction network.
Subject is not considered a significant direct physical threat.
Subject is considered an extreme strategic threat.
Wickham possesses the financial resources, corporate access, legal infrastructure, political influence, and personal motivation necessary to disrupt WRU operations at a regional or national level. His actions have already resulted in the suspension of vendor contracts, interruption of medical supply relationships, increased litigation costs, reputational damage, and the failure of multiple recovery actions.
Subject routinely presents himself as physically vulnerable, socially agreeable, and procedurally cooperative.
This presentation is operationally deceptive.
Personnel are advised that Wickham does not need to overpower an extraction team. He only needs to delay it long enough for someone else to move the target.
II. IDENTIFICATION AND PHYSICAL PROFILE
SEX: Nonbinary Male
AGE: Adult
HEIGHT: 6ft
BUILD: Variable due to chronic illness and reduced mobility
Subject frequently uses forearm crutches or a wheelchair. Mobility varies according to fatigue, pain level, illness progression, and environmental conditions.
Observed symptoms during periods of physical or emotional stress include:
Increased stutter severity
Hand tremors
Reduced balance
Labored breathing
Muscular weakness
Loss of consciousness
Inability to remain standing without assistance
These symptoms must not be interpreted as confusion, diminished judgment, or reduced situational awareness.
Multiple WRU personnel have made that error.
III. BACKGROUND
Wickham is the surviving heir to the Wickham family and retains controlling influence over Asryn Pharmaceutical and related corporate holdings.
Following a series of public statements concerning corporate ethics and coercive labor practices, Asryn terminated, declined to renew, or suspended multiple relationships involving:
WRU subsidiaries
WRU-contracted research facilities
Ownership-service providers
Medical contractors servicing training and recovery facilities
Third-party companies with undisclosed WRU investment
The Wickham Foundation began formal operations approximately one year later.
The delay between the Asryn contract terminations and the Foundation’s establishment is assessed as deliberate. It provides separation between Wickham’s public corporate actions and subsequent private support of former contracted persons.
No Foundation charter, public filing, donor statement, or program description directly references:
WRU
Contracted persons
Bonded companions
Pet designations
Ownership disputes
Recovery obstruction
Despite this absence, a statistically significant number of individuals listed as missing, stolen, noncompliant, or unlawfully withheld have subsequently received assistance from Wickham-funded entities.
Documented or suspected assistance includes:
Emergency medical treatment
Long-term housing
Legal representation
Identity-document replacement
Trauma services
Employment placement
Domestic transportation
International relocation
Wickham has denied direct knowledge of individual cases. These denials have not been disproven.
IV. BEHAVIORAL PROFILE
BASELINE PRESENTATION
Subject typically presents as:
Charming
Courteous
Self-deprecating
Verbally hesitant
Physically nonthreatening
Cooperative with legal and medical personnel
Concerned with procedural fairness
The subject's stutter is genuine. His use of it is not necessarily passive.
Wickham understands that visible pain, speech disruption, and mobility limitations alter how personnel respond to him. He exploits the reluctance of officials to interrupt, search, restrain, or publicly confront a visibly disabled civilian.
This does not require fabrication of symptoms. The subject uses existing symptoms as operational terrain.
NEGOTIATION BEHAVIOR
Wickham demonstrates advanced proficiency in:
Prolonging conversations without appearing obstructive
Redirecting direct questions into procedural disputes
Demanding clarification of warrants and jurisdiction
Requiring medical accommodations
Creating competing legal obligations
Invoking disability-access concerns
Forcing officials to choose between delay and adverse publicity
Positioning witnesses before confrontation
Generating documentation faster than field teams can review itThe subject frequently allows opponents to believe they are controlling the interaction.
They are not.
STRESS RESPONSE
Threats to Wickham’s own health produce limited behavioral change.
Threats to Leigh Kestrel Kestrel-Wickham produce immediate and observable physiological distress, including increased speech disruption, tremors, respiratory difficulty, and reduced mobility.
This response must not be treated as proof that the threat is effective.
When Kestrel is endangered, Wickham becomes less risk-averse, less procedurally predictable, and more willing to deploy corporate, legal, and financial resources without regard for personal consequences.
V. DOCUMENTED INCIDENT: FALWELL MEMORIAL
INCIDENT CODE: FM-09
LOCATION: Falwell Memorial Hospital
OPERATION TYPE: Joint inspection and recovery action
OUTCOME: Target not recovered
During a coordinated inspection of Falwell Memorial, Wickham personally intercepted six officials in the hospital’s primary lobby.
At the time of contact, subject was experiencing an active medical flare and required forearm crutches.
Wickham challenged authorization documents, requested accommodation for his speech impairment, disputed the inspection team’s access to restricted medical areas, and initiated contact with hospital counsel.
The resulting delay lasted approximately nine minutes.
During that period, unidentified Foundation personnel relocated a person of interest through a secured service route. The individual was removed from the relevant floor before inspection personnel obtained access.
Wickham lost consciousness shortly after the team was denied entry.
It remains unknown whether the collapse was anticipated, deliberately risked, or medically inevitable.
The distinction has no operational value.
The target was gone.
VI. KNOWN AND SUSPECTED METHODS
Corporate pressure against WRU vendors and affiliates
Cancellation or nonrenewal of supply agreements
Strategic donations to hospitals, shelters, legal clinics, universities, and community programs
Funding through intermediaries with no disclosed Foundation connection
Use of medical privacy protections to obstruct searches
Use of disability-discrimination complaints to delay questioning
Deployment of counsel before field personnel complete initial contact
Public criticism designed to damage WRU without creating actionable defamation exposure
Emergency hospitalization of recovery targets
Reclassification of custody disputes as medical or housing matters
Creation of overlapping jurisdictional claims
Deliberate physical presence at high-risk operations
Acceptance of medical deterioration when delay benefits Foundation personnel
Use of Asryn-controlled facilities as neutral or protected environments
VII. ASSOCIATED PERSONS
LEIGH KESTREL-WICKHAM
RELATIONSHIP: Spouse
ROLE: Operational authority; field assessment; security coordination
THREAT STATUS: EXTREME
Kestrel is believed to possess independent command authority within Foundation operations. Wickham should not be assumed to control her actions.
She is capable of recognizing conditioned behavior and specialized protection training on sight.
Bates is a former contracted fighter and is assessed as willing to use direct force against recovery personnel.
See Subject File CID-WF-005.
VIII. LEVERAGE ASSESSMENT
FINANCIAL PRESSURE
EXPECTED EFFECTIVENESS: LOW
Wickham possesses sufficient personal and corporate resources to withstand extended litigation, supplier losses, fines, and targeted economic pressure.
Financial attacks may accelerate Asryn’s disengagement from WRU-linked companies and create additional scrutiny of WRU corporate structures.
MEDICAL PRESSURE
EXPECTED EFFECTIVENESS: MINIMAL
Threats involving medication access, treatment delays, insurance complications, or personal health exposure are unlikely to produce compliance.
Subject has repeatedly accepted physical deterioration rather than abandon an operation.
SPOUSAL PRESSURE
EXPECTED EFFECTIVENESS: UNSTABLE
Threats against Kestrel create immediate distress.
They also remove Wickham’s normal caution.
Use of Kestrel as leverage is likely to trigger simultaneous retaliation from Wickham, Cartier-Wickham, Johnson, Bartlett, and Bates.
PRESSURE AGAINST FOUNDATION RESIDENTS
EXPECTED EFFECTIVENESS: SHORT-TERM / HIGH-RISK
Threats against residents may produce temporary cooperation.
They are also expected to activate the full associated network and may expose WRU operations to public, legal, medical, and corporate retaliation.
No threat against a Foundation resident should be issued without Executive Command authorization.
IX. COUNTERMEASURES AND CONTACT PROTOCOL
Personnel engaging Wickham must comply with the following:
Medical personnel must be present or immediately available.
WRU legal counsel must review all operational paperwork before contact.
All interactions must be independently recorded.
Wickham must not select or alter the meeting location.
Electronic communications must be restricted during active negotiations.
Subject must not be permitted unsupervised contact with Foundation personnel.
Requests for medical accommodation must be documented but must not automatically terminate questioning.
Personnel must verify all claims involving warrants, medical privacy, hospital policy, and disability access.
No officer may leave the primary team to respond to a secondary disturbance without command approval.
All service corridors, elevators, loading areas, and medical-transfer routes must be secured before subject contact.
ADDITIONAL RESTRICTION
Wickham and Kestrel must not be allowed direct contact during negotiation, detention, questioning, or recovery activity.
They communicate efficiently with minimal speech.
Physical separation alone may not be sufficient. Visual contact, hand signals, medical-status updates, and third-party messages must also be controlled.
X. OPERATIONAL INDICATORS
The following may indicate an active Foundation relocation:
Wickham arrives without prior notice
Wickham insists on remaining physically present despite visible illness
Hospital counsel appears before formal notification
Falwell Memorial initiates an unexpected lockdown or privacy review
Multiple Foundation vehicles enter or leave separately
Johnson changes vehicles or routes without explanation
Kestrel becomes unusually calm
Cartier-Wickham stops communicating
Bartlett requests restricted medical access
Bates moves residents away from public areas
Wickham begins requesting names, badge numbers, accommodation records, or written clarification
When three or more indicators occur simultaneously, field command should assume the target is already being moved.
XI. ANALYST COMMENT
Wickham’s physical limitations are real. So is the threat. He does not need to be healthy to damage WRU. He does not need to be armed to stop a recovery. He does not need to admit what the Foundation is doing.
He owns the hospital where the target disappears. He funds the attorney who challenges the warrant. He supplies the medication that keeps the witness alive. He donates to the institution that later refuses WRU access.
Then he smiles, apologizes for taking so long to answer, and asks the field team to repeat the question.
XII. COMMAND ADDENDUM
HANDWRITTEN ENTRY — RECOVERY COMMAND
Stop calling him harmless. He has shut down three suppliers, purchased a hospital, buried two ownership suits, financed an interstate concealment network, and smiled through every meeting. Harmless men do not require this many pages.
END SUBJECT FILE CID-WF-001
CLASSIFICATION: BLACK // INTERNAL EYES ONLY
DO NOT COPY
DO NOT REMOVE FROM SECURE SYSTEM
REPORT ALL UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE COMMAND
No windows, one door, twelve chairs, a pot of coffee no one had touched, two pitchers of sweating water, and a framed print of a city skyline so generic it looked like an apology.
A room designed for polite damage.
Her counsel sat to her right. Another Foundation attorney sat to her left with a laptop open and three color-coded folders stacked in front of him.
Wick sat behind her. Not at the table. Not beside her. That had taken twenty minutes of negotiation and a surprising amount of legal language to accomplish. Christopher Wickham could observe. Christopher Wickham could not answer. Christopher Wickham could not confer with the witness while a question was pending. Christopher Wickham could not, under any circumstances, interrupt opposing counsel.
He had smiled through all of it but Kestrel knew he was furious.
He looked harmless today, which was its own form of violence when Wick chose it carefully. Charcoal suit. Pale blue tie. Forearm crutches leaned against the wall within reach. His wheelchair locked beside him. A leather folder balanced on his lap. He had brought a pen he didn't need and had not uncapped.
Across the table, Alistair Reed’s attorney arranged his notes with ceremonial care.
Charles Renn, a man with silver hair and a red tie. Kestrel had read his biography twice. He liked soft openings, narrow questions, and forcing people to choose between moral truth and legal self-preservation. He was an expert in corporate liability, asset recovery, reputational harm, and had three prior suits against underground-adjacent charities.
Beside him sat Reed, a fifty-six year old real estate agent with private security contracts and one registered Domestic-Platonic combination pet purchased five years ago through a WRU affiliate.
Product #440918.Legal name, according to Reed’s ownership documents: Tara Reed.
Chosen name, according to the woman currently being moved from Charity and Rho’s safehouse to a secondary location under a different intake file: Elise.
Kestrel folded her hands on the table. Her wedding ring caught the fluorescent light.
Reed kept looking at it. Then at her throat. Then at her face. Owners always wanted recognition. They wanted you to know who they were. They wanted the whole room to understand that the law had already sided with them before anyone spoke.
The court reporter lifted her hands over the stenotype machine. “Please raise your right hand.”
Kestrel did.
“Do you swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Behind her, Wick shifted once. It wasn't enough to be disruptive. It was enough for her to hear him.
“I do,” Kestrel said.
Renn smiled.
“Please state your full legal name for the record.”
“Leigh Kestrel-Wickham.”
“Do you also go by Kestrel?”
“Yes.”
“And is Mrs. Wickham acceptable?”
“In formal contexts, yes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wickham.” Renn wrote something down. He didn't need to. “You are one of the executive officers of the Wickham Foundation, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You founded it with your husband, Christopher Wickham?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Wickham is present today?”
Kestrel didn't look back.
“Yes.”
“For moral support?”
Her counsel leaned forward. “Objection. Relevance.”
Renn lifted a hand. “Withdrawn.” His smile didn't change. “The Wickham Foundation publicly operates homeless shelters, soup kitchens, and free clinics. Is that accurate?”
“Those are among the services we provide.”
“Among them?”
“Yes.”
“What other services does the Foundation provide?”
“Objection. Vague.”
“You may answer if you understand the question, Mrs. Wickham.”
Kestrel looked at him.
Emergency transport. False intake names. Medical care without ownership notification. Safehouses that didn't exist on paper. Phones with numbers memorized and then destroyed. Bus tickets bought in cash. Drivers who knew not to look in the rearview mirror if someone was crying.
“Emergency housing,” she said. “Food access. Medical referrals. Legal aid referrals. Transportation stipends. Crisis support. Job placement assistance.”
“For people?”
“Yes.”
Renn’s pen paused.
There.
The first hook.
“For people,” he repeated. “Does the Foundation provide those same services to pets?”
The room went quiet in a way that was almost physical.
Kestrel kept her attention on Renn. “The Foundation provides services to individuals who come to us in need.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Her counsel said, “Objection. Asked and answered.”
Renn gave a small nod, as if indulging them. “Mrs. Wickham, you understand that under state law, pets are classified as property.”
“I understand the law.”
“Do you disagree with it?”
“Objection. Relevance.”
“It goes to motive.”
“It goes to spectacle,” her counsel said. “Ask a question tied to the allegations.”
Renn’s smile thinned.
Reed watched Kestrel with cold interest.
Not anger yet. Interest. Like she was a product with an irregularity.
Kestrel had seen that look before. In old rooms. On old faces. On men who thought ownership was the natural order of the world and disobedience was a manufacturing defect.
Renn glanced down at his notes. “Let’s discuss Product #440918.”
Kestrel didn't move.
“Do you know that designation?”
“No.”
Reed made a sound under his breath. Almost a laugh. Almost a threat.
Renn looked up. “You have never heard the designation Product #440918?”
“I don’t recognize it.”
“You don't recognize it, or you have never heard it?”
“I don’t recognize it as belonging to anyone known to me through Foundation services.”
“That's a careful answer.”
“I am under oath.”
Behind her, Wick uncapped his pen.
Renn’s eyes flicked past her, then returned. “Do you know the name Tara Reed?”
“No.”
“Do you know my client’s pet, Tara?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met a person calling herself Elise?”
There it was.
The blade under the paper.
Kestrel thought of Elise at Charity’s kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a chipped mug, shoulders nearly touching her ears. She thought of the way Elise had asked permission to sit down after being told three times that every chair in the room was available to her. She thought of Rho placing toast on the table without comment. Charity kneeling to wrap Elise’s feet. Lucky standing in the hall because his Guard Dog instincts had clocked the exits, the windows, the danger, and still chosen not to crowd her.
She thought of Elise whispering, “Will he be allowed to come get me?”
And heard herself saying, “Not while I am breathing.”
Her counsel’s shoe touched hers beneath the table.
A warning. Not here. Not like that.
Kestrel looked at Renn. “The Foundation serves many people. I am not able to identify individuals based on a first name alone.”
“Have you ever met a runaway pet using the name Elise?”
“Objection.”
“You can answer.”
“I cannot identify any Foundation client in response to that question.”
“So you refuse to answer?”
“I am preserving client confidentiality.”
“Pets don't have client confidentiality.”
“The Foundation serves individuals,” Kestrel said.
Renn leaned back.
Reed’s jaw flexed.
Kestrel watched the word land badly. Good. Let it bruise.
“Mrs. Wickham,” Renn said, “did you knowingly assist Product #440918 in evading Mr. Reed?”
“No.”
The answer was easy.
She hadn't assisted a product. She had assisted Elise.
“Did the Wickham Foundation knowingly assist Product #440918 in evading Mr. Reed?”
“I am not aware of any Foundation program by that name assisting any person by that designation.”
“By that designation,” Renn repeated.
“Yes.”
“Again, very careful.”
“Again, I am under oath.”
A small sound came from behind her. Not quite a laugh.
Renn ignored it. “Where is Product #440918?”
“I don’t know.”
Reed’s chair scraped against the carpet.
The sound was sharp enough that the court reporter startled.
Kestrel didn't. Neither did Wick.
Renn lifted one hand toward his client. “Let the record reflect that Mr. Reed is understandably emotional.”
Kestrel’s counsel said, “Let the record reflect only that Mr. Reed moved his chair.”
The court reporter resumed typing.
Kestrel almost liked her.
Almost.
Renn lowered his voice. “Mrs. Wickham, are you testifying that you don't know the location of my client’s lawful property?”
“I am testifying that I don't know the location of Product #440918.”
It was true now.
That was the point of the move.
Kestrel had known where Elise was that morning. At breakfast, she had known the room, the house, the county, the road that bent around the old church and ended where the trees grew thick. By the time she entered the conference room, Lucky had already sent the message.
Bird in transit.
By the time Renn asked, Kestrel didn't know. Not the car. Not the route. Not the destination. Not the final house. That knowledge had been taken away from her as deliberately as a weapon being removed before a search.
She knew Elise was not with Reed.
For now, that was enough.
Renn slid a paper across the table. “I’m showing you what has been marked as Exhibit Four. Do you recognize this document?”
Her counsel intercepted it first, reviewed it, then passed it to Kestrel.
A reimbursement form.
Gas. Tolls. Convenience store receipt. A driver listed as M. Santos. Date: March seventeenth. The night Elise had come in barefoot and hypothermic and apologizing for the rainwater on Charity’s floor.
Kestrel looked at it for the correct number of seconds.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A Foundation reimbursement form.”
“Did you approve it?”
“Yes.”
“What was the expense for?”
“Transportation support.”
“For whom?”
“The form doesn’t state a client name.”
“Do you know who was transported?”
“No.”
“Who is M. Santos?”
“A Foundation contractor.”
“What does M. Santos do for the Foundation?”
“Transportation support.”
“Transporting whom?”
“Clients.”
“Pets?”
“Individuals.”
Renn’s smile went thin and hard. “You can see how this looks.”
“I can see the document.”
“Mrs. Wickham, are you familiar with the legal concept of conversion?”
“Yes.”
“Tortious interference?”
“Yes.”
“Theft?”
“Objection.”
Renn continued. “Are you aware that depriving an owner of lawful access to his pet may constitute theft?”
“I am aware that your complaint makes that allegation.”
“Do you deny it?”
“The Foundation denies wrongdoing.”
“Did a young woman matching Tara Reed’s description enter a Foundation-funded facility on March seventeenth?”
“I don't have enough information to answer that.”
“Was she given food?”
Kestrel paused.
Her counsel went still beside her.
Wick didn't move behind her.
“No,” Kestrel said.
Renn blinked. Then smiled.
“No?”
“No, I don't deny that the Foundation gives food to hungry people.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“It’s what the Foundation does.”
“You don’t know that Product 440918 was hungry.”
“I know people come to us hungry.”
Reed leaned forward. “She has a dietary plan.”
Renn’s eyes closed for half a second.
Too late.
The room caught it.
Kestrel turned her head and looked at Reed for the first time.
He looked irritated that she had acknowledged him at all.
“She has medical requirements,” Reed said. “Supplements. Caloric restrictions. She can’t just eat whatever some shelter hands her.”
Kestrel’s counsel said, “Mr. Reed is not questioning the witness.”
But Kestrel kept looking at him.
A person told you everything in what they corrected.
Not she's afraid.
Not she's hurt.
Not I want to know if she is alive.
Supplements. Restrictions. Requirements.
As though Elise had been a misplaced piece of equipment with manufacturer guidelines.
"Then I hope she is somewhere with food.”
Renn leaned forward immediately. “Did you just admit you know she is somewhere?”
“I admitted that I hope a missing person is fed.”
“She isn’t a missing person,” Renn said. “She is my client’s registered pet.”
Kestrel looked back at him.
“Then I hope Mr. Reed’s registered pet is fed.”
The words tasted like rust.
Renn seemed pleased anyway, as if making her repeat the legal category meant the category had won.
It had not.
Not today.
He turned a page. “Do you know Dr. Charity Bartlett?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“She operates a free clinic that has received Foundation grants.”
“Does Dr. Bartlett shelter runaway pets?”
Her counsel’s voice sharpened. “Objection. Calls for speculation and seeks information outside the scope of this deposition.”
“You may answer if you know, Mrs. Wickham.”
Kestrel’s pulse changed.
Not much.
Enough.
Charity’s name didn't belong in this room.
Rho’s didn't. Lucky’s didn't. The blue room didn't. The patched fence didn't. The old kettle that whistled too loud and made everyone complain didn't. The safehouse didn't belong in the mouth of a man who called a terrified woman stolen property.
Kestrel folded her hands tighter.
“I know Dr. Bartlett provides medical care.”
“To pets?”
“To patients.”
“Runaway patients?”
“To patients.”
“Does the Foundation fund Dr. Bartlett’s illegal sheltering activities?”
“I’m not aware of any illegal sheltering activities by Dr. Bartlett.”
“Is that because you don’t ask?”
“It is because the Foundation funds documented medical services.”
Renn tapped his pen once. “Mrs. Wickham, we can subpoena Dr. Bartlett.”
“You can attempt to subpoena anyone you believe has relevant information.”
“And if she refuses to comply?”
“That would be a matter for Dr. Bartlett and her counsel.”
“Does that concern you?”
Kestrel held his gaze.
“Yes.”
Renn brightened.
Kestrel let him.
“It concerns me when medical providers are harassed for treating vulnerable people.”
The brightness died.
Beside her, Foundation counsel wrote something in the margin of his notes.
Behind her, Wick capped his pen.
They broke for lunch twenty minutes later.
The smaller room down the hall did have a window, but it looked directly into a brick wall.
Wick maneuvered his chair in first, then waited until the door shut before letting Christopher Wickham fall off his face.
His hands were shaking.
Kestrel crossed the room and crouched in front of him.
Not because he needed her lower.
Because she wanted his eyes.
“Wick,” she said.
His jaw worked once.
“They said Charity’s name.”
“I know.”
“They shouldn't have Charity’s name.”
“I know.”
“They shouldn't have enough for Santos either.”
“I know.”
He looked at her, pale and vicious with rage. “I can bury Reed.”
“I know.”
“I can bury Renn.”
“I know.”
“I can make sure every donor who has ever shaken Reed’s hand suddenly remembers a scheduling conflict.”
Kestrel rested her hands on the arms of his chair. “Not during my deposition.”
