#2k words

‘This is it.’ You thought to yourself, gravel biting into your knees.

‘This is how I will die.’ As your gaze fixes down to the ground, watching as the bugs wiggle to and fro. They’re more free than you ever have been.

You can hear his voice, deep, loud, almost more growl that words. You haven’t seen him yet. Not in person. You’ve heard stories, of course. Seen paintings and sketches, heard about how terrifying he is. How those who dare look him in the eyes, don’t live long enough to tell the tale.

You suck in a breath at the sound of footfalls against gravel. Eyes squeezing shut, scared even the slightest movement may get his attention.

The day that every young child fears. The day those who are of age must learn to accept.

He comes to your village every three years. A small, quaint, unsuspecting village tucked into a valley of blooming Sakura’s and vivid flowers. A place no one would expect the King of Curses to choose his servants and concubines.

You have one of three outcomes in this moment.

One, you live another day, working in his palace, cleaning, forcing yourself to work to the bone day and night. Until you inevitably die of dehydration, exhaustion, or both.

Two, you live as one of his concubines. Serving his every whim, living in a room far better than your family could ever afford. Trying your best to go undetected, for fear the others may be jealous of you. Simply for being prettier, favorited, or a myriad of other foolish reasons.

Three, he kills you on the spot, bloody draining down the grass-covered paths of your village, serving as both a reminder and a warning, that even the slightest step out of line could be your end.

You hold your breath as the footsteps get even louder, eyes now open as you can practically feel his shadow looming over you.

“Rise,” he growls, voice scratchy and rough. Seemingly annoyed with the situation. Like deciding the fates of the youth who have their whole lives ahead of them, is such a bore.

You suck in a breath, pushing yourself to your feet, eyes staying stuck on the ground, knowing what could happen if your gaze dare to stray just a centimeter off.

Before you have a chance to process it, you can feel his skin against yours, his hand underneath your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him.

Your breath catches, eyes immediately closing, for fear he’s testing you.

But that’s proven wrong just a moment later… at least you believe it is.

“Open your eyes mortal, look at me.” He spits the words at you, watching as you tremble slightly in his grasp, eyes opening with hesitation.

His face is like nothing you could have expected. The paintings you’ve seen, stories you’ve been told, have never painted him in such a light as being…. Handsome..

His features are sharp, four eyes staring back at you, golden-red rings in his eyes pulling you in like nothing else.

His black tattoos almost shine in the light, drawing your eyes in. Gaze roaming over his face, your prior hesitation now nowhere to be seen.

He smirks, eyes roaming your face in the same manner. He then turns your head to the side, observing the way your skin feels beneath his touch “Hmm…” Your breathing stills, heart beating even faster than before.

He jerks his head in the direction of one of the servants. “You’re coming with me.” You finally exhale, breathing returning to normal as your heart tries to go back to its usual pace.

He lets go, and you finally get the chance to look at all of him. His toned and muscular form, tattoos moving down from his face and trailing over the expanse of skin he shows.

You can already tell they trail far past the waistline of the pants he wears, made of the finest silk.

He turns, beckoning you to follow as he walks towards the aforementioned servant.

You clasp your hands together, staring straight ahead as you walk, knowing if you make eye contact with those around you, you may not be able to move. You may not be able to go through with this.

He pulls you to his side as he faces the rest of those still on their knees.

“Let it be known that I expect more from you, filth. One acceptable concubine out of a group of seventeen?” He chuckles, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

So, he will be taking you as a concubine then… you try to imagine it, but nothing comes to you, unable to know what awaits you in the future.

He then turns to you once more, his second pair of arms crossing themselves over his lower stomach, covering the mouth that rests closed there.

He leans in, breaths ghosting over your skin.

“I want you to watch as I kill the filthy inadequate mortals your village leaders thought would be sufficient enough.” He smirks, taking your chin between his fingers once more.

“Let it serve as a lesson in gratitude.” Within an instant all you can hear are screams. The heads and bodies of those you grew up now covered in slashes, blood seeping onto the grounds of your village garden.

Staining the once green grass a maroon so deep and dark it’s almost black.

You don’t join their screams. You don’t let your tears fall. He’s taking you as his concubine, allowing you to live, for now at least.

You will not be letting this opportunity go to die.

You will bow your head, avert your eyes, speak only when spoken to.

You will do whatever he wishes of you. You will do whatever it takes to stay alive.

Your days at the palace have been… quiet to say the most. Your routine falls into place swiftly.

Wake, bathe, get ready, join the other concubines for breakfast, then spend the remainder of the day occupying yourself.

You’ve taken up a few hobbies upon realizing majority of your days are yours to… enjoy? You’re not quite sure what it is.

Once you arrived here you assumed you would be seeing Sukuna often, being at his beck and call all hours of the day.

Instead, you haven’t seen him since the day you arrived. He showed you to your room, and the shared dining room, then left you to your own devices.

In the meantime, you’ve picked up knitting, reading, and strolling through the garden.

You’ve had very few run-ins with the other concubines, who are both men and women.

You suppose it makes sense; the King of Curses can have anyone he wants.

Taking walks through the garden is your favorite activity thus far, proving to be a lovely way to spend your time and get some much needed sunlight, peace, and quiet.

You hum softly, fingers running over the roses planted near a simple wooden bench.

Walking among the rows and rows of colored flowers has provided a small amount of joy to you.

You’ve found yourself bringing the watering can out of the old shed, spending hours outside taking gentle care of the blooming plants.

You’re about to sit down, wanting to watch the sun set down the horizon, but the loud sound of footsteps break your focus.

You turn, almost coming face to face with Sukuna. You gasp, dropping to your knees and averting your gaze as quickly as you possibly can.

A scratchy chuckle sounds out from the man in front of your now-bowing form.

“Rise now, Mortal.”

You suck in a breath, forcing yourself to your feet, gaze stuck on the ground below, soft, vibrant grass now the focus of your attention.

He moves swiftly, once again grabbing your chin, far gently than the first time.

“Did I not tell you to look at me the first time we met? Raise your gaze, now.” He squeezes your chin ever so softly, the action surprises you immensely.

Why is he acting in such a manner?

“You’re out here quite often,” he hums, eyes dragging over your face. “I think you’re the only concubine who has ever dared to enter my garden.”

Your lips part, not realizing this area was off limits. “I-I I had no idea, I’m so very sorry.”

You apologize immediately, the words leaving your lips like they’ve been practiced a million times.

He moves just slightly, and you flinch, closing your eyes tightly, purely on instinct.

After a moment you realize nothing has happened, he has not moved. You take a breath, forcing your eyes open.

Sukuna stares at you, a soft frown on his face. “You’re allowed to be here. There is no reason you may not enjoy the gardens as I do.”

Your lips part once more, though this time it’s from surprise.

“Y-you said no concubine has dare enter the gardens...?”

He shakes his head softly. “I said that because it’s true, none have ever left the few rooms in the palace they know. Though, you have.”

He pauses, before continuing, voice slightly more stern. “The only room off limits to you is my own, unless you are invited in. Otherwise, you may go wherever you please.”

You nod, breathing finally returning to some semblance of normal.

Your eyes tilt down once more. “My Lord... may I ask a question.”

He sighs, tilting your head up further, frown returning to his features. “Look at me while you speak.”

You nod, words leaving your lips quickly, for fear you may lose the courage if you do not ask now.

“Where are the other concubines? It has been quite a while since they have come to the dining area for meals, or been seen around the palace.”

You can’t help but bite your lip, hoping to get an answer to the question that’s been plaguing your mind for days now.

He frowns once more; a sight you realize you’ve grown used to seeing. “They’re gone.”

You pause, eyes searching his features for an explanation. “Gone?” You question.

He nods, voice now rougher, less gentle than before. “Yes, gone. Could you not hear me the first time?”

You apologize quickly. “I-I heard you, I-Im sorry I just don’t understand… Where have they gone?”

He sighs once more. “You apologize far too much, it’s annoying.” He then squeezes your chin again.

“Most I murdered, a few were sent away with their belongings.” He pauses, “I think a few were also pushed off the neighboring cliff. I'm not completely sure though.”

You stare at him in shock. “They’re all gone?”

He shakes his head. “Did I not just say that? Have your ears stopped working? Are they stuffed with cotton?”

“N-no My Lord.”

He nods, gently letting go of your chin. “Good, I'd rather not have to take you to see the medical practitioner.”

So many questions run through your head. But mainly, “My Lord… Why have you gotten rid of them...?”

The second set of his arms cross over his stomach, a position you’ve seen him take quite a few times now.

With the other pair, he shrugs. “I got sick of them, so I disposed of them. I have no better explanation than that for you, Sunshine.”

The nickname flows over you like a thick coat of honey, soothing your nerves—even though you know you shouldn’t let your guard down around him.

You can’t help the way your cheeks heat, flushing a rosy shade of pink. Sukuna immediately smirks at the sight.

You want to know why he spared you. Why you’re the only one he kept. Why it’s their blood staining his hands instead of your own.

You shove down those questions, knowing that for now, simply being alive is a blessing.

Whether that blessing was granted by him, or someone else watching over you, you don’t know.

You watch as his eyes search your face, a smile pulling its way onto his features before he speaks. Words confusing you even further, pushing even more questions into the vast depths of your mind.

“I’d like you to join me for dinner this evening, Sunshine.”

---

They see each other at the pharmacy. It's not a planned meet. They don't even know why the other is there. But that's where they see each other: the dilapidated CVS on Elmsworth.

“Uh-” Jason doesn't know what to say. He wants to cover his face. Turn around and run away and pretend that nothing happened. But he also has the worst cold. If he doesn't get some sudafed soon, he’s pretty sure he's gonna die.

“Fuck,” Dick says, earning himself a harsh glare from the mother standing nearby, who now has a small horde of children at her ankles echoing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and pulling each other's hair. Dick doesn't care; he's clearly lost his mind. In fact, he considers, in that very moment, dialing 911 and getting himself admitted.

