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I have finally been able to finish this short story inspired by this prompt/story idea from nilswolf8 where Halt joins Morgarath. Here is the final chapter.
Previous chapters
Read on AO3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 4
Halt hadn’t wanted to send him on this mission, he’d said that Will wasn’t ready for it—that he was too young. It was something which, at the time, had rankled, stung. He was fifteen now; old enough and well-trained enough to handle himself. It had made Will more determined than ever to prove that he could complete what would be his first solo mission, and complete it well. But now, with the agonizing clarity that so often came with hindsight, he had started to wonder if Halt had been right. Things had gone far worse than he could have possibly imagined and now he had no idea what he would do.
Restless energy lent itself to his muscles as he found himself pacing the length of the safe house, trying to shove aside the sense of panic that built steadily within him as the minutes passed. Gilan was supposed to meet him here after he finished his own mission, but he was already hours late. Will worried at his lower lip as he found himself wishing for and dreading his brother’s arrival. After all, Gilan, like Halt, always seemed to know what to do. But, at the same time, explaining to him just how badly he had failed, wasn’t an appealing prospect.
The coded knock sounded suddenly on the door, shattering the eerie quiet of the room. Will finally stopped pacing, letting out his breath as he unlocked and opened the door, moving aside so Gilan could enter.
“Where have you been?” The words tore from Will’s throat with much more force and anger than he’d intended.
Gilan tilted his head to consider him a moment, eyes narrowed, before a slow smile spread across his face.
“Out,” he said finally, stepping past Will, the sarcasm in the words contradicting the smile.
Will rolled his eyes in response, despite the pounding in his heart that constricted his chest. There had been no malice in Gilan’s reply, he knew. There never was. He watched as his brother headed to the back of the room to place down his supplies. The twisted feeling in his stomach couldn’t bear the silence anymore and so he drew breath to speak, an effort that was stymied by the realization he had no idea where to begin or what to even say. He was gathering himself to try again when Gilan beat him to it.
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” he asked Will quietly without turning around. It was as if he was somehow privy to Will’s thoughts or, perhaps, he had merely read Will’s expression when he came in.
“Yes,” Will admitted softly.
“Are you alright?”
“For now, but not for long.”
Gilan did turn then, calculating gaze seeking answers as much as asking for them.
“I killed Morgarath’s men. The ones sent to assassinate the Courier and her apprentice.”
One eyebrow rose at that announcement.
“Why?”
The question was curious, not accusing. Gilan didn’t seem to care much that Will had just admitted to the cold-blooded murder of their allies, but he did want to know why Will had made such a glaring tactical error.
“I couldn’t let them kill her, kill either of them!”
“The Courier and her apprentice?” Gilan asked blankly, eyebrow still raised.
Will could only nod.
“Again, why?”
“I had to get close to them both for my mission: to get into Baron Arlad’s court. And I… I love her, Gilan, the Courier’s apprentice—Alyss. I couldn’t let her die.”
Gilan searched his face as if looking for there to be some sort of punchline to this. But, when he realized there was none, that Will was serious, the other eyebrow went up to join the first. He grinned, closing the distance between them.
“I have to say, I’m happy for you Will, but you certainly picked the worst way possible to fall in love.”
“This is serious, Gil!” Will protested, put out, and more than a little frustrated by his brother’s casual attitude. “Did you not hear what I said about killing Morgarath’s men?”
Gilan merely shrugged. “If they’re all dead they can hardly go informing Morgarath of what you did. It was risky, but not irreparable. We can come up with a cover story.” He began, but stopped as he became aware of Will’s expression. He narrowed his eyes. “They are all dead, aren’t they?”
“One may have gotten away.”
Gilan blinked at him, disbelieving.
Will felt a flush of anger. “The fight got a little complicated and, at the end, I had to choose between saving Alyss or killing the last man!” He took a breath, hands trembling, before adding in a small voice. “I don’t know what to do, Gilan.”
For a brief moment, Will saw his own fear reflected in his brother’s eyes and now entirely serious face.