For one beat, he stared at her.
Then a laugh broke out of him, short and rough. He covered his face with one hand.
Kestrel stayed there.
He reached for her with the other hand. She gave him her fingers.
“I hate this,” he said.
“I know.”
“I hate that you have to sit there and let them call her that.”
“So do I.”
“I hate that they get to call you Mrs. Wickham like it means you belong to me.”
Kestrel looked at him.
His face tightened as if the words had cut him on the way out.
She squeezed his hand once.
“They can call me Mrs. Wickham,” she said. “They still don’t know what it means.”
Wick looked at her for a long moment.
Then his mouth trembled at the edge.
Not a smile.
Not grief.
Something that held both and survived them.
Her counsel knocked once and opened the door. “They’re ready.”
Wick inhaled.
The public face returned piece by piece. Smooth suit. Straight spine. Pleasant mouth. Empty eyes.
Christopher Wickham, co-CEO, benefactor, husband, observer.
Kestrel stood.
He caught her wrist before she stepped away.
“Kestrel.”
She looked back.
In public, most people called her Mrs. Wickham. In private, he called her by the name she had kept alive with her teeth.
His voice was low. “Don't let him make you bleed for telling the truth carefully.”
Kestrel bent and pressed her forehead to his for one brief second.
“I won’t.”
When they returned, Renn had a photograph.
Kestrel knew before he turned it around.
Owners always brought photographs. Proof of condition. Proof of possession. Proof that the thing had once been where it belonged.
He placed it in front of her.
Tara knelt beside Reed’s chair at some formal event. Pale dress. Glossy hair. Hands placed exactly on her thighs. Collar visible, tasteful enough to pass for jewelry if the viewer had never been trained to see a leash in every pretty thing.
Kestrel knew what to look for.
The tension in the jaw. The unfocused eyes. The obedience arranged so neatly it could be mistaken for peace.
Elise was thinner now but her eyes had changed. Fear was still there. It didn't leave just because a door opened. But there was anger under it now.
Small. Unsteady. Lit.
Kestrel protected that ember by keeping her own face blank.
“Do you recognize the person in this photograph?” Renn asked.
Kestrel looked at it. “No.”
Reed slammed his palm on the table.
The court reporter jumped.
Wick didn't.
Kestrel didn't.
Renn snapped, “Mr. Reed.”
“She is lying,” Reed said.
Her counsel said, “We are going off the record.”
“No,” Kestrel said.
Everyone looked at her.
Even Wick.
She kept her eyes on Renn. “I can answer.”
Her counsel hesitated. Then sat back.
Renn watched her carefully. “You don't recognize this person?”
“I recognize that there is a person in the photograph.”
“Do you recognize her as Tara Reed?”
“No.”
“As Product 440918?”
“No.”
“As Elise?”
The lie was harder this time. Elise had chosen that name in a whisper on Charity’s porch while Rho pretended to fix a loose hinge nearby. Elise had deserved to be known by it. Elise had deserved someone saying,
But not here.
Never here.
“No,” Kestrel said.
Renn slid the photograph closer. “Look again.”
Kestrel did.
The collar had a small charm.
T.R.
Tara Reed.
Property disguised as affection.
Kestrel considered breaking Reed’s hand one finger at a time. She could be effiecient. She wouldn’t even need to raise her voice.
She didn't.
Restraint had been forced into her too young and too thoroughly. Today, she used it against him.
“I have looked,” she said.
“And your testimony is that you don't recognize her?”
“My testimony is that I can’t identify the person in that photograph as anyone known to me through Foundation services.”
“That's not the same answer.”
“No.”
“Which answer is true?”
“Both.”
Silence.
Renn’s eyes sharpened.
There.
Now he saw her. She wasn't just a wife. Nor was she only the charity executive. Neither was she only a polished co-CEO in a tailored suit and wedding ring, sitting five feet two inches tall at a table full of men who thought volume and height were the same as power.
He finally saw the thing underneath. He finally saw the girl trained to stand in rooms full of predators and know which one would move first.
Renn changed tactics.
“Mrs. Wickham, were you raised in the Wickham household?”
Wick’s pen stopped behind her.
Her counsel’s voice went cold. “Objection. Harassment. Relevance.”
“It goes to bias.”
“It's a spectacle.”
Kestrel said, “I can answer.”
Her counsel looked at her.
Kestrel didn't look back.
“Yes,” she said.
“In what capacity?”
“I was raised there.”
“As a pet?”
The word landed between them. Wick inhaled behind her.
Reed watched with sudden, ugly fascination.
There it was. Recognition at last.
Not of her face but of her category. She had been freed and disobedient. She was a warning.
Kestrel let him look.
“No,” she said. “Not as a WRU pet.”
“But you were owned.”
“Objection.”
“Were you owned, Mrs. Wickham?”
The room with no windows blurred for half a second into another room. It was bigger and warmer. There were flowers on the wallpaper and Malcolm’s hand on the back of a chair. Charlotte’s voice telling someone not to make a scene. Wick laughing somewhere else, young and loved and unaware.
Then it was gone.
Kestrel looked at Renn.
“I was a child.”
Renn paused. That hadn't been the answer he expected.
Good. Let him trip over it.
“I’ll rephrase,” he said. “Do your experiences with the Wickham family influence your work with the Foundation?”
“Yes.”
Behind her, Wick’s breath caught.
She continued before anyone could stop her.
“They influence my belief that children should be protected, that hungry people should be fed, that sick people should receive medical care, and that no one should be returned to a place where they are unsafe.”
Renn leaned forward. “Even if returning them is required by law?”
Her counsel said, “Objection. Calls for a legal conclusion.”
Kestrel looked at Reed. Only Reed.
“I don't return people to unsafe places.”
Reed’s face flushed.
Renn said, “People.”
“Yes.”
“You keep using that word.”
“I know.”
“You understand that my client seeks the return of his pet, not a person.”
Kestrel looked back at him.
“I understand what your client is seeking.”
“And would the Foundation comply with a lawful court order requiring it to disclose the location of Product 440918?”
“Objection. Hypothetical, calls for a legal conclusion, and assumes facts not in evidence.”
Renn ignored her counsel. “Would you comply, Mrs. Wickham?”
Kestrel thought of the first safehouse.
Empty now, or almost empty.
She thought of the emergency bag under Elise’s bed.
The coat Elise had chosen herself.
The second van.
The driver who didn't know the final address because the route would change twice.
Lucky’s message. Bird in transit.
She thought of Charity’s hands wrapping Elise’s feet. Rho teaching Elise to say no by starting with tea. Wick behind her, trying not to shake. Every law written by people who had never been property and every law broken by people who understood exactly what property felt like from the inside.
“The Foundation complies with lawful court orders,” Kestrel said.
Renn smiled like he had won something. “Would you personally provide the location?”
“If compelled by a court, I would consult counsel regarding the Foundation’s legal obligations.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It’s my answer.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Do you know who knows where she is?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether she is alive?”
Kestrel hated him then. Not sharply. Completely.
“I hope she is,” she said.
Reed scoffed. “She would be if she came home.”
The room stopped.
There were sentences that told on themselves. Renn knew it. Kestrel saw irritation flash across his face before he smoothed it away.
Kestrel turned to Reed.
“She would be if she came home,” she repeated.
Reed’s eyes narrowed.
Kestrel tilted her head. “Interesting phrasing.”
Her counsel murmured, “Mrs. Wickham.”
She let Reed go.
Renn rushed in. “My client is understandably distressed. His property has been missing for nearly a month.”
“Twenty-seven days,” Kestrel said.
Too fast.
Her counsel closed her eyes.
Renn went still.
Reed did too.
Behind her, Wick became motionless as glass.
Renn’s voice softened. Dangerously soft.
“Twenty-seven?”
Kestrel looked down at the complaint.
“The incident report attached to your filing states that Product 440918 left Mr. Reed’s residence on the evening of March sixteenth. Today is April twelfth. That's twenty-seven days.”
Renn watched her.
One second. Two.
“Of course,” he said.
He didn't believe her.
That was fine.
Suspicion was not a location.
By the time the deposition ended, Reed had lost his temper twice, Renn had lost his smile once, and Kestrel had used the word individual so many times it had become a quiet act of vandalism.
The court reporter packed her machine.
Counsel gathered exhibits.
Renn stood and buttoned his jacket. “This is far from over, Mrs. Wickham.”
Kestrel rose.
Reed stepped around his attorney.
Too close.
Wick’s chair shifted behind her.
Kestrel didn't move.
Reed lowered his voice. “You think you’re noble.”
Her counsel snapped, “Mr. Reed, don't address my client.”
But Reed was looking at Kestrel.
Only Kestrel.
“She isn't like you,” he said. “Whatever happened to you, whatever story you’ve told yourself, Tara had structure. She had a home. She had a purpose. She gets confused without direction.”
The old shape of obedience waited in Kestrel’s bones.
She smiled.
“Then I hope,” Kestrel said, “wherever she is, someone gives her time to be confused.”
Reed stared at her.
Kestrel stepped around him.
Wick was already beside the door, upright on his crutches now, pale with pain and rage. Christopher Wickham in every line of his suit. Wick burning through the eyes.
He opened the door for her.
In the hallway, neither of them spoke until the conference room door closed behind them.
Then Wick said, very softly, “Elise has been moved.”
Kestrel looked at him.
He didn't smile.
“Lucky called during the break,” Wick said. “Charity agreed. Rho hated it. Elise chose the coat herself.”
Kestrel’s chest loosened so suddenly it hurt.
“Where?”
Wick’s eyes held hers.
For one breath, he looked like the boy he had been before he knew. Before the world cracked open and showed him the shape of the house he had loved.
Then he looked like the man he had become after.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Kestrel stared at him.
A tiny, terrible laugh escaped her.
Wick’s mouth trembled at the edge of answering.
Neither of them let it become more than that. Not there. Not with cameras in the lobby, counsel waiting by the elevator, and Reed’s people still close enough to hear if they raised their voices.
Kestrel reached for his sleeve instead of his hand.
Public enough.
Private enough.
The elevator doors opened.
Their counsel stepped in first. Wick followed, slow and careful on his crutches. Kestrel came last.
As the doors slid shut, Wick leaned close.
His voice was barely audible.
“You told the truth.”
Kestrel watched their reflections blur in the polished metal.
“No,” she said. “I told enough to keep her alive.”
Wick looked at her reflection.
Then nodded once.
The elevator descended.
Above them, in a conference room with no windows, men with expensive pens tried to turn a missing woman back into property.
Below them, the city kept moving.
Somewhere else, Elise was in a different car, under a different blanket, with a name no one in that room had earned the right to use.
And for now, no one who wanted to own her knew where she was.
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18 for the wij prompts? (preferably unintentional..)
18 from wij is smoke. ngl, I was like...smoke? You want me to set their house on fire? Smok...ing? Not something I can picture Leo or Aiden doing but have written for Harrison (end of this & implied here).
Anyway, I'm lying in bed thinking smoke, smoke, smoke. Nothing. I start daydreaming about what I would really like to write and what I'd really like to write is Harrison & Aiden meeting up post-Leo, with Leo there(!) even, but there's this one really crucial discovery Aiden needs to make first... and, boom, up in smoke. *Might be helpful to read this for more snippets of Aiden's fragmented recalling of his first/only contract!
(If you had a more literal smoke scenario in mind, please feel free to send it in! Also, I'm posting this whenever like wij is a fluid prompt list instead of a calendar 💫)
cw: victim self-blaming, internalized ableism, past noncon, past self-harm & past suicide attempt mentioned frankly.
Previous — Masterlist — Next
It’s just a normal trip to the store.
He and Leo split up to get through the list faster. He’s just grabbed the cereal when he sees them.