Maybe, Jason thinks, I can pretend I’m someone else. Yep, nothing to see here, just someone who looks a lot like your dead…

Well. They're not brothers. Dick isn't Bruce’s son. And honestly, Jason doesn't consider himself Bruce's son anymore either. (But maybe they're brothers from those facts alone.)

But it doesn't matter what Jason intended to do, because Dick shakes his head, grabs an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, and breezes right past him. Like he's not even there. (Because for Dick, he absolutely isn't.)

And this… This bothers Jason. More than he’d ever like to admit. Had he truly been so forgettable, taken up such little space in Dick’s mind that he doesn't even have the decency to remember him?? (Well… he had missed his funeral…)

But Dick keeps moving. He’d sprint away, but that's never worked before. He just needs to keep his head down. Block it out. Maybe take his psychiatrist up on that antipsychotic prescription.

“Hey!” Jason shouts after him. “You dick!”

The mother, still rocking an inconsolable infant and ignoring the herd of children who have just learned their new favorite word, looks at him with desperation in her eyes. “Please,” she says, meek but clearly pushed past her limits. “There are kids.”

Jason's face goes red. “Ah, fuck- I mean… That's his… ah, that's his… name…”

The mother does not look convinced.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

And meanwhile, Dick (because yes, of course that's his name; English was his second language, so how could he know that the name from all those 60s shows he learned English from was a modern swear word?) hears Jason’s cry clear as day. And it only serves to terrify him further. He practically sprints to the self-checkout, accidentally scans the Tylenol twice, pays the extra fifteen bucks, and runs out without waiting for the mile-long receipt to print out.

Logically, Dick knows that running won't do anything. Jason is in his head - has been for three years now - and he can't outrun his own mind. But he can damn well try.

And Jason… Jason’s just pissed. First, Dick acts like he’s not even there, and then, he accidentally teaches a poor woman’s children a new curse word, and everything sucks, and it’s Dick’s fault, the absolute dick.

So, in the only reasonable response, Jason sprints after him. It becomes a footrace through the parking lot, with Dick swearing and chucking the Tylenol at Jason’s head and Jason ducking and proceeding to tackle Dick to the ground.

Dick has seen Jason a lot in the last few years. He’s usually still that scrawny fifteen-year-old, sometimes whole and hale and sometimes burnt beyond recognition. More recently, he’s seen a different version of the ghost boy in the yellow cape: a more grown, more adult Jason with a streak of white in his dark hair. He’s always far away, always distant. Never speaks. But he’s there, and Dick hates it every time because he knows Jason never got to grow up. He never got to be the spectre in the corner of Dick’s eye.

But Dick will admit: being tackled by an adult Jason Todd is a completely new type of hallucination for him. It solidifies his decision to call a professional and get some serious medication. He can only imagine what it looks like to the elderly couple pulling into the parking lot, seeing some dude falling on the pavement and flailing around.

Honestly, Dick may not need to call 911. Someone will probably do it for him.

“Quit it!” Jason hisses as Dick attempts to push him off. And it’s interesting, because Dick looks concerned but not… haunted. He’s not shocked to see Jason. He’s nervous, not surprised, like someone going to their hometown and seeing their ex. Not unexpected, but wholly unwelcome all the same.

It only makes Jason angrier.

“I’m not arguing with him,” Dick mutters under his breath. “I’m not talking to him. I will not start talking to-”

“You better fuckin’ well talk to me, you heartless bastard,” Jason seethes. “Do you know who I am?” And he knows the answer already. Why else would Dick have tensed up when he saw him? Why else would he have run out of the store?

But Dick turns his head. Tries to push himself up like Jason doesn’t have a knee on his chest, pinning him down. And something closer to panic sparks in his eyes.

“Why-?” Dick mumbles, swiping at his chest. His eyes widen when his hand hits Jason’s leg. “Oh. Oh, fuck.”

Dick has absolutely lost it. He thought he was fine - thought that the therapy was working and he was doing a decent job taking care of himself for once in his life - but now he realizes just how fucked he is.

Dick’s psychologist explained the types of hallucinations with him a year back. She talked about the kinds he described to her: auditory - hearing voices, catching Jason’s scream and the clunk of a metal crowbar against the boy’s ribs - and visual - seeing things, watching as a decaying child wearing the tattered remains of the Robin costume (Dick’s costume) chokes on his own blood. She described a few other types: smell and touch and the like. The fact that Dick rarely experienced more than one type of hallucination at a time, she had explained, is a positive thing. It makes it easier to differentiate between reality and the misfiring neurons in his brain.

But Dick has to wonder what this means now. Auditory and visual hallucinations, he’s dealt with, but being able to touch a vision? To be tackled by it? This has… never happened before. It’s possible - absolutely it’s possible - but Dick doesn’t know what to do about it.

“It’s not real,” Dick mumbles to himself, trying again and again to sit up, but the weight crushing his chest never feels any less real. He knows it’s fake, so how does he convince his body of that?

“Dude, have you lost it?” Jason wonders. He’s… He’s furious at Dick for the absolute audacity to not care that Jason is alive, but the guy is also talking to himself and staring out at nothing and continually trying to sit up when Jason very clearly won’t let him do that. He’s acting… strangely to say the least.

“I’m not talking to him,” Dick says again.

“Then I’m not moving,” Jason decides.

And it occurs to Dick that, despite what his psychologist advised, perhaps he should play along with the hallucination. Maybe if he can convince the part of his mind pretending to be Jason to get off him, he’ll physically be able to move again.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Dick sighs, hands up in peace. “What do you want?”

Jason stares at Dick. Looks him dead in his cold, unfeeling eyes and comes to an unfortunate conclusion: Dick doesn’t feel a goddamn thing. He doesn’t care that Jason is back. There’s no shock. No relief. Not even anger. Just resignation.

“I want you to give a shit,” Jason growls. “I’m back, and you’re acting like it’s fucking Tuesday!”

“Well… I see you a lot, so…” Dick shrugs as best he can while pinned to the blacktop.

“You’ve known?” Jason roars. “You knew I was back, and you never tried to contact me??”

“I’m… not supposed to talk to you,” Dick says, looking away. “Sarah says it gives credence to a false narrative.”

“What? Who the fuck is Sarah? What the hell are you talking about??”

“She’s-” Dick shakes his head, trying once again to nudge Jason off. But Jason is even less willing to move now. “Doesn’t matter. This was stupid. I shouldn’t’ve tried to…” He stares at a cigarette butt next to his head. “Fuck. I miss him.”

Jason blinks. “Come again?”

“Goddamn it. I should not be-” Dick huffs out a breath. “Fuck, dude. I wish you were real, okay? I wish you were actually here. And apparently, I would rather live in this delusion than have to keep going like… like… Fuck.”

Jason doesn't know what he's talking about. Not even a little.

“Dick, it's Jason.”

Dick buries his face in his hands. “No, you're not.” He wants to scream. He really does. Because it's bad enough convincing yourself that a very real-looking, real-sounding, real-feeling hallucination of your brother is all in your head, but now he has to explain to said hallucination that he's actually dead and just a figment of Dick’s imagination. A misfiring pathway in his brain.

Wait. Fuck. No, he doesn't. He doesn't have to say shit.

“Get off me,” Dick orders, trying to push Halluci-Jason off him.

“If I’m not Jason, then who the fuck do you think I am?”

“You aren't,” Dick hisses. “You're a poorly managed mental illness, okay? Get off me.”

Jason sits back on his heels, letting Dick go. “Huh.” He scratches the back of his head. That's a… new one. He's heard plenty of insults in his life and the one before that, but he's never been called a…

Jason helps Dick sit up. “You're… You are Dick, right? Dick Grayson? I didn't just… tackle some stranger, right?”

Dick digs his fingers in his hair, nails sharp on his scalp. Considering they feel just as real as the fake Jason Todd, it does nothing to ground him. “I should not,” he tells himself. “I’m not going to. I won't.”

Fuck. How is he going to explain this to Sarah?

“You-?” Jason places a gentle hand on Dick’s shoulder. Dick thinks it feels like lava. Jason thinks it feels like his brother isn't eating enough. “Dude, you seriously… You're mentally… fucked. What happened? You couldn't handle being replaced a second time? Did Babs break up with you for good? Or-?”

Dick grabs the collar of Jason’s jacket. The leather is soft in his hand. “YOU DIED!” he shrieks, giving up on any guise of sanity. He's been lying in a parking lot for how long now? If someone's going to call the cops, they already have. “That's what happened! God-fucking-dammit, Jay! You DIED! And ever since, all I see is you! Every-fucking-where! The kids we help on patrol all have your face. Every towel on a clothesline is your cape. Each person I fail to save is you! It's your fucking body cold on the ground, and considering you are just a fucking hallucination, I don't know why you're making me explain it!”

Jason’s stomach drops to his feet. Dick looks at him with the intensity of an Olympic archer going for the gold. His eyes crack and bleed with a hopeless desperation, like he’s still clinging to a hazy fantasy world where Jason never died. His hands shake, expression far beyond grief, beyond desolation.

This is real for him. He really, truly believes Jason is still dead.

Jason almost feels bad. His sudden appearance has made the Golden Boy go crazy? Made him think he's seeing things? It's… pathetic, really.

As if to prove Jason’s point, Dick lets go of the jacket, hugs his own legs, and presses his face to his knees. “Just… please leave me alone. I can't do this anymore.”

He should be mad. Dick had missed Jason’s funeral. He was furious when Bruce replaced him. He resented that Jason was adopted and he wasn't. Jason has no reason to pity this guy who pretended to be his brother.

And yet…

And yet, here he is, pitying him anyway.

“Dick,” Jason says, voice softening to something kinder than his usual bark. “I’m not a-”

There's a siren approaching. Dick stiffens, head shooting up, red eyes panicked as he looks past Jason. (Past Not-Jason, Dick reminds himself. This isn't actually Jason.)

Red and blue lights shine down the road. A middle-aged woman with a bob and a bad hair dye watches Dick from the CVS entrance, a phone against her ear and a comically large pair of sunglasses perched on her nose.

“Shit,” Dick and Jason say in unison. (Well… Dick says it. The hallucination is just another part of him, so it's not like he's saying anything in unison with anyone.)

“Damn,” Jason mutters, wondering how good of a look the woman got of his face. Would she be able to give the cops a description?

Either way, Jason needs to get out. He climbs to his feet and holds out a hand to Dick. But Dick just stares at it. Stares through it.

“C’mon, man,” Jason urges. “You're not going to prison for something as stupid as this.”

But this isn't stupid. This is serious. Dick shakes his head. “I’m crazy, Jay. I’ve been rolling around on the pavement and talking to myself. I could… I could be dangerous, and I don't even… I don't know what's real anymore. Hell, I’m talking to you, and I said I-”

“Fuck that,” Jason interrupts. He grabs Dick’s arms and drags him up. “Come on; we're getting out of here.”

And, arguably inadvisably, Dick lets himself be pulled down an alley and into the depths of the Gotham streets.

1 - Dying to Go

A/N: Set after the concert in 2x1.

“What’re you reading there?” William asked noting the large tome Branson was perusing at the table in the servants hall.

“Das Kapital,” replied Branson, looking up from his page.

“You’re reading a German book?” William was astonished that Branson, whose politics Branson made sure were a non-stop topic of discussion, would stoop so low as to read something written by a Hun. “In times like these don’t you think that’s a bit much, even for you?”

Branson smiled a bit. “Well it is German, I suppose, but it’s certainly not something that supports the Kaiser.”

“William’s right,” joined in Miss O’Brien, who loved any opportunity to give Branson a hard time. “It’s downright disloyal to be reading German works right now.”

Branson opened his mouth to retort something about his loyalties, which everyone including William were tired of hearing about, but fortunately Mr. Carson entered the hall and put an end to the entire discussion by calling Branson to bring the car around. Branson shut his mouth and went to do as he was told, leaving the book on the table.

William looked at the book again as he sat heavily at the table. “It’s not right, not even for him, to be reading German stuff like this. Not while our side is sending home hundreds of men every week who’ve been killed by them.”

“Best not to think too much on it,” said O’Brien as she settled in to work on her sewing. “They’ll come for him soon enough and that’ll learn him a thing or two.”

“Wish they’d come for me.” William sulked. Since the war began he’d wanted to join up. Wanted to be part of it all. William had watched in astonishment as Thomas Barrow of all people raced to sign up early. Thomas had just been the first, soon enough almost every lad his age was in. They were all experiencing the war of the generation and he was stuck here at Downton shining silver and serving dinner. It didn’t sit right with him that they should be out there protecting everyone, saving England from the Teutonic threat while he was still ironing the morning paper.

It wasn’t just the sacrifice that others were making on his behalf. William knew he was missing out. Come war’s end he’d find himself surrounded by young men who’d been to France and they’d all be talking about what they did during the war and he’d just be sitting there silently, listening, with nothing to say. He could imagine the day a girl brought him to meet her father and the man would look him in the eye and ask What did you do during the war? And William knew he’d be standing there, shamefaced, as he replied, nothing.

William felt the shame welling in him even now. That white feather he’d been given weighed on him like a thousand tons. He’d kept it, and every time he looked at it he was reminded of what a coward he was. How he was hiding behind his dad’s teary-eyed request that he not go unless he was called. Branson had also gotten a feather that night, but the Irishman had no shame. Branson thought the whole thing was funny and had pinned it up in the garage like it was some sort of prize. William never did understand the chauffeur.

About fifty times a day William talked himself into defying his father and signing up anyway. And about fifty more times each day he had to talk himself out of it again. He just didn’t understand why his dad was so resistant to letting him go. Didn’t his father know that without this war they’d all be speaking German? Didn’t his dad understand how evil the Kaiser was? William knew his father was a provincial farmer with little knowledge of the world, but the threat of Austria-Hungary was hard to ignore.

And what about the girls? No one would want a sniveling coward like him for a husband. Even sweet little Daisy would look right past him once a real war hero stopped by. He’d never stand a chance with any girl ever again if he stayed put at Downton. Yes, his father said over and over that if he joined up it would hurt him, and that William’s mother wouldn’t have wanted it, but what about what William wanted? William just wanted to do the right thing for king and country. He wanted to show the world he wasn’t just a country clodhopper who was only just managing to hold onto a job as a servant. War could make heroes of men and could really change their lives and their fortunes. He’d never be much at Downton, but the battlefield would make a real man of him. It had probably made quite a lot of the men who were there already, like Thomas.

William could imagine the day when Thomas returned to Downton. He could just see the man sneering at him saying, What? Were you to delicate to get your hands dirty out there in France? Carson had to keep you around to play housemaid with the girls? Some of us have had to be real men out there. William clenched his fist wanting to go ahead and give Thomas a whack for all the mean things he was sure to say should they ever meet again. He wanted to give Thomas a good thumping, but deep down William knew what Thomas would say would be true.

It was hopeless. William knew it as much as anyone. He wasn’t man-enough to defy his father and he wasn’t lucky enough to get drafted. He’d end up doing what he’d always been afraid of, vanishing to the sidelines. His mother had been so proud when he’d got the job as a footman, but she didn’t know any more than his dad did. The real pride was to be had in glory on the battlefield. The only thing Downton had to offer was a future of derision as people figured out he’d been too weak to join the fight.

“William?” Mr. Carson’s booming voice echoed in the hall as he returned from wherever he’d been. “I need you to help me with the silver, please don’t dwadle.”

William stood from where he’d been sitting and contemplating. “Yes, Mr. Carson.” He tried to shake himself free of the shame that seemed to cling to him like an odor, but he had no luck as he followed after Mr. Carson to do yet another worthless chore.

2 - Word of Warning

A/N: Set during 2x3

Leaning by the mantle in the servant’s hall, Thomas lit a cigarette and watched as William was fawned over by the housemaids. Standing straight in his shiny green uniform, William basked in the attention he so rarely received. An older version of Thomas would have sneered at William’s simple innocence, but not now. Now, Thomas just felt sorry for him. In his years at the front, Thomas had seen a thousand Williams come and go. Their innocence was always the first thing to die a brutal death, and then they usually followed not long later. He didn’t want that for William.

The thought almost surprised Thomas. There’d been many a day when they were footmen together that Thomas had wished the other dead. William was always fucking things up and Thomas just couldn’t stand how much of a lout the boy was. But seeing him again now, Thomas found himself feeling much softer towards the boy he’d practically grown up with. This kid was going to get chewed up and spit out in France, he knew that for sure. It was a real pity William couldn’t have been spared that.

As the housemaids left William be to carry on with their own work, William looked up and caught Thomas’ eye. Coming over to stand near the mantle with Thomas, William asked, “So what’s it like over there, really?”

Thomas almost answered in his typically sarcastic and glib way. Almost said something about making daisy chains with the Germans. But the innocence and fervor in William’s eyes made him want to prepare the young man in some small way. Young man. Here Thomas was thinking of a boy his own age as a young man. But it was true. Thomas felt like he was about a thousand years old right now. He certainly wasn’t a young man anymore.

“What’s it like?” Thomas repeated the question as he stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s like nothing you can imagine. It’s the worst day of your life every morning and a nightmare every night.”

William sighed, exasperated. “You’re just trying to unnerve me before I go. I don’t know why I even bothered asking.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, I’m not. I mean it. Yeah, you always hear stories about war being hell on earth, but it’s true. I suppose you’re not going to understand till you get there though.” Thomas cast a critical eye over William. The boy’s uniform was clean and new with no holes or stains. But the goof hadn’t managed to do up all the details right. How could this idiot stand a chance?

“I know it’s not going to be a picnic, I read the papers,” said William. “I know what our boys are going through out there.”

“No, you don’t.” Thomas said bluntly. “The papers only print what the War Office allows them to. They make no mention of the disease and desperation because that might make the war unpopular, and we can’t have an unpopular war, now can we?” Thomas stepped over to William and began fixing the straps on his belt. “No, William, you have no idea what it’s like.”

William looked down at what Thomas was doing and blushed as he realized he’d made a mistake when he’d donned his uniform that morning. “The best thing I can tell you,” Thomas continued as he buttoned up the flap on William’s breast pocket, “is to keep your head down and don’t be first over the top.”

“But,” William protested, “I have to go where I’m ordered.”

“I mean it,” said Thomas in a no-nonsense tone as he patted William’s chest. “The first ones over, well, let’s just say there wasn’t much for me to fetch back when the Germans got done with them. You don’t need to be one of them.”

“I won’t be hanging back,” said William resolutely. “I’ve hung back in this war long enough, I won’t be hanging back any longer. If that means the Germans get me, then so be it. At least I’ll have acquitted myself with honor.”

Thomas gave a mirthless laugh at the idea of honor in war as he undid William’s epaulet and untwisted it. “What, did you get dressed in the dark this morning?” Thomas shook his head. “I’ve told you all I can about it, I guess you’ll just have to see for yourself.” He looked hard into William’s eyes, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He wished there was a way to get through to these young idiots, to make them see sense, but for some experience would be the only teacher.

“I appreciate what you’re saying,” said William, “but maybe I’m just better suited to this kind of thing than you think.”

