#oakicks

Normal never would’ve taken Lincoln as a fighter, at first.

Ever since they were young, Lincoln has been timid, uptight, the type to go rigid if you get too close to him. Or maybe that’s just in Normal’s case. They’re working on it, though. He thinks. He hopes.

He never would've thought that the sweet kid he used to see kicking rocks in the corner or a soccer ball on a field would one day be kicking FBI agents and military soldiers on the battlefield. With the force of a beast.

Normal thinks he understands, now, why Lincoln’s dads tried to shelter their son so much.

But he also thinks he understands, as he’s too distracted looking at Lincoln to succeed at the spell he’s currently casting, the way he feels. He may not understand what it’s like to be unconditionally loved by his parents (something that arouses a deeply-rooted feeling of envy in him towards his friend, but that’s another thing he’s working on), but he understands what it’s like to feel pressured by his parents. And he thinks, in their own loving way, Lincoln’s dads have pressured him too much. And this is his release. His rebellion. Like a caged animal set free.

And Normal does believe he deserves this. However. It also concerns him greatly.

Because the paladin is moving so quickly, so aggressively, and the cleric is barely able to even keep an eye on him but it sounds like he's breathing heavily and at one point he thinks he catches a glimmer of something in his eye. And it all keeps distracting him from helping out in the battle himself.

Normal just narrowly avoids another incoming attack. Focus, Normal, fucking focus! He shakes his head, his heart pounding irregularly in his chest, trying to pay attention to anything other than Lincoln, Lincoln, is Lincoln okay—

“Norm!” Scary’s voice calls from a ways away, blasting a fireball directly into a man’s face. “Taylor could use your help!”

“No, I—!” Taylor immediately snaps back from where he stands off, holding a soldier back with their weapons clashed. “Uh, I mean… Yeah! Normie! We need you!”

Normal leaps straight into action, fueled by his friends’ words and ready to defend them, but realizes while he’s charging his spell just what’s going on. Something burns within him, something that has settled deep within his veins and has been repeatedly threatening to burst through these days. Do you really need my help, or do you just want to feel better about being such a dick to me lately?

His spell fizzles out in failure again, and he clutches his head and growls to himself. Lincoln, get out of my damn head!

“Norm— Augh!” Scary, in her distraction, takes a blunt melee attack to the head, knocking her down.

Taylor swivels around with a slash to his opponent to face Scary’s assailant. “What the hell?!” He jabs his sword toward the FBI agent. “Normal! What’s with the weaksauce spells?”

The blood is roaring in Normal’s ears so loudly that he can't even hear himself stuttering. He dizzily looks between Scary on the ground, Taylor standing off against the agent, and Lincoln, off in the distance, surrounded by soldiers. He's paralyzed. His lungs feel compressed tightly in his chest, and not even the strong emotion shooting through his blood is enough to awaken any magic.

Scary, thank the metaphorical heavens and not the godawful place they all visited earlier, manages to make it back onto her feet, but not without great effort. “You're—” She coughs. “You're good, Norm, you're good.”

The squeezing feeling in Normal’s chest somehow worsens. Stop it, don't say that. Why am I even here? I'm no help at all!

He stumbles backwards, and his back bumps into somebody. Before he can turn around to face them, a pair of burly arms are slung around his neck. Already short of breath, the cleric is easy to choke out, and his hands fly up to scratch at their sleeves. Panicking, he looks to Taylor, the closest nearby person, and cries out, “Help!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Taylor drops what he’s doing and, like a true hero, blindly sprints over to slice the back of Normal’s attacker. The arms release him from the chokehold, and he falls to the ground, heaving for air.

But he isn't able to recover for long, because somebody is yanking him back up by his collar. He braces himself this time, but finds himself face-to-face with Taylor. His expression is twisted in anger, the way he looked at him the last time they argued.

“What the fuck was that, dude?! You can't even use a spell to help me, but you can use me to help you?” He shoves him, nearly toppling him back to the ground.

He… I used a Command on Taylor, didn't I? He didn't even realize. It was just instinct, of course he wouldn't just use his friend like that…

You only ever want to help yourself, a familiar voice scolds him in his head.

“Taylor, quit it, he’s already been…!” Scary is beginning to argue with him now, but Normal can't even pay attention to that anymore.

Lincoln is now fighting Agent Shmegan.

The man is trying to resist his attacks, shielding his body with his arms and trying to talk to him, but the paladin will not let up. “Kid, if you could just— You're making this harder than it needs to be, we just want—”

“I don't care what you want!” Lincoln roars, the first words Normal has heard him say during this entire fight. “I'm not going to listen to you anymore! I hate you adults! Fuck you!” He kicks him again, and again, and he's starting to lose his momentum with each swing but he refuses to give up. “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

Normal knows Lincoln has a history with this man, but he also can tell that this is not just about him and Taylor’s kidnapping.