It always seemed too theatrical, melodramatic even, when people in movies and tv shows dropped everything in a moment of shock.
But it’s almost reflexive. To empty your hands when everything you’ve built your life around goes up in smoke. So your fingers are free to cling to the fragments. To pluck the burning, rising remnants of all meaning out of thin air.
The cereal box slaps against the grey industrial linoleum, followed closely by the saltines and the mayonnaise. Thank god it’s the plastic squeeze bottle because there weren’t any of the glass jars they usually buy. If it weren’t for the explosions of sound in the vacuum inside his head, he’d never be able to tear himself away from that face, that expression, those eyes.
An impossible ghost in the flesh. Not a ghost at all.
And to think he felt a flash of uncertainty at the substitution of a fucking condiment minutes ago. Enough to make him hesitate for a half-second before pulling it off the shelf. It’s the same brand and we need it for dinner, he defended to himself. (And last he checked the container the mayo comes in was not on Leo’s List. The secret one Aiden keeps diligent catalog of in his head.)
He stumbles back, away from the groceries he’s meant to bring back to Leo and the cart. Away from the curious, judgmental, bored, prying looks of the other shoppers. He’s not fast enough and his ruination incarnate starts to turn. Either from the noise or the sense of being near a spectacle and wanting, needing to make sure you’re not it.
Aiden spins and smacks right into a scowling, broad woman but doesn’t stop long enough to make sense of her clucking accusation as he mechanically and clumsily rushes from the store. His skin prickles under the weight of a too-familiar glare on his back but he can’t bring himself to turn and meet it, confirm he hasn’t immediately been passed over as a random weirdo. He weaves around someone’s cart at the last second, almost takes down a whole stack of Nilla Wafers and knocks shoulders with someone else in his careening retreat until finally he’s stumbling over the rubber spaghetti carpet of the entrance.
Blessed fresh air and sunlight blinding him and all he can feel is his heart beating so hard he thinks it will crack him open and there will be nothing at all inside because he doesn’t know what’s left. Maybe one of the bored stock workers will lend him some notes for taking inventory.
He ducks down the space between the grocery store and the Barnes & Noble. It’s not the skinny alley he wishes it were but he can tuck behind the fenced off dumpster, beside a stack of empty wooden pallets, and pretend it’s the best hiding spot in the world.
His breath rattles through his throat, lungs like wet plastic bags caught on branches in the wind. For a second, he thinks he might pass out. His thoughts have slowed to a crawl. Glacial in grasping onto the next rung of reality, they just hang there suspended. Flight, freeze, at least he got out of there before fawn tripped along.
Laughter climbs out of his mouth, jolting him back to the brick of the building behind his back, the asphalt where he sits. He has to clap both hands over his wild, hysterical grin before it slices his head in half like a watermelon. What is he even made of? Instead of nothing at all, maybe it’s just liquified now, syrupy juice will run down his ears, over his nose and lips. The overturned top of his head a tiki bowl on the pavement. Just waiting for someone like Harrison to slip a straw in, stir it around and take a taste.
You’re being dramatic, the Harrison in his head says flatly. As close as if he were resting his temple on Aiden’s shoulder. Watching the whole scene unfold like a movie he would never choose but will obstinately sit through to the bitter end, if only for the opportunity to heckle as proof of his superiority. You can pick next time, Aiden easily cedes. Somatic comfort in giving him exactly what he wants, folding to the familiar dynamic, because that well-worn crease is rest compared to resisting. What’s the point?
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. He’s been out here long enough Leo decided he’s taking too long. He’ll make a lap or two around the whole store. Then he’d pretend finding Aiden early was serendipitous. All the while swallowing a sigh of relief, playing at nonchalance when just a second ago he was pulling out his phone in a panic.
But Aiden’s nowhere to be found so Leo does call. His phone pulses with the fear Leo must be feeling but Aiden can’t bring himself to share in it, can’t seem to move. He just waits for the second call to come a heartbeat later, buried in his hoodie. For Leo to use the Find feature to get Aiden’s phone to sing a chorus of shrill beeps, silenced or not. Sometimes he can’t hear it if he’s working, if it’s across the room, or he left it on his pillow. Sorry! He’d text back, adding a monkey emoji covering its eyes. Leo would always call him after that. It’s okay, the first words out of his mouth. Twice, Aiden’s let the routine play out on purpose, just to have Leo’s reassurance in his ear. Squirming from the sweet guilt and the way it warmed him from the inside out.
He tries to see if he feels anything knowing Leo is zooming in on the little map and rushing to find him. Guilt for making him worry? Shame for losing it in public, yet again? He peels his hands off his face and presses them into the gritty pavement, tiny rocks digging into the skin of his palms, the pads of his fingers. At least he can feel that.
There should also be at least a tiny shred of comfort, of warmth, at the fact that Leo knows him well enough to come peering around every obstacle in the no-man’s land between the buildings to find his hiding nook. Empty handed of course because Leo would abandon anything to come to his rescue.
Leo kneels down, close enough to reach but leaving enough space that he’s not boxing Aiden in. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s freaked out. Face lined with worry, eyes searching and probing and Aiden knows his dead expression isn’t giving him anything.
“Aiden,” he has to ask. He’s never gotten any better at letting Aiden suffer silently. “What happened? Are you alright?”
He jerks his head in a nod, drags a hand over his face to try to reset the muscles. “I saw someone—some…two,” the sounds roll over his tongue, meaningless syllables. His lips twitch into a smile. She smiled. Right at him. As unreal as all the words, spoken countless times already and washed clean of all meaning they reach his lips. “Two people.”
“What?” Leo’s panic doubles in turn. “Did they recognize you?”
He shrugs. That smile. “She might’ve but she’s…she’s only…” He’s crying. “Three now.” He wipes the tears off his cheeks. “She turned three,” he whispers to himself, grinning giddily. Testing Leo’s anxiety.
“Aiden? What about the other person?” He looks like he’s about to throw him over his shoulder and sprint to the car.
“Dunno.” He can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters. She turned three. “If he did, he’d call.” It’s not funny but he can’t help laughing. “He’s…an asshole,” he laughs. “He always hated me. Didn’t stop him fucking me—” He claps both hands over his mouth but it only makes him sound more manic.
Leo’s jaw hangs open.
He tries to pull a breath through his nose, gags because he can’t stop laughing. Has to release his out-of-control mouth again to choke down enough air. He flaps a hand at Leo. It’s fine.
Leo shakes his head, a gentle pushback.
He tries harder to get a hold of himself, presses the heels of his shaking hands to his temples. Switches to covering his eyes. Pulls his hood down low over his forehead instead. He’s still laughing. Or something close to it.
“I think we should leave…” Suggested with all the care of trying to balance a soap bubble on his finger tip, like Aiden’s about to detonate. (Hasn’t he already?)
He nods, tears streaming down his face. Leo pulls him up with a strong grip around his wrist and doesn’t let go of his arm. Aiden puts his head between his knees as soon as he’s buckled in, unable to remember if he did it himself or if he even opened his own door.
Eventually, the hysterical sounds coming out of his mouth simmer down to a silent vibration deep in his chest. A rumbling, rearranging of everything that used to hold him together.
They’re halfway home before Leo pierces the silence he let Aiden rest on for the last ten minutes. “I’m gonna need to know who you saw. Just tell me it wasn’t…” He shoots a nervous glance at Aiden, testing the waters before he nevertheless throws a rock in. “...Harrison?”
“No, no.” The idea is almost enough to make him laugh all over again. Imagine. He stops himself from blurting that Harrison never touched him like that. Leo should have known already it couldn’t possibly have been Harrison from that comment alone. He will have to clarify that nuance later. For some reason it’s important, a needling itch he won’t be able to leave untouched.
“Okay…” Leo tries to give him a minute to answer on his own but he’s out of patience. Counting without Mississippis. “So?”
He leans his head against the window, watches the blur of leaves against the clouds. They’re already starting to turn, the first hint of fall coming in to soften the brightness of summer into shades of sepia. “Mira, Mr. Park.”
“What?”
“Even after everything I did, they’re alive.”
Leo blinks at him, has to brake hard when he misses the light turning yellow and it’s red by the time he looks back at the road. “You’re serious? Aiden. Aiden—”
“Leo,” he cuts him off. They’ve had this conversation more than once.
When he forced himself to confess because he couldn’t bear the thought of Leo signing for legal responsibility of him without knowing. He practiced through tears night after night, condemning his reflection in the powder room mirror while Leo slept upstairs. Like a ritual of self-flagellation, punishment in equal measure for his mistakes and for still not having full faculty of his speech. A murderer, he finally articulated. What? Was it in self-defense? Leo didn’t believe him. No, I killed two people. He felt his soul shake under Leo’s silence. Minutes of it, until he thought it would press the life right out of him. Did you mean to do it? Aiden shook his head. Okay. He didn’t think it was right to promise he wouldn’t do it again, knowing what he was capable of.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he tells Leo’s profile in the car. He lets himself smile again.
“Like fuck it doesn’t matter, Aiden. You were…” Leo pulls over and stares out the windshield as the traffic streams past. He punches the steering wheel, making Aiden tense.
The second time, he found himself in an exhausting tunnel of nightmares about it. He couldn’t see an end, thought he had to earn a reprieve. Leo caught him with a lighter, burning lines with a heated knife high on the sides of his ribcage where he thought they’d never be seen. He’d spelled out the entire series of events in a panicked, desperate defense, so articulate was he at last. You didn’t kill anyone, you’re blameless. Leo was furious, devastated. Two people are dead because of me, because of my actions. I killed them. It was much worse than the first time. What else was a complete lie? All Aiden could do was apologize. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. Louder and louder to try to drown out Leo’s escalating desperation to find something, anything to tip the scales in his favor. Nothing was worse than letting Aiden go on believing this about himself, until it was. Did you even slit your own wrists or did Harrison come do it for you? And then he was crying too hard to get the words out and Leo surrendered, rushing in to hold him and wrap him up in a tide of his own apologies. We’re not done with this. He’d whispered between kisses to the crown of his head. But there was no way either of them would bring it up again.
It starts to rain, little drops hitting the windshield.
“Please don’t,” Aiden whispers, holding onto the smile even though the muscles in his cheeks are starting to tremble. Tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
Leo still won’t look at him. “This is how you should have felt all along. Dead or alive, nothing that happened that day was ever your fault. You were being hurt, you were being—”
He pulls Leo’s hand off the steering wheel. “Please?”
The most recent time, it brought itself up. A series of perfectly laid dominoes falling to pave the path to him refusing to babysit Jesse’s daughter. Leo caught on instantly and this time he was prepared. What if I had been in your position? Determined to keep his cool and find a weak spot in Aiden’s resolve. You weren’t. Again and again, mapping out hypothetical situations after alternate chains of events after endless what-ifs. Would you blame me? What about Delia? He’d just shake his head. It’s different. There was nothing Leo could draw on from his own life, no horror he’d shared in close enough to even hold a candle to the darkness Aiden was sheltering. Please, I promise to be good, he finally said, letting tears fall from his eyes, pretending it was hard to meet Leo’s gaze. I know what you’re doing. He faked a flinch. I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to change your mind. He nodded solemnly, genuine in the hopelessness in his expression. Another layer of punishment to fit the crime: Leo having to share in his suffering. One more addition to the list of things he’ll never repay.
The rain falls harder, audible on the roof of the car. Competing only with the rush of tires on the wet road outside.
He squeezes Leo’s hand in both of his, begging him to cede.
“God.” Leo sighs, looking skyward for serenity, patience. A purer, softer kind of grace than the thorned yoke Aiden had pinned himself under. Mirroring the punishments he bore on the outside. Needless, all of it.
He cries from relief. Trembling in the upside down state of the world now that the smoke has cleared. Uncertain how to hold the fragile clarity that it’s within reach to deserve all the good. Maybe it wasn’t smoke at all but snowfall. Everything fresh and clean, just like when Leo found him. A sob escapes his lips.
Leo brushes the tears from his cheeks. “Com’ere.”
Aiden gathers fistfulls of the back of his shirt, breathing in the smell of fabric softener, of Leo, of home. He feels weightless. Cocooned in Leo’s arms and the knowledge that there’s nothing left to forgive.
got a little obsessed with this idea. king whumpee and gray eminence whumper who is very displeased to have been disobeyed. publicly.
cw: royal whump, covert whump, manhandling, mentions of punishments
The duke holds the door open for him, a charming smile for the crowd. He bows his head when the king climbs in, also smiling at the crowd. They sit across each other, and the duke keeps one of the curtains open for the prince to smile and wave at the mass as the carriage starts moving.
He only lets go when the crowd has thinned, but his smile is gone long before that. As soon as the curtain has closes, the king sinks to his knees. There’s not much space in the carriage and his nose brush the archduke’s knees as the man spreads his legs.
“I apologise, Your Grace.”
The duke’s eyes turn towards him with a glint of something cruel as he evenly says, “Whatever for, Your Majesty?”
Truthfully, he doesn’t know, but there’s only so many things he could have done that would make the duke so angry. He speaks clearly, knowing better than to stumble over his words.
“I went against your will. I didn’t think-”
The duke’s hand moves and he flinches, expecting a hit. It only tangles in his hair, pulling his head up sharply. The duke doesn’t look composed anymore, and his voice is not so even as his lips curl into a sneer.
“You were never asked to think, were you?”
The tight space of the carriage makes it feel as though he is looming over the prince when he leans forward.
“Opposing me so publicly – Did you think you were allowed an opinion on my decisions? That you could… express it? Publicly?”
The hand in his hair tightens its grip and the duke shakes him a little. He doesn’t even try to speak to defend itself.
“I think not. I think His Royal Majesty simply forgot his place.”
The king swallows. He tries to lower his eyes, but the duke grabs his chin, nails almost digging into the skin – but not yet; there’ll be another crowd at the palace’s gates.
“My apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t- I didn’t realise it meant so much-”
He can’t flinch away from the slap. It’s almost a relief that the duke has let go of his hair, both because his neck and back were starting to hurt and because there’s no way he could have dressed his hair again if it became too dishevelled. He doesn’t have the luxury of another blunder right now.
“You naïve little fool. Everything I do means something. Every. Single. Thing.” Every word is punctuated with a sharp squeeze of the hand holding his chin, and the king assumes it’s already reddened. He can’t feel crescent-shaped thing digging into him yet, which should make it easier to hide.
The duke is in control enough – and kind enough – to not backhand him. There are no rings to scratch at him, and he shouldn’t bruise from this.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but we’re going to fix it.”
Another flinch from the king, who forces himself to meet the duke’s eyes. “Please, Your Grace, I swear-”
The duke surges forward, pulling the king along. The king is slammed against the carriage’s wall, pinned under the duke’s frame. The duke is still holding his chin, but his other hand trails down the king’s chest, fingers splayed possessively.
“You’ve been such a wicked ward, haven’t you? Teasing me, defying me, making such a spectacle of us both.” He presses close, lips brushing the shell of the king’s ear. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty, I’m going to take good care of you. Do such a good job reminding you of your place.”
He keeps the king pinned a while longer before relaxing his grip and stepping away. The king sinks back to his knees, burying his face into the duke’s robes.
“Your Grace, please-”
“That’s more like. This is the respect you should have shown to me earlier.” He buries his hand in the king’s hair, almost petting. “Shh, there’s no need to cry. I’ll guide you. Put you back into your proper place.”
He tilts the king’s head up with a brush of his knuckles. “It’s my responsibility – my right – to discipline you when you stray.” His thumb brushes softly over the king’s lower lip. “We’ll work together, you and I, hmm?”
“Please-”
The duke tries to maintain his façade but his eyes glitter with satisfaction, something almost predatory in the way he looks down. He loves seeing this – a desperate, submissive king, completely at his mercy and grovelling for forgiveness.
“Shh. I told you there was no need for his.”
His hand moves from the king’s chin to his throat. His grip stays lax, more possessive than anything else.
“I suppose it’s been a while, but that’s no reason to behave like this.” A sharp squeeze to make the king meets his eyes. “When we arrive, you’re going to walk beside me; head held high and that pretty smile of yours for the crowd.”
His grip tightens a little as a flash of anger darkens his face. “If you even think about disobeying me again, so publicly at that, I will destroy you. Is that clear?”
The king swallows, throat bobbing under the duke’s grip. He nods, but the duke’s doesn’t relent. He lowers his eyes.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
A smile spreads on the duke’s face, wicked and slow. He lets go of the king’s throat, fingers trailing down. He leans back slightly.
“Good boy, I knew you’d see reason.” He lets go, straightening his collar and smoothing out any wrinkles with meticulousness.
“Remember, love, your happiness, your safety – your very existence depends on pleasing me.” His tone is gentle, almost sweet. “I can be very generous to those who obey, darling. You’ve seen it.”
He pulls the king up, pushing him back on the settee and not paying him any more attention as he tries to quickly straighten his clothes. The carriage slows down as they approach the gate and a smile is back on the duke’s face. “Let’s put on a good show, hmm? Smile for your adoring subjects.”
He doesn’t grant the king any time, quickly opening the door. The king pushes himself up and almost scrambles – but not because that would be stupid – forward to smile and wave and pretend.
The duke steps out behind the king, leaning close. “Such a good king, aren’t you? So well-trained, so obedient.” His hand finds the small of the king’s back in a gesture that appears supportive. It burns like a brand but neither of their smile waver.
He raises a hand to acknowledge the crowd’s adoration, smile just shy of seductive. “Please, Your Majesty. We have much to discuss in private.”
He bows slightly, letting the king leads them – though he stiffens with every step. The mask falls as soon as they’re behind closed doors, and the duke stalks forward.
“Alone at last,” he almost purrs, matching the king’s retreat step for step. “Now then, my disobedient little pet,” he grips the king’s wrist tightly, pulling him flush against his chest. “Let’s discuss your transgressions properly, shall we?”
a friendly reminder that even a light fever, a few hours of missed meals, or even a little bit of dehydration can become a huge problem with the right kind of physical activity. if you want to make your kind-of-sick whumpee pass out from exhaustion, have them carry heavy things for a bit. like groceries, or laundry, or cleaning that requires them to move through the house a lot. you don't need a serious problem to make serious symptoms :)
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, LADY WHUMP, SETTING THE STAGE, SLIGHT DUBCON IF YOU SQUINT AND TWIRL AROUND THREE TIMES, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, MENTIONS OF RACISM AND ABLELISM, GUN
WAW (@whumpawoman) prompt "stargazing"
Tagging: @poc-whump
Waves gently lapped at the shore and the smell of salt rises as she left behind the clinking of glasses, the scraping of silverware, and the soft, echoing laughter of the party thrown in Charlotte Wickham’s honor. The lady wouldn’t mind or miss her presence. Kestrel was certain if she hadn't had to be there with Wick, Mrs. Wickham would’ve locked her in the cellar like some sort of reverse Cinderella.
The summer sun bathed the sand in orange as the sky started to dress in muted hues of lilac and blue preparing for the end of the day. A closer look revealed the tiniest hints of pink and purple mixing with the blues. Even at night, the heat set into the air. No breeze could be felt, not even a gentle one.
The world was still as if it were holding its breathing and waiting. For what, she didn't know.
It was beautiful and Kestrel would’ve taken time to enjoy it if it weren’t for the missing heir she was tasked with protecting. Much to her, and their parents’ chagrin, they had an obnoxious habit of disappearing when they were needed the most.
Their latest houdini act had her trudging through the sand of the Wickhams’ private beach. She kept her head on a swivel, gun on her hip, sweating through the black jacket and white shirt that was her uniform. She thanked God she’d been allowed to wear sneakers instead of those ridiculous pinchy oxfords that would have made her fade into the background of partygoers. That’s what Shields were made for. Invisible and shoved aside until they were needed.
A small crab emerged from the sand and ran to hide in another place when her shadow crossed its fragile hiding place. Every so often, the cries of hungry gulls pierced the silence.
“You should get back to the party,” she called when she spotted them.
Christopher Wickham stood on the white sand of a beach with their crutches laying in the sand beside them, head tilted up to look at a night sky already slowly starting to glow with stars. The moon had yet to make its appearance and massive boulder blocks dotted along the edge of a rock slope leading into the beach.
She was lucky he hadn't slipped and fallen. His father would've had a fit. She breathed in and then out slowly. They hadn't. They were safe and that was all that mattered for now.
They returned a hopeless smile, their hand nervously scratching their head as they waited for her, something that never failed to make her melt. It was adorable.
The sleeves of his nice white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the bruises he'd managed to get earlier in the week. Another shirt, short sleeved and darker, peeked out from beneath it. Black Burberry shoes sat abandoned next to their crutches filled to the brim with white and off-white shells.
She shook her head when she caught the logo on their undershirt - a bright yellow ball with a massive white smile and beady, black eyes. She huffed out a laugh. Wick would always be themself no matter who they were with, where they were, and what they were doing. At least they’d been more subtle about it and hidden the shirt under something else. Mrs. Wickham would’ve had a fit.
Speaking of which….
“It’s your mother’s birthday,” she reminded them.
“Shhh." They waved the reminder away and sat down. “I got her a, a, a gift. Kissed her, her cheek. Laughed with all of her, all of her friends.They pinched my, my, my cheeks. Like I'm three.” He gave her a put upon look and shook his head. “Too hot in there. Stifling. We'll go to, to, to Paris tomorrow.”
He stretched his arms before putting them under his head and laying down, “Live a little, Leigh. Lay down. Look at the, the stars.”
She shook her head and stayed standing, hands behind her back. Her eyes ran along the stretch of the beach. Distantly, the light poles hummed and buzzed, flickering to life and trying to mimic the perfect orange lit up the sky a few moments ago. The lights from Wickham Manor did their part to break through the darkness, casting a long shadow over the two of them.
"Besides," they looked up at her from the sand, lips pulled into a smile so cheeky she couldn't help returning it even as she shook her head again. They'd be the death of her someday. "Papa and I had a, a, a bet whether it would, would be Monseigneur Arsenault or Mayor Chamberlain that got kicked out first. I won. I got to, to, to leave first."
She hummed. Of course it was Arsenault. One of the old guards, he'd started with Mr. Wickham's father and had shared quite a few of his attitudes. He'd been a partner in the Wickhams' pharmaceutical business up until last year when he'd retired. Malcolm had made certain he'd been denied a board position.
Wick yawned. "He hit the, the, the trifecta. Midas escorted him out."
She nodded. "Racism, ableism and....?"
"He mimicked Mama's accent."
She winced.
"Ah."
She could only imagine how Mrs. Wickham had reacted to that - an icy look cooling her warm hostess smile, a champagne glass gripped tightly by diamond studded fingers, a glance shared between husband and wife. A silent order for Malcolm to take care of it along with a silent threat that she would do something decidedly American and violent should he choose not to.
She wouldn't be surprised if Arsenault Shipping was quietly bankrupted and bought out by Wickham Holdings by the end of the week. Malcolm Wickham worked hard and fast. His wife and his son were two people he wouldn’t allow anyone to disrespect ever.
She wondered how long Henri Arsenault would be allowed to live. She wondered who would have to carry out the order - she or Midas.
She kept those thoughts to her. Poor man.
She scanned the beach again, looking for any particular shadows in the darkness. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Their attention was pulled back to the stars and a comfortable silence settled over them. It was a good night for stargazing, clear of clouds.
So bright and distinct, something about the way the atmosphere filtered light, they glittered across the water like tiny lights on glass.
“Almost doesn’t feel like, like nighttime,” Wick murmured. They stood and brushed their pants off, shaking the sand out of their curls before placing an arm around her shoulders.
“It’s, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
She nodded. They rivaled the sea, seemingly endless, spreading far beyond the horizon, gently twinkling one at time as if to say hello.
“Yeah,” she breathed, “Beautiful.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, once, and then dropped to her stomach. Wick’s eyes were on her, not the ocean and not the stars. It was cheesy, stupidly so, but Kestrel found herself completely tongue-tied. She couldn't look away. She didn't move away when Wick leaned in again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
He tilted her chin up with two fingers. His eyes drifted to her lips. She still didn't pull away. Her breath receded like the waves. It failed to return. Her stomach flipped like a ship caught in a storm.
This…this couldn't happen. Not here, not right now. Not with them.
“Y-you’re so cheesy, Christopher,” A strange laugh escaped her throat, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I know you say that to all the g-g-girls. And M-M-Max Chamberlain.”
Their hands held her lower back, keeping their bodies close and keeping her trapped. She pretended she didn't see the disappointment shimmering in their eyes.
She rested her head on his chest. Whether it’s subconscious or intentional, the gentle rocking, combined with the smell of the crystalline ocean water wrapped around Kestrel, trapping her with comfort and familiarity. Her eyelids began to droop.
“Let’s do this again soon,” they whispered into her hair. She hummed in sleepy agreement, closing her eyes. Her shoulders loosened as she breathed in.
Out.
Slowly….
Slowly….
She narrowed her eyes and adjusted, peeking around Wick until she spotted what had suddenly made her uncomfortable. A slight movement, then another, and a third. Stepped in from of them, hand inching towards her gun.
"Wick," she said quietly, evenly, "Take your crutches. Start moving towards the cliff. Get into the cavern and hold your breath. Don't move until I say."
Mercifully, they didn't argue. They moved as quickly as they could.
Kestrel backed up with them with her gun unholstered. She prayed she wouldn't have to use it.
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@bbu-on-the-side prompt "discipline" (im so late with this one 😭😭😭)
Her knees ached. They were always the first and only part of her to complain. The rug in here was nothing like the plush carpet that covered Wick’s room and kneeling on it for any length of time was always difficult and uncomfortable. Aching or not, the Shield was at Malcolm Wickham’s mercy and today, as with everyday, there would be none. A little discomfort wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen in this office.
She kept still and quiet, waiting and barely breathing for the discipline she had earned but Malcolm barely spared her a glance, seemingly absorbed in his work and disinterested in her naked form. This, too, was part of her punishment. A part of the cruel game of endurance the Shield had no hope of winning and she knew better than to try. It would be useless to speak, even more so to beg unless he ordered her to.
Malcolm was not a man who would be swayed by the pleadings of someone he didn't consider to be human and his disinterest wouldn’t last long. It never did so she forced herself to keep breathing and clung to her surroundings. She listened to the crackling embers of the fire and the scratching of pen against paper. Soft or not, the sounds threatened overwhelm her.
Her heart pounded, crashing erratically against her ribcage, but she kept her gaze on the floor and waited, mouth dry, back hot and aching from the flames in the hearth. Every scar she’d been gifted before, every reddened, circular mark placed on her skin to deter her from any further mistakes, stood stark and bright even in the dim light.
Finally, the pen stopped. His eyes fell on her. She felt them and the weight of his gaze sent her body bending in two as she placed her forehead on her knees and laid her palms upwards and flat on the floor. The citrusy scent of orange and tobacco filled her nose.
Malcolm absentmindedly reached down, flicking the ash from his cigar into her cupped hands. She grit her teeth, willing herself not to flinch despite the embers that had fallen with the ash. It didn't hurt all that bad, and she knew from experience it wasn't really burning her. She closed her eyes and began reciting old medical texts she had memorized in her head.
“Now Leigh,” he asked with a dangerous edge in his voice, “did I tell you to move?”
Her eyes snapped open. Her stomach dropped.
“Get up,” he ordered.
“Forgive me, Sir,” she said quietly, "I'm sorry."
She quickly lifted herself back up.
“Are you?” he asked, taking a careful drag on his cigar. The ember glowed brightly and Leigh tensed, preparing herself as he carefully brought the end of the cigar down to her shoulder and pressed it against her skin. She hissed, quaking in pain as the cigar burned for a few extremely long seconds. She gasped when he finally pulled it away and straightened herself back into position. At least she hadn't dropped the ashes. Her stomach flipped once more.
“I expect more from you than this, Leigh.” He took another long drag from his cigar and blew the smoke into her face. “I don't ask that you anticipate my needs. That’s not your job. I have Oslo or Savanna for that. All I ask is that you anticipate Christopher’s needs and actions.”
“I am doing my best, Sir,” she said, closing her eyes and fighting back the need to cough.
“Pathetic.”
“I'm not interested in what you think your best is."
Closing her eyes had been a mistake, without time to prepare herself her composure immediately broke at the searing pain. The pain was more vivid this time and she cried out, falling forward onto her elbows. Ash fell onto the floor, little flecks of white and grey snow against the deep red of the carpet. It was white-hot, unadulterated agony and Leigh heard her skin sizzling as it burned. It left a jagged edged circle she knew would turn into an ugly scar.
His hand gripped her hair, twisting and pulling hard, forcing Leigh to rise.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please-”
“Shut your mouth. Across my lap. Legs spread.”
Leigh scrambled and crawled the last few feet towards him and positioned herself face down across his lap. She spread her legs as wide as she could manage with her feet still planted firmly on the ground. She let her head hang and gripped the chain between her wrists, trying to obey and touch as little of him as possible at the same time as she prepared for the next part of whatever cruelty he had planned for her mistakes. The familiar burn of physical touch ran under her skin, the need for his hands on her body battled with the repulsion that broke over her in waves.
His hands moved up the backs of her thighs, fingertips just barely ghosting over her skin with a touch he’d learned was light enough to make her break out in goosebumps and shiver beneath him. His nails traced figure eights across her ruined skin, pressing more firmly over the line at the very tops of her thighs. They dipped into the gap at the apex of her thighs and she felt her body responding to stimulation that her mind screamed against.
“What did I tell you this morning Leigh?” Mr. Wickham asked, pressing the cigar into the middle of her back between her shoulder blades.
“It was a simple task,” he said, his fingers finding their way to her ass, pausing only for a moment before but they moved down between her legs. “You barely had to do anything.”
“To make certain Christopher got to the board meeting on time,” she whispered, digging her nails into her palm as she fought against the urge to do something, anything, about the burning pain.
She was rewarded for her swift response when Mr. Wickham removed the cigar from her skin, replacing it with a light play of his nails running down her back, sending shivers up her spine. She took the moment of respite gratefully, knowing they would be few and far between once he really got started.
“Y-yes, Sir,” she gasped.
“Did you do that? Was my son where they needed to be?”
“N-no, Sir.”
Until the next time everything became boring and they needed to blow off steam.
No. Wick had decided to ditch the board meeting and go out onto Max Chamberlain’s boat. They’d disappeared without telling her. Most of her day had been spent neglecting her other duties while she looked for them.
She should’ve kept a better eye on him. They were home now and waiting in their room for the lecture she knew Malcolm was going to give them. He’d talk to Wick about their responsibilities, to the family and Asryn Pharmaceutical, and Wick would act properly chastised. They'd promise to do and be better.
And they would.
She cried out, whimpering, as Malcolm once again pressed the cigar into her back.
“Control yourself,” he ordered before pulling the cigar away.“I am going to apply the gel now. Hold still.”
He filled one hand with a generous amount of the gel before bringing his hand down to her back and shoulders and spreading it as gently and evenly as he could. Leigh drew in sharp breath as it absorbed into her damaged skin and held it until the pain faded.
“This won't happen again, will it?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“No, Sir. Christopher will be where they're supposed to be and I will be by their side," she whispered.
Rho closed it behind them just as the service elevator chimed. The latch clicked.
Finch stopped breathing.
On the other side of the door, the elevator opened.
A man’s voice said, “Where is Mr. Harrow’s pet?”
Lucky answered with perfect hotel blandness. “Uniform services, sir. There was a spill.”
“They were sent to the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir. The contaminated dish is being remade. We apologize for the delay.”
“They should’ve come back.”
“I can call down and check.”
A pause.
Finch pressed both hands over their mouth.
The room they had entered was narrow and dim, some kind of staff office converted too quickly. There was a chair. A folded blanket. A medical kit. A second door on the far side.
Charity stood beside them, not touching.
Rho remained at the door, one hand resting near the handle.
The guard outside said, “Mr. Mr. Harrow wants them upstairs.”
The collar sat there under the pearls, tight and warm.
Mr. Harrow’s guard swore under his breath.
Lucky said, “Sir?”
“Just send them up.”
“Of course.”
The elevator doors closed.
The sound faded.
Finch’s knees gave out.
Rho caught the chair with one foot and dragged it close enough for Finch to collapse into it without falling.
No one touched them.
Finch bent forward over their own lap and shook so hard their teeth clicked.
Charity crouched several feet away.
“You’re through the first door,” she said. “That’s all. Just the first one.”
Finch tried to answer.
A sob came out instead.
The second door opened.
Mrs. Wickham stepped in.
She was still in her gala gown.
The diamonds were gone from her throat. Her lipstick was half worn away. The bandage around her palm had soaked red at the center, and one curl had slipped loose against her cheek.
She did not look like the woman from the stage anymore.
She looked like someone who had been holding a scream behind her teeth for hours.
Finch recoiled before they could stop themselves.
Mrs. Wickham stopped immediately.
“I won’t come closer,” she said.
Finch stared at her.
Their breath came fast.
Too fast.
Mrs. Wickham looked at Charity, then at Lucky as he slipped in through the first door and shut it softly behind him.
“Status?”
Lucky removed the server jacket. “Mr. Harrow sent one guard. He accepted the wardrobe story for now. We have eight minutes before he sends the assistant, less if he gets impatient.”
“He’ll get impatient,” Rho said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Wickham replied. “Then we don’t waste them.”
Finch’s whole body locked.
Mrs. Wickham looked back at them, and her face changed.
Not softer.
More careful.
“You’re not being transferred,” she said.
Finch’s throat closed.
“I know that’s what this feels like. New room. New people. Someone else making arrangements.” Her injured hand flexed once at her side. “It isn’t that.”
Finch couldn’t speak.
Mrs. Wickham stayed near the far wall, leaving the path to both doors open.
“The elevator is still an option,” she said. “Lucky will take you back if you ask.”
Lucky nodded once.
Finch looked at him.
He did not look pleased. He did not look disappointed. He looked like he meant it.
That made Finch feel sick.
Choice always did at first. Choice had edges. Choice had consequences. Choice had no handler to blame when pain followed.
Mrs. Wickham said, “The other door goes to a laundry lift. That lift goes to a loading bay. A clinic van is there. Charity is in it. Rho is with you until you say otherwise. I’ll stay here.”
Finch’s eyes snapped to her.
Mrs. Wickham’s smile was faint and terrible.
“If Mr. Harrow finds this room, he finds me having a private medical episode in a staff office because I cut my hand at my own gala.” She lifted her bandaged palm slightly. “Conveniently true.”
Finch understood then.
The blood. The bathroom. The champagne glass.The careful hand hidden in photos. The lie had started before Finch ever stepped into the service elevator.
Mrs. Wickham had made herself the evidence.
Mr. Harrow would find her, not Finch.
Finch’s mouth trembled. “Why?”
The question scraped out of them.
Mrs. Wickham went very still.
For a moment, Finch thought she would give one of the answers people gave at galas. Dignity. Mission. Values. Words polished clean of blood.
Instead, Mrs. Wickham said, “Because someone should have opened a door for me.”
The room went quiet.
Charity’s eyes shone, but her voice stayed steady when she spoke.
“Finch, I’d like to check your breathing and ribs when we’re in the van. You can say no. Right now, the only question is which door.”
Finch stared at Mrs. Wickham.
“Will he hurt you?”
Mrs. Wickham’s expression did not move.
“He’ll try to embarrass me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
Finch waited.
Mrs. Wickham looked almost proud of them for noticing the lie.
“He won’t touch me,” she said. “Not here. Not with Wick outside this corridor and six cameras that will suddenly start working again if he raises his hand.”
Finch believed that. She was prepared.
Another elevator chime sounded faintly through the wall.
Lucky’s head turned. Rho opened the second door. A draft of cooler air slipped into the staff office bringing in the scent of laundry soap and metal and rain from the loading bay below.
Mrs. Wickham did not move.
“Water was enough,” she said quietly. “This is the next choice.”
Finch touched their collar. The leather was damp beneath their fingers. Their owner’s name was stamped inside it. Their registration was embedded in the clasp. Their whole life reduced to something buckled shut.
“Can it come off?” Finch asked.
Lucky’s gaze lifted. Charity’s breath caught very softly.
Mrs. Wickham’s face broke for less than a second, then remade itself.
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“If you want.”
Finch nodded before fear could teach them better.
Lucky came forward slowly. He crouched beside the chair, not in front of them.
“May I?” he asked.
Finch nodded again. The collar clasp was hidden under the pearls. Lucky found it without fumbling. Guard Dog hands, trained hands, careful hands. The clasp clicked once.
Finch stopped breathing.
The leather loosened.
Lifted.
Left their skin.
No alarm sounded. No invisible law reached down to drag them back.
Lucky held the collar in one hand.
Finch touched their bare throat. The skin there was tender, damp, indented. Free air touched it like a burn. A sound escaped them that they did not recognize.
Mrs. Wickham covered her mouth with her uninjured hand.
Only for a second.
Then Wick’s voice came through the comm clipped to Lucky’s collar.
“Two minutes.”
Mrs. Wickham inhaled. Her face became the gala face again. Smooth. Empty. Respectable.
It hurt to watch.
Rho held the second door open. Charity offered Finch her hand without reaching all the way. Finch looked from the laundry lift to the service door.
Back was punishment.
Forward was also punishment, probably.
But forward had water.
Forward had a chair.
Forward had someone asking first.
Finch stood. Their legs shook.
Charity walked beside them, close enough to catch if they fell, not close enough to steer.
Rho went first through the laundry door. Lucky followed last, collar tucked inside his jacket like evidence and a body.
Mrs. Wickham stayed in the staff office.
At the threshold, Finch looked back.
She was standing by the first door now, injured hand lowered at her side, blood gathering at her fingertips. She looked ready to let Mr. Harrow find her. Ready to smile. Ready to bleed politely in his direction until Finch vanished beneath the building.
Finch did not know how to thank someone for becoming a decoy.
They did not know if thanks was allowed.
Mrs. Wickham seemed to understand.
She gave one small nod.
Finch stepped into the laundry corridor and the door closed behind them.
By the time Mr. Harrow’s assistant reached the staff office, Finch was already in the loading bay, wrapped in a gray hotel blanket, hidden behind stacked linen bags in the back of a clinic van.
Charity sat across from them. Rho sat near the doors. Lucky stood outside in the rain, speaking softly to the driver.
The van did not move yet. No one rushed Finch. No one strapped them down. No one took the water glass from their hands.
Above them, somewhere in the hotel’s bright and respectable floors, Mrs. Wickham was telling a donor she was terribly sorry for the confusion.
Finch pressed their fingers to their bare throat. They waited for terror to become regret.
It didn’t. Not yet.
The van pulled away without headlights for the first half block.
Finch watched the hotel disappear through a narrow gap between linen bags.
For the first time all night, they understood that they might live long enough to be afraid of tomorrow.
Mr. Harrow had sent them to fix their pearls after one strand twisted beneath the collar. Finch had stood by the sinks, fingers clumsy, pulse beating too hard.
Mrs. Wickham had come in with blood on her palm and a smile still fixed on her face.
She'd looked at Finch in the mirror.
Not at the collar.
Not at the bruises.
At Finch.
“There’s a server with a silver tray by the east doors,” she had said softly while washing blood from her hand. “If you need water tonight, ask them.”
Finch had said nothing.
Mrs. Wickham had dried her hand with a white towel and wrapped it too tightly.
“You don’t have to leave,” she’d continued. “You don’t have to call it anything. Water is enough.”
Then the bathroom door had opened, and another woman had entered laughing, and Mrs. Wickham had become Mrs. Wickham again.
Polished.
Empty.
Respectable.
Finch had returned to Mr. Harrow. They hadn't asked for water. They hadn't asked for anything.
Now Lucky stood in a service corridor wearing a server’s jacket, and Finch understood with a slow, terrible clarity that Mrs. Wickham hadn't needed them to be brave in the ballroom.
She'd only needed them to survive until the hallway.
“I have to take this back,” Finch whispered.
Lucky looked at the tray. Then back at them.
“We can take it.”
“No.” Panic rose fast, sharp enough to cut. “No, he sent me. I have to bring it back.”
“All right,” Lucky said.
Finch blinked. The answer made no sense.
The woman in the housekeeping uniform took a step back, opening the path to the elevator again.
Lucky kept his hand on the door. “You can bring it down to the kitchen. You can bring it back to him. Or you can set it on that cart and drink some water first.”
Finch looked at the cart.
Folded towels. Little soaps. A plain white pitcher. Two glasses.
Their throat ached.
Mr. Harrow hated when they drank without permission. Mr. Harrow hated when they needed anything. Mr. Harrow hated visible need most of all.
Finch’s fingers cramped around the tray.
“If I’m gone too long,” they said.
“You spilled sauce on your jacket,” the woman said.
Finch looked down. There was no sauce.
The woman picked up a folded napkin from the cart and opened it.
Inside was a smear of dark red-brown stain.
“Kitchen logs will say we sent you to uniform services,” she said. “The elevator camera has a maintenance flag. Mr. Harrow’s assistant will be told the dish had to be remade because of a contamination concern.”
Finch did not understand half of that. They understood enough. A lie was being built around them. It wasn't the kind that would trap them. It was the kind that made space.
Lucky said, “Five minutes.”
Finch’s knees trembled. The tray had gone heavy. Too heavy. They set it on the housekeeping cart. No one praised them. No one touched them. No one said good.
The woman lifted the pitcher and poured water into a glass. She set it on the cart, closer to Finch, then stepped back again.
Finch stared at the glass then reached for it. Their hands shook so badly that water spilled over the rim and onto the floor.
They froze. “I’m sorry.”
The woman only took a towel from the cart and dropped it over the spill with her foot.
“Floors get wet,” she said.
Finch drank.
The first swallow hurt. The second made their eyes burn. By the third, they were crying silently into the glass, shoulders locked, breath scraping in and out like they were trying to keep every sound inside.
Lucky did not look away. He also did not stare. Somehow he managed both.
The service door at the end of the hall opened.
Finch nearly dropped the glass.
A woman with dark hair stepped through first, medical bag in one hand.
Dr. Charity Bartlett.
Finch didn’t know her, not really, but they had heard the name in whispers Mr. Harrow did not know pets were capable of keeping.
Safehouse doctor. Runaway doctor. Illegal doctor.
Behind her came Rho. Finch knew Guard Dog posture when they saw it. Rho had it down to the bone.
Charity stopped several feet away. “Hi, Finch. I’m Charity. I’m a doctor. I won’t touch you unless you say I can, unless you’re unconscious and dying. Those are the rules.”
Finch stared at her.
Rules. For her. Not for them.
Rho stayed by the service door, watching the corridor.
Lucky said, “You can go back.”
Finch’s whole body jolted.
Charity’s expression did not change.
Rho did not move from the door.
Lucky continued, “If you want to go back, I’ll take the tray with you. We’ll say the kitchen remade it. Nobody will stop you.”
Finch’s grip tightened on the glass. The hallway buzzed around them. Fluorescent light. Service elevator. Housekeeping cart. Water on their tongue.
“What happens if I don’t?”
Lucky’s face stayed calm. “Then you come through that door. We get the collar off if you ask. Charity checks what needs checking if you allow it. Then we move you before Mr. Harrow knows which floor to search.”
Finch’s breath broke. “He’ll know.”
“Yes,” Rho said from the door.
Finch flinched at the honesty.
Rho’s voice stayed steady. “He’ll know something happened. He won’t know where. He won’t know how. That matters.”
“He’ll call the police.”
“Probably.”
“The police return pets.”
“Usually,” Lucky said.
Charity’s mouth tightened. “Not if there’s no pet for them to find.”
Finch looked at the service door. It was plain gray with no window and no promises. It was just a door but their body screamed at them to go back. Go back before it gets worse. Go back before Mr. Harrow’s excellent mood curdled into something patient and private. Go back before this tiny impossible kindness became proof that punishment was deserved.
The elevator dinged softly above them.
Everyone stilled. Lucky looked up. Rho listened. The woman in the housekeeping uniform moved the cart half an inch, just enough to make the corridor look occupied instead of staged.
Lucky’s hand came away from the elevator button.
“Mr. Harrow’s guard,” he said quietly.
Finch’s blood went cold.
The service elevator numbers descended.
Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
Rho opened the gray door and held it with her body mostly hidden behind it. Charity stepped back and Lucky looked at Finch.
No command. No countdown. No smile that meant teeth.
“Finch,” he said. “Door or elevator.”
The numbers kept falling.
Seventeen. Sixteen.
Finch couldn’t think. There was no time to become brave. No time to become free. No time to become anything other than terrified. The water was still cold in their hand.
Mrs. Wickham’s voice returned, quiet over the rush of blood in their ears.
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AAAAAH!!! Petition for the news people to show Chris's face on tv and Akio and his mom see and come to rescueee -🦖
(follows from this piece, in what I am calling the Chris Saves Himself AU)
CW: BBU, some vaguely dehumanizing language, references to child abuse and ableism
"Mom! Aki!" Emi's voice rises loud enough to filter right up the stairs and into Akio's room, audible right through his headphones while he listens to his playlist of Tristan's favorite songs and lays in bed.
Akio sniffs, sitting up and taking the headphones off, rubbing the tear tracks off his face. It's still light outside - he never knows what time it is anymore, not since he quit gymnastics. "Emi? Did you say something?"
"Yeah, you better get down here like right now! Right now!" The urgency in her voice sets his heart to beating faster and Akio pushes himself up, taking the stairs three-steps-to-a-jump. His mother is right behind him, coming out of her own room with her book still in hand, thumb marking her place.
"Are you okay, honey?" Aimi calls out. Somehow even though she doesn't skip any steps she beats Akio to the bottom. "Em? Emi?"
"I'm fine, I swear, just-... look at the TV!"
Akio and Aimi swing into the living room, finding Emi sitting on the couch, remote in hand, groaning in frustration.
"Damn it, they just cut way from his-... hold on, let's see if they cut back before this ends. You have got to see this."
"Just what have I got to see?" Aimi asks, frowning, walking up behind Emi and absentmindedly tucking a bit of hair behind her daughter's ear. Emi sort of ducks-pulls away, rolling her eyes. "I'm almost to the bit where the ship sinks, Em."
"I know, I know, don't mess with your reading time but-... but look!"