Thomas sighed heavily as he refastened the epaulet. “Of all the times I’ve called you stupid, you’ve never been as stupid as you are now.” William stiffened and Thomas knew he was offended and spoiling for one last fight. Thomas didn’t have it in him though. Patting William’s epaulet flat, Thomas stepped back and looked him up and down again. “But know that I hope very much that you make it through out there and come back every bit as stupid as you are now. And I really mean it, keep your head down. I’ve seen too many take a bullet through the brain because they were tired of crouching. The helmets are mostly decorative when it comes to sniper fire.”

William relaxed again and said in a softer tone, “I suppose you saw a lot of people die out there.”

This wasn’t something Thomas talked about to anyone. Either you’d been there and you already knew, or you’d not been there and didn’t need to hear about it. Thomas nodded. “I lost count after a while. This isn’t like the wars that Bates or His Lordship played soldier in. This is the real one. Don’t do anything stupid and you just might make it back home.”

William nodded. This time, Thomas thought he just might have gotten through. Maybe the bumbler would be a little extra careful and maybe he would make it out alive. Thomas silently sighed with relief. “And don’t go near the French whores, they all have syphilis.”

William blushed to the roots of his hair and Thomas smirked as he got out a fresh cigarette. “I mean that. You don’t want VD and trench foot at the same time, the medic just might kill you and save the Germans the trouble.”

It takes two days for Dean to stop avoiding him . Well, two days for Bobby to finally grab him by the shoulder and tell him to stop his damn sulking already. He gets hit with a 'yes sir' that makes his stomach sour.

The next day he calls up that dance studio and asks if they have openings for a boy under thirteen in any of their classes. They have a few. There’s a hip hop class, a jazz class, a tap class, and a ballet class. They tell him his son can come in for a free trial run before he commits to any particular class (Bobby doesn’t bother correcting them)

It takes another two days for him to finally bring up the idea to Dean. The kid isn’t avoiding as much him but he’s still not making eye contact like he did before and keeps conversations to a minimum. Bobby has to practically corner him with a plastic bag that has two new pairs of sweatpants, two new black shirts, and some new socks that the studio had recommended. He hands it to him and tells him he’s got tap on Thursday at 5 and ballet on Saturday at 11. The studio has rental shoes for him and if he likes it Bobby can scrounge up a new pair for him. Dean tries to deny any interest but Bobby just shoves the bag into his arms and tells him to just try the damn thing and he better not be late.

Bobby doesn’t stick around to watch like some of the other parents do. Dean's already to nervous about this and having him watch will probably make him quit all together. He tires Sam out at the park instead. When he comes back to pick him up an hour and a half later, Dean is beaming and so is the instructor. She tells him Dean is a natural with fast reflexes and solid rhythm that would make a great addition to the class. On the drive home Dean excitedly tells him about the cool moves he learned and how he’s already doing stuff other kids who had been in the class for more than a month can do while Sam naps in the back seat.

Saturday rolls around and Dean’s excited energy is palpable. He’s practically vibrating while he helps Bobby prepare breakfast (Bobby hates that he does this, wanting him to just sit back and be a kid for once but Dean gets jittery when he’s not helping out so he allows it) At 10:30 he’s dressed and ready to go even though they don’t have to leave for another fifteen minutes. When they arrive Dean's enthusiasm seems to fizzle out and Bobby has to damn near shove him through the door. He decides to stick around that time, he’s got a library book, two coloring books, and an action figure to keep Sam busy. Dean stays at the back of the class, looking unsure as he glances around the class of twelve girls and only one other boy. His nervous energy is gone after they go through warm ups and stretches. He finally looks like he’s enjoying himself when they get to the part about feet positions and turns. It almost falters when he makes eye contact with Bobby for the first time but he’s prepared for that and shoots the kid a fast thumbs up and is rewarded with a smile.

His teacher was right. Dean picks up everything fast. He takes corrections better than anyone else in the class and Bobby tries not to think about that too hard. He wants to curse John out more than ever when he thinks about the shooting and sparing practice instructions he had left him, along with asking him to teach Dean how to get out of different knots. This is what kids should be doing, not learning how to kill and avoid being killed.

The instructor (a different one this time, the first had been blonde and young this one was red headed and closer to middle age) approaches Bobby after and all but begs him to enroll Dean. Not only is the class desperate for boys so they can do more lifts (which Dean immediately brightens at) but Dean is spectacular and it would be a waste of talent if he didn’t. He enrolls Dean in the summer courses for both classes that same day. Dean gives him a fierce hug and thanks him a thousand times over. That afternoon he gets Dean a pair of his own tap shoes and a pair of ballet slippers, both in black.

Dean gets anxious about the money that’s being spent but Bobby waves him off. Business is doing fine and it’s not like he’s got any one else to spend it on. He tells him doing his chores is payment enough. From then on, the bathroom is cleaner than ever and Dean never has to be reminded about setting the table or putting dishes away.

They fall into a steady routine that’s almost normal. He still takes Dean shooting and quizzes him on lore, but only enough to keep him sharp. And Dean keeps salt, a small bottle of holy water, and an iron ring in his dance bag. On Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Bobby takes Sam to the park or the library after dropping Dean off unless he asks them to stay. On the drive back Dean recounts everything that happened in class and they pick up a treat, sometimes takeout other times ice cream.

And Dean is thriving. He dances any chance he gets. Around the house (although his tap shoes are limited to the kitchen or outside on an old piece of plywood so he doesn’t fuck up the wood flooring), through the aisles when they grocery shop. He even dances with Sammy, using him to practice the minor lifts he’s been taught while Sam giggles up a storm. There’s a recital at the end of August and Bobby’s already got a blank tape set aside with “Dean’s Dance 1990” written in black sharpie on the label. Dean makes friends with the kids in his class. He trades comics with the other boy there and argues with him about who the best superhero is. The girls adore him and not because he’s pulling his typical playground Casanova routine. Bobby can tell it’s different from the way they slug his arm at pick up and he pretends it hurts or how they sneak clips into his hair when he’s not looking and fall over laughing when he snatches them out. (There’s three butterfly clips in the truck’s cup holder from times Dean didn’t notice until they had already driven off) Bobby overhears the girls trying to convince Dean to learn how to french braid which he vehemently says no to but Bobby later finds him practicing on Sam. He's got four different types of braided friendship bracelets tied to the handle of his duffle and he actually gets calls on the main phone line asking if Dean is available to play or go to birthday parties.

For the first time in a long time he looks at Dean and sees an actual kid instead of a soldier shoved inside a too small body.

It’s all perfect. Until John shows up two weeks earlier than he said he would be. A true rarity from the eldest Winchester. Dean and Sam both run into their father’s arms and Dean only lets his face fall for half a second when John announces they’re heading to the east coast and to pack their bags for tomorrow. Bobby tries to argue that they should stay for the time they were promised but John waves him off. He’s already got them enrolled at a school in Maryland that starts on August 30th, the same day as Dean’s would-be recital.

Dean plays it cool, telling all about John how he can shoot down ten cans with ten bullets in under five seconds now and redirecting to how Sammy’s starting on chapter books already when Sam tries to talk about “Dee’s special classes”. But that night, when Bobby does his nightly check ins, he finds Dean face down in his pillow doing his best to muffle his sobs.

Bobby says nothing. There’s nothing he could say that would make Dean feel any better. He can’t tell him it’ll be alright, because it won’t. He can’t tell him it’s for the best, because it’s not. He can’t tell him he’ll figure something out, because he can’t. He has no real claim to the kids. He can’t tell John to fuck off and leave them be. He certainly can’t tell him why Dean should stay since it would only piss him off and Dean would have to face all the repercussions on his own. The whole situations sucks and Bobby wants to kick himself for leading Dean into something that could cause him so much grief and disappointment.

So he just sits there, perched on the edge of the mattress, rubbing soothing circles into Dean’s shuddering back as he mourns yet another aspect of his childhood lost. Another part of himself he has to push to the side for the sake of his father’s moronic revenge quest.

As the Impala kicks up dust with the Winchesters in tow, Bobby finds Dean’s dance shoes messily shoved far under the bed. He takes them and tucks them into his own closet. By the time the boys stay again, Dean has out grown the shoes by at least two sizes. Not like it matters, Dean doesn’t mention dance again. He acts like a demon splashed with holy water every time Bobby tries to bring it up. He straight up leaves and goes for a two hour walk when he mentions the dance instructors have been asking about him. Bobby has a feeling Dean hid out in one of the abandoned cars but he gives him his space. When they go into town he walks with hunched shoulders and fully ignores the girls that squeal "omg Dean is that you?!" It's like he's erased any part of that summer from his mind, completely scrubbed clean.

He still catches glimpses of it in Dean sometimes. Small fleeting moments. In the way he finds his balance after taking a hard hit. Or how he stretches out his sore muscles, same way he was taught to do for 2 and a half months. He sees it in the spark that flashes in his eyes for only a moment when a tv commercial invites viewers to the South Dakota Performing Arts Center for a rendition of The Nutcracker, before it’s stamped out with a snort and Dean calling it gay as he changes the channel with a forced nonchalance. Bobby takes a swig of his beer to ignore the tightness in his chest when he thinks about how Dean could be on that stage, had he fought a bit harder for him. How he’d be icing sore feet right now instead of a dislocated shoulder and three broken fingers he won’t ever get properly set.

Bobby can never find the will to throw out the dance shoes. He doesn’t even donate them. Because although he’ll never wear them again and he’d probably deny their existence if it was ever brought up, they're still Dean's and he can’t bear to toss away the memories of that last sliver of lost childhood. So they stay in that closet, collecting dust for decades, until the fateful day the house itself gets turned to dust.

Bobby dies never knowing Dean still holds that love for dance deep in his heart. That he’s gone off on his own to watch ballets on stage and movies about it in secret. That it’s still so deep at 33 years old, a pair of cursed pointe shoes that targets dedicated ballerinas calls out to him like a siren song. That when he’s knocked out on laughing gas, he dreams of a tap routine he learned three decades ago that never got to see the stage, etched in his brain like the day he learned it.