“Li-Wilson— Please just get a hold of yourself and your friends—” Schmegan orders through grunts of pain. Normal knows Lincoln has been training hard to perfect his soccer kicks, so that can't feel good to take.

“Shut up! That’s Mr. Kicks to you!” The soccer player utilizes a swift kick to the crotch as emphasis.

While the FBI agent is finally doubled over in pain, unable to make any more demands, Lincoln’s body heaves with effort. He looks like he’s preparing another kick, but he’s cut short when a loud gunshot fires out, and he stumbles backwards.

“Link!” Normal shrieks, his body finally allowing him to move again, and he dives over to where his friend has fallen. As he gets close, it becomes apparent to him that Lincoln is crying, and he’s crying hard.

“Sir, let's get out of here.” Another agent, holding the gun used to shoot Lincoln, rushes over to Shmegan’s aid, helping him to lean on his shoulder and escort him back to their helicopter. “Freeman kept us from capturing the King, but we have him and his buddies as hostages for later. We need to retreat for now.”

Shmegan’s face contorts in pain and anger. “That better include Wilson. I have some words for that man about his son.”

The other agent chuckles wryly. “Oh, yes, sir. He’s been incapacitated since the fight began.” He looks down at where Lincoln sits, with no sense of remorse. “Seems we’re not the only ones disturbed by that kid’s violence.”

Normal is crouched by Lincoln’s side, trembling just as bad as he is. “Link, it’s Normal. Normal’s here.” God, that must be the least comforting thing he could hear right now. He must be the last person he wants to help him.

Normal’s hands are on Lincoln’s hands. Lincoln’s hands are on his knee. Lincoln’s blood is on his hands, on his knee, on his clothes, on the ground…

“Dad,” Lincoln sobs weakly. “Dad.”

All of Lincoln’s fight has left him. Now he’s just a scared, powerless little kid.

And so is Normal, now that he’s drained of magic. He can't cast any more spells. He used the last one to help himself. He can't heal his friend. And dear god, Lincoln’s still crying for his dad. But Grant has been captured. And so have the rest of their dads, it sounds.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!

He presses down harder on the wound, but he can't tell if it’s even helping to stop the bleeding, or if it’s just him trying to squeeze Lincoln’s hands to help himself calm down. God fucking damn it, I'm so selfish, even as my friend is sitting here with an actual bullet wound… Can’t do shit for him…

He dares to look back up at Lincoln’s face, and finds it even worse to look at than all the blood. His eyes are scrunched up, leaking a river of tears down his face, his lips quivering with each shaking breath. It reminds him of when he got to see this boy as a baby, and how he promised him that it was going to be alright. He has to make this alright again, if it’s the last thing he does.

With one hand still pressing against his knee, Normal uses the other one to carefully lean forward and stroke his cheek again, wiping away some of his tears.

Lincoln opens his eyes, and when they meet Normal’s it’s clear that they are bloodshot and unfocused. “D-Dad…” he still whimpers. “Help…”

It hurts, knowing that he doesn't want Normal, but he tries to put himself in his shoes. What would I want from my dad, if I were him?

He knows Grant wouldn't know any healing spells. But he does know that he was very tender and affectionate with his son. He seems like he’s very gentle in how he cares for him, like he feels like his own dad has the potential to be.

He knows what he wanted his dad to do for him when he got hurt when he was younger. Grant seems like the type to care unconditionally, though. So, unlike his own dad, he ignores the disturbing and gross nature of this situation, and with all the love (and lack of magic) in his heart, he presses his lips lovingly against Lincoln’s knee as if it was simply the scraped knee of a child.

Lincoln gasps at the feeling, and Normal instantly regrets it, feeling like an utter idiot, He has an literal hole in his knee, I can't just kiss it better, this must be hurting him so bad—

“Normal,” Lincoln chokes at last. He grabs one of his friend’s hands and squeezes it with enough strength to break him. “Normal.”

The cleric lets out a squeak from the strong grip, but watches as a golden light begins to slowly, slowly glow from underneath the paladin’s other hand, which is still on his knee. He’s casting Lay on Hands on himself. Oh, Normal didn't even think about the fact that Lincoln hasn't been using any magic, so he probably could've…

But no, Lincoln wasn't able to help himself before, was he? It wasn't until Normal kissed him that that something in his eyes cleared, like a fog being lifted. Did Normal actually help? Or is he just being selfish, just taking credit for something that had nothing to do with—

“Thank you, Normal,” Lincoln breathes. The words he’s been wanting to hear all this time. Normal’s heart squeezes at the sound.

“Did you…” Normal’s own voice feels thick in his throat, and he realized just then that he has tears dripping down his face as well. “Did you even realize what you were doing? How hard you were fighting?”