“Morgarath won’t tolerate treason. And if you run, you know he’ll do whatever it takes to hunt you down. Revenge seems to give him a certain… pleasure.” He made a crude gesture not bothering to hide the sneer that curled that last word.
“I know,” Will said, holding his head in his hands. “He’ll never stop trying to kill me.”
“Unless you're already dead. I’ll report to Morgarath that I saw what happened after the guard fled, report that I killed you for your treason, and then completed your assassination mission for you. It will give you and the Couriers the chance to run, disappear.”
~x~X~x~
Halt made no sound as wove through the shadowed wood to the small cabin that served as their safehouse in this area of the Kingdom. He moved with the shadows of the clouds overhead so that he seemed to weave fluidly around the patches of silver moonlight. He was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to any eyes that might be watching.
Hearing the sound of urgent voices coming from inside the cabin, he didn’t head towards the door but instead to the windows. They had only shutters and a latch to close against the chill of the night. They weren’t very well made and sound carried clearly through them.
He froze to listen and was just in time to be made aware of everything about the results of Will’s mission. But in light of everything that had happened, that outcome seemed almost trivial. Or, rather, like another log to be added to an inexorable bonfire.
His old adage of always expecting something to go wrong in order to avoid disappointment had clearly been far too conservative of a saying. If this situation taught him anything, it was that he should have expected absolutely everything possible to go wrong all at once.
Biting back something that was half a sigh of exasperation, and half a breath to calm a racing heart, he reached up to silently undo the latch of the cabin’s unlit back room window and slip inside.
“So we’re set on the plan then?” Gilan’s voice carried to him as he stood in the shadow of the back room's door jam. “We will fake your death and I will report it to Morgarath.”
“There’s only one problem with that,” Halt interposed his voice into their conversation, causing both of them to wheel around, more with surprise than fear, he knew. He was pretty certain that, even distracted as his two apprentices had been, there were very few people who could sneak up on them, of which Halt was one.
“Halt!” Will said as he and Gilan both turned to face their mentor.
One glance at his students showed that neither had expected Halt to be here. After all, he was supposed to have still been at Morgarath’s stronghold.
“I’m sorry, Halt,” Will said, realizing a little belatedly that his mentor had obviously heard everything.
Halt’s steely gaze flicked away from Will when Gilan found his voice, caught on the substance of what their mentor had said first.
“Why can’t I fake Will’s death? It’s too late to stop the man who escaped, and I won’t let Will be hunted down for Morgarath’s pride.”
Halt let out his breath, his arms uncrossing to hang loosely at his sides.
“It won’t work because Morgarath will sooner kill you than listen, Gilan. He found out about Malcolm’s little rebellion and it won’t be long until he finds out that you both were helping him.”
Though it hadn’t seemed possible, Will’s expression shuddered even further at that announcement.
“Helping?” Gilan asked innocently.
Halt glared, not falling for it. “Yes, helping. Malcolm told me about your little project.”
“He did?”
“Apparently, he was under the misapprehension that I already knew about it. What he’s been doing: taking up the guise of Malkallam, stirring up the populace against Morgarath. That was never going to end well. It turns out he was betrayed by someone he trusted, someone who was completely loyal to Morgarath. It won’t be long until it comes out that you two helped him: gave false reports to Morgarath about his movements to protect him. What were you both thinking?” He demanded.
“I was thinking that Malcolm is family,” Will admitted stubbornly.
And Halt couldn’t argue the point. Will was right. As the years had passed, the bird-like healer had grown very close to them.
“He needed help. I couldn’t just not help him.”
For as long as they had known him, Malcolm had been the equivalent of a slave, captured and forced to serve at Morgarth’s whims. Halt knew that had never sat well with his two apprentices. All told, it really should not have come as a surprise that Will and Gilan had risked themselves to help him when Malcolm had managed to set himself up as Malkallam, rebellion leader among the suffering peasantry in Morgarath’s lands. Halt felt the anger slowly drain from him as he thought it. Though it just as quickly sparked again as he swung his gaze towards Gilan.
“And I suppose that’s the same reason you decided to move past simply currying favor with the soldiers and the army?” He demanded, words scathing.
Halt saw Will shoot a confused glance between himself and Gