#ivan bell

Previously

CW: Mention of guns, cigarettes, vomiting, abuse of power

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Ivan throws up when he gets back to his apartment. He'd held it down for the drive home, but it was all he could do to stumble into his tiny bathroom before his stomach decided it had had enough.

He hangs over the toilet for a moment, breathing hard and spitting out the few foul-tasting remnants. Then he flushes, shuffles up against a wall, and closes his eyes tight.

He just wanted to be a detective. To solve crimes and help people. But the feel of Torsten's gun inches from his forehead, the sharp burn of the cigarette on his shoulder--the last threats of trying to achieve his dream make his stomach churn all over again and he swallows hard to keep it down.

finding unreality

unreality, part one

unreality, part two

unreality, part three

unreality, lost

unreality, broken (by @whump-sprite)

unreality, shattered (by @whump-sprite)

reality found

other links:

((SCOTT KNOWS WHAT HE DID)) (by @malfunction-whump) (non-canon)

Ivan manages to shove himself backwards, loosening the chain’s grip just long enough to breathe once before it’s yanked tighter, wound around his throat like a hangman’s noose. His glasses slip off his face and spots dance in his vision. His attacker’s breath is hot and heavy in his ear, desperately excited.

He won’t die here. He can’t. But it’s harder and harder to think of a way to save himself as his thoughts grow light and his vision grows grey. His fingers claw desperately at the chain and he feels his skin tear more from his nails.

Fern's breath leaves shaky trails of mist in the air as Ivan carries them inside, the short distance from his car to his front door just too long for the state his friend's in. "Here we go, we made it," the detective says, pushing the door open with his shoulder. "You want the couch or my bed?"

"U-um, the, the couch," Fern replies, burrowing into Ivan's scarf, face warmed by flashes of coffeeshops snowy mornings rosy cheeked smiles for a moment before the warmth of indoors hits them.

Ivan nods, pushes the door shut with his heel, and carries Fern into the living room. He sets them down on the couch and immediately buries them with the two throw blankets on it before rushing off into the kitchen.

Fern burrows deeper under the soft fabric. Movies wheezing laughter kiss goodnight happy sleepy flits over their senses, and they smile despite the aching chill they feel. Memories of Mickey and Ivan, cuddling up for warmth--it warms them up a bit more as well.

A distant microwave beep brings their head poking out of the blanket pile, and after a moment, Ivan comes in with a steaming bowl of what must be chicken noodle soup, if Fern can trust their memory of the smell. He helps them rearrange the blankets to allow for some freedom of movement, then sets the bowl down in their lap.

"Thank, thank you, Ivan," Fern says, cupping their hands around the warming ceramic, letting it seep into their chapped skin.

Ivan smiles and ruffles their hair gently. "Eat up. I'll go call Ezra--he's going crazy worrying about you."

Ivan's footsteps are sluggish as he trudges through the rain, clutching his vest around his soaked frame as tight as he can. It was supposed to be a quick check, in and out before anyone could spot him--but he'd been spotted, mistaken for an easy mugging target, and they'd taken his cash and the burner phone he'd had with him. And that was all he had. No way to get a bus or call a ride to get home.

He'd wanted to be back before the rain set in. The rain, that as it turned out, had rapidly developed into a thunderstorm. His glasses are spattered with droplets to the point he might as well not be wearing them for all the good they're doing. His shoes are full of water, and so is just about every other inch of clothing.

Ivan Bell is, to put it simply, miserable as he looks up and sees his house at the end of the block, but he breathes a shivery sigh of relief. Soon he'll be home and he can change out of his soaked clothes, bundle up in some pajamas, and do nothing the rest of the night.

He picks up the pace as much as he can, grimacing as he splashes through a puddle and sends fresh chilly water into his socks. But a minute later, he's at his door, grabbing the spare key from under the false rock and letting himself in.

Wonderfully warm air hits him before he's even inside, and he pulls his shoes and socks off the second he's got the door closed. His soaked clothes get tossed in the washing machine and replaced with his favorite pajamas after a nice toweling-off.

Before settling down on the couch, he makes himself a hot cocoa, using one of the hot cocoa bombs Mickey got him for Christmas. The little snowman marshmallows make him smile, even though they're about three months out of season.

--the fist crunching his glasses into the side of his face utterly derails his train of thought.

To Ivan’s credit, he does try to fight back, but that only gets him a broken hand as the thug crushes that too. He does his best just to protect himself after that, curling up tight when he gets dropped onto the rain-slicked sidewalk. Blows to his back, legs, shoulders, those are fine, they’re not lethal or hitting anything vital.

He barely registers that the thug’s done with him, only squeezing his eyes open when he feels the rain of blows replaced with the regular rain. Breathing hard, he uncurls, gingerly flexing his broken hand. It’s not as bad as he expected, but the pounding he just took sort of dulls everything to the same level.

Regardless, he can’t fix it himself. That’s a hospital trip. He shudders and pushes himself up onto his knees, feeling for his glasses. He finds half of one arm, then the other half, then the rest. One lens is broken. He sighs.

---

His arm hurts--really fucking hurts, if Ivan had to quantify it. But he can’t let himself know that, because if he knows that, he’ll make a noise, and the people who are hunting him down, well...

They’ll do more than stick a knife through his arm this time.

He’s found himself a nice dark corner of the abandoned factory, reeking of old oil and rust. And he is trying his very god damned hardest not to make a noise, not to acknowledge the blade lodged in his bicep. His breathing hardly qualifies as such, taking the tiniest hitching gasps he can tolerate without crying out or passing out. Every damn sound echoes in this place, and he can hear his pursuers’ footsteps from yards away.

Then from feet away.

Ivan holds his breath and quietly presses his hand over his mouth, not trusting himself to not make a noise. He mentally begs whoever-the-hell for someone to pass by and scare them off, or for them to give up the search, or, fuck, for the knife to magically vanish from his arm.

((CW: Guns, cigarettes, abuse of power, police))

Ivan hands Lieutenant Torsten a piece of paper. His superior looks at it, then up at him, scowling.

“The hell is this?”

Ivan swallows, his throat thick with nerves. “My resignation. Sorry, no two-weeks notice.”

The surrounding office goes quiet, and he feels dozens of pairs of eyes on him.

Torsten snatches the paper so quickly that Ivan feels a papercut form. He flinches slightly, but holds still as his superior reads it.

“Fuckin’ coward,” Torsten mutters, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket. “Bell, why don’t we go to the shooting range one last time? See if we can’t talk this out.”

His heart clenches. He wants to say no. But Torsten’s cold eyes tell him that wasn’t really an offer.

“Whatever you say.”

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