More tears begin to roll down Lincoln’s cheeks. “It… There was no pain… At first… Only anger…”

He squeezes his friend’s hand back, but it’s not nearly as strong. Not as strong as Lincoln, never. “I was so worried, it felt like losing you…”

Lincoln’s face crumples again, and Normal can hardly bear to look at it. “Normal…”

His eyes wander over Lincoln’s body, realizing that there are other spots of blood not just from the gunshot. All sorts of cuts and bruises, all of which look very painful, but Lincoln hasn't acknowledged any of them. That “zone” that he seems to get into, that rush of adrenaline, that thrill of violence, must be a very, very dangerous place for him to be in. He never wants to lose his friend to that darkness again.

So he shows him the light. He leans in close to each wound, trailing the gentlest of kisses over the dark spots on his legs and the nasty gashes on his arms, never once shying away from the blood or the hair or the sweat or the filth because it's all normal to him, and even though he knows it's selfish to give Lincoln what he wants for himself, he wants to love Lincoln like he’s perfectly new.

“Normal,” is all Lincoln can say now, through his continued crying. “Normal, Normal…” The way he’s whimpering his name, like a prayer upon his lips, only fuels him further, the way it feels to have replenished magic surging through his veins.

It isn't until he gets tugged away by his hair that he realizes he should probably stop. But Lincoln's hand doesn’t move from the back of his head, and when he looks up at him, Lincoln just stares back, his pupils wide. “Normal,” he whispers again.

Lincoln’s gaze is roaming over his face, and especially over the blood drying on his mouth. Normal can taste it, he realizes self-consciously.

“How can you still be so nice to me?” His eyes shine with a horrible, heart-wrenching guilt, a guilt that Normal can feel himself as he fights the overwhelming need to kiss the one little cut that he missed, the one he’s been avoiding, because he knows it would be too selfish of him.

The one on his lip.

“I'm… so sorry.” Lincoln’s fingers loosen in his hair, but Normal still leans his head into his hand before he can decide to let go entirely. “For how I've… I've been so…”

“It's okay, Link,” Normal murmurs, even though he doesn't know if it's true. It’s just hard to focus on the long-term pain this boy has caused him when said boy is caressing the back of his neck so delicately that it makes him melt.

“No. You're my friend. You're my husband.” The certainty with which he says it brings Normal a shiver. “I need to make it up to you.”

This time, Lincoln is the one leaning forward. Normal freezes up, his face flushing red as his husband’s lips land on his cheek.

But Normal doesn't understand. He doesn't need healing, he doesn't have any scars. Not on the outside, anyway.

Is he… kissing my tears away?

Another kiss. And another. Each touch of his lips to his face leaves him with a feeling of warmth and light. Lincoln even reaches with his bloody hands to brush the sweaty hair sticking to Normal’s skin out of the way, and begins to leave kisses on his forehead as well.

Oh. He’s kissing his acne scars.

More tears run down where Lincoln has kissed. Nobody has ever… He's always been told that he's gross, that his acne is a problem, something to be ashamed of. He has spent countless hours staring at himself in the mirror, popping pimples and picking at scabs (despite his sister’s warnings), wondering why he has to look like this and if anyone could ever love him like this. His parents would never do something like this for him.

But Lincoln is. Lincoln, the one he’s been trying to win over for years. Lincoln, the kid he always wanted to play with but wasn't allowed to. Lincoln, the friend who always seemed to shut him down no matter how hard he tried to love him. That same guy is here, sitting on the ground in literal Hell, a bullet in his knee and blood on his clothes, his fingers curling in his greasy hair and his lips kissing his pockmarked face.

“I'm sorry,” Lincoln whispers tearfully against his skin. “Thank you for… for being my friend. For being you.”

As he pulls back, Normal pushes forward, resting his forehead against Lincoln’s. “I love you,” he sighs, selfishly but honestly. He hopes it brings Lincoln as much catharsis as it does him.

Lincoln glances up from where his eyes sat downcast at the blood on the ground, to stare into his husband’s eyes. His hand on Normal’s neck drifts to his jaw. Eyes still glittering sadly, he offers a smile, but the stretching of his lips opens his cut and makes him wince away in pain.

Normal reaches forward with a careful hand, and catches Lincoln’s chin. He really hopes this isn't going too far, too fast, too bold, like he always seems to be going without realizing it. “Let me…?” He can't even finish the question, can't bear another rejection.

But Lincoln beats him to it, kisses him first, kisses him better. Cradles him with such love and care that you’d think he’s the one being nursed back to health.

And it is undoubtedly healing. Something Normal has needed for a long time. Something that tastes like blood and grime and filth, something that tastes so normal and familiar that it feels like coming home. Feels like being blessed by an angel visiting Hell.