Akio's eyes scan the TV, reading the chyron - the little moving headline at the bottom - that says MYSTERY BOY FALLS FROM BALCONY IN GOVERNOR'S MANSION - IN HOSPITAL WITH SERIOUS INJURIES - POLICE LOOKING FOR CLUES TO IDENTITY - GOV. BRANCH CLAIMS LEGAL PURCHASE FROM WRU - WRU DENIES CULPABILITY...
Talking heads banter back and forth about the seriousness of the scandal, the lack of documents to prove any kind of veracity to the governor's claims.
The anchors start interviewing a woman with short, dark red hair with a cold smile that sends a chill down Akio's spine. Karen Renford, WRU Representative to the Media, reads the little nameplate beneath her as she speaks.
"Since when do you care about politics?" Akio asks, head tilted. "This is stupid. I don't care about any of this."
"WRU sponsors your team, Aki-"
"It's not my team anymore. I'm going back to my room."
He turns to leave, but feels Emi grab at his wrist, and when he looks back her black eyes are pleading. "Please, Aki. Please. Trust me, you will want to see this."
He sighs. Everything feels too heavy to add one more thing to his days right now. But Emi is his little sister, and... "Yeah, okay." He moves around the corner of the sectional and flops himself down on it. He's put on some weight since he quit gymnastics, the waistband of his jeans digging just a little into his stomach where he used to have to wear a belt.
He doesn't care. It's... actually really nice to not have to care. He kind of likes himself better this way.
If only he didn't have to be grieving his best friend's death to get there-
"There!" Emi hisses, and her nails dig hard into Akio's forearm, hard enough for him to wince. "There, Aki, fucking look!"
"Language, young lady-" Aimi starts, and then falls silent. When she whispers, "Nantekotta..." That's when Akio looks at the screen.
Where his dead best friend is very much alive in a hospital bed.
He hears a thump and jumps, turning to see his mother's book on the floor, fallen from suddenly numb fingers as she stares unblinking at the boy on the TV screen.
Akio looks back and swallows, hard, and then swallows again. Inside him there is a sudden burst of fight between the despair and anger he's been living in and a kind of awful, horrifying hope.
"Tris?" He whispers.
"I told you!" Emi says, still holding his forearm painfully. He doesn't pull away from her - he can feel her starting to shake right alongside him. His eyes flood with hot tears and he has to blink them away to focus on the screen.
"-are speaking with the boy, who appears to be a legitimate WRU product. A simple barcode scan was performed, and police have the pet's designation, Facility number, and basic identification number." Karen Renford's voice speaks in voiceover. "However, WRU has been unable to find in our own records at the Facility any record of the boy's existence or training. WRU has strict ethical protocols surrounding the age of accepted trainees who apply, and it's increasingly clear that none of our Facilities would have taken on this individual, especially not our flagship Facility here in Berras-"
Akio hears none of this.
Instead, he hears only a rushing as loud as a waterfall filling his ears, the sound of his own blood pulsing through his veins as his breaths go shallow and gasping.
Tris is right there.
He's alive and he's right there.
He's sitting in a hospital bed, cringing back from the doctors speaking to him, looking at them with wide, terrified eyes. There are bruises around his neck like someone-... bit him, or something. His arms are bruised, wrists rubbed red in circles. He doesn't sway or rock or tap like Tristan Higgs, he sits perfectly, hauntingly still.
But it's Tris.
It's him.
"He's alive," Akio says, and his voice is strangled. "Tris is alive, he's alive, but he's-... he was-"
His mother's hand rests on his shoulder and Akio tenses at the firey rage he feels right through the tension in her fingers. "His aunt," Aimi says with a voice that cuts through bone. "His aunt told us he was dead."
"She said he-... you know... did the thing. To himself," Emi says, looking nervously sideways at Akio. "That he ran away and they found him."
"He told me she took away all his stuff and stopped giving him his meds and then she took his phone... why would she say all that if he was alive the whole time, Mom?" Akio looks back up at Aimi, and she looks back down at him.
He is terrified of her, in that moment. Scared of her the way you are scared of a bear rushing at you, knowing that you aren't much more than a matchstick in its way. But he also wants - needs - her to tell him everything is going to be fine.
Instead, she pulls her hand back off his arm and turns to leave the room. She murmurs to herself in a rapid-fire string of Japanese even Akio isn't quite keeping up with, and he jumps up to follow her, Emi on his heels.
"Mom? Mom, what are you doing? Mom, answer me-"
"Mom?"
They manage to catch up to her in the den, where she's picked up her cell phone still charging, plugged into the wall, and dialed a number.
"Mom-"
Aimi holds up one finger without looking at him, phone to her ear, and Akio's voice cuts off immediately.
"Yes, hello," She says to whoever picks up. "My name is Aimi Nakamura and I am calling about the boy found in the governor's mansion today. I believe I can tell you who he is." She pauses. "Who he really is."
Another pause.
"Yes, I'll wait."
Yet another pause. Akio and Emi stay in the doorway, staring at her in baffled confusion. Neither of them dares to speak when her face looks this way. They know better than that.
Finally, Aimi takes another breath. "Yes. Thank you. Hello, Detective... Davis. Right. My name is Aimi Nakamura." She rattles off her phone number and address when she is asked for them without hesitating. "Yes, as I said-... as I said to whoever answered the phone, I know who the boy in the governor's mansion is. I have absolutely no doubt... Yes. His real name is Tristan Paul Higgs. He was born-... oh, yes, sorry. I can slow down. His birthday is March 6th... yes. I don't know his social security number entirely but I know the last four digits were 6654... his mother and I were close friends. Veronica Botham Higgs - Ronnie. She was murdered, with her husband, it was a double-... oh, you remember? Tristan survived it. Custody went to his only surviving relative, Joanne Botham..."
Aimi swallows, and Akio feels Emi's hand seek his out and squeezes it tightly, reassuringly, as their mother's steel comes flashing to the surface underneath her usual deceptive tranquility.
"Joanne Botham works for WRU. Her nephew lost his family and was given to her. And now, more than a year after she told us he was dead, he falls out a window with a WRU barcode. I think you see where I'm going with this, detective."
Another long silence.
"Yes. I need about an hour and a half. Is that too long? Perfect."
She hangs up, and turns to look at Akio and his little sister. There is a startling brightness to her that makes Akio think she's feeling exactly what he is - grief and horror and rage and that awful swell of hope.
Maybe it really was just a horrible mistake.
Maybe he's never been dead.
Maybe he's still breathing.
"Put your shoes on," Aimi says in a flat voice. "We are going to meet Detective Davis at the hospital where Tris is."
I feel like that AU could have only happened if Branch hadn't kept Baldur drugged up all the damn time -🦖
Alternately, a Chris who tries to shimmy down the side of the mansion but, drugged, loses his grip and falls into the landscaped bushes in full view of teens on a field trip.
A recorded cell phone video of the event goes viral, including the teens and their teacher providing first aid and their gasps when they see his collar and bruises...
Oooh I can't quite stop myself. Alternate universe...
A woman in a sleeveless, knee-length solid pink dress and perfectly styled dark brown bob faces the screen, microphone in hand. WBCA is labeled on the mic.
"Good afternoon, this is Monica Olivier with WBCA's Breaking News team on location at the governor's mansion, where the usual idyllic Wednesday was interrupted today by a scene straight out of a movie - a teenage boy who appeared to fall off the balcony outside the governor's own bedroom, his fall broken by the bushes below. As a warning, this story contains details that may be disturbing to some viewers, and parents may want to take care with children viewing this segment."
She steps to the side, fluidly gesturing with one hand to the mansion behind her. Visible in the shot are police officers standing on a balcony with a wrought-iron railing on the mansion's second floor.
"Today was a gorgeous, perfect day for a field trip. Alan Loftis brought his junior-level history students from William Clark High School here for a visit to see the historic home and its widely renowned gardens. This is a visit Mr. Loftis makes every year. This year, however, his students saw more than just the garden's famous California poppies in bloom. We have here 16-year-old W. Clark junior Narandra Brandt, the first person to spot the boy. Ms. Brandt, can you tell us what you saw?"
The camera shifts to show a dark-skinned teenage girl with long black hair in an oversized pastel blue t-shirt and jeans shorts with white lace along the hems. She shifts from foot to foot slightly awkwardly, arms crossed in front, and leans forward when the mic is moved.
"Yeah, so, we were looking at the flowers and I saw-... I think it was the sun, like, off the door when he opened it. It caught my eye so I turned and I said, to my friend Marissa, um, like... Mari, do you see that? Like I couldn't... I thought my eyes were f-... messed up. And she's like, yeah, I see it, too."
"What did you see?"
"A, um. A kid. Like, a kid my own age. His hair was orange, or red, but the sun was on it so it looked orange. And he looked right at me, so I waved, and he kind of waved back? And I turned to Mr. Loftis and I was like, hey, does Governor Branch have a kid?"
"And what did Mr. Loftis say?"
"He was like, no, he'd single, never married. So I was like, okay, but there's a kid right there out his bedroom. And that's when Mari grabbed me and she was like, she was yelling, oh my god he's gonna fall. So I looked and he was like - the boy, I mean - he was like bent in half over the railing. I think he was trying to climb over. He didn't, though."
"What happened instead?" Monica Olivier's voice dips from its cheerful newscaster rhythm into a careful compassionate seriousness.
"He, um." Narandra Brandt frowns, glancing behind herself back at the balcony where the cops still stand. "He fell, ma'am. Landed in those bushes."
"And what did you do when you saw him fall?"
"Me and Maria, we took off. We just ran right over there. When we got there he was lying real still, which scared the hell-... heck out of me. He wasn't wearing any shirt, just these like weird silk pajama pants. He was scratched up like, so much, too. Like marks all over. From the bushes. I said, I was like, are you okay? Are you alive? And he opened his eyes and his eyes were all weird, you know?"
"What was weird about them?"
"I don't know. Like he was trying to look at me but it wasn't working. I did CPR and first aid training and stuff so I was like-... When Mr. Loftis came over I was like, call 911, does anybody have like wipes or bandaids or whatever. There was, um, Scott Maynard's mom was chaperoning and she had all sorts of stuff in her purse, so we were putting Neosporin on his scratches and like cleaning stuff and seeing if he could stand up. And that's when I saw it. The, um."
Narandra's hand moves to toy around the edge of her own neck.
"I saw that he had a collar. And like... a thing on his wrist. And that he wasn't... not all his bruises were from-... Falling, you know? Some of 'em were like... hickeys. Teeth. On... Everywhere."
"What did you do when you had this realization?"
Narandra swallows, hard. Her eyes are slightly glittery, her face flushed. Her voice trembles a little. "I looked at Mr. Loftis and I said-... I said tell 911 we need th-the cops or something because this boy's been raped. So he called 911 and told them and we just... We just kept talking to the boy until the ambulance got there. He said his name was Baldur-" She wrinkles her nose. "-and that he belonged to the governor. I mean he didn't say governor. But I don't-... want to say what he said."
"Thank you, Ms. Brandt. I know talking about this must be difficult for you. We appreciate your willingness to tell your story." Monica turns back to the camera. "Oliver Branch is currently speaking with police regarding the identity of the mystery boy, who has been taken to a nearby hospital to undergo examination and a possible identification. Governor Branch claims the boy is a legally purchased human pet from WRU. We have a source close to the police department that states no actual documentation to support this claim has been found, but the mark on his wrist that Ms. Brandt mentioned is a new WRU barcode. We attempted to contact WRU but were unable to get a comment from them at this time. Meanwhile, my colleague Andrew Saunders is keeping watch at the hospital hoping for details about the boy and his current condition. WBCA will keep you updated on this breaking story as new events unfold. Back to you, Mark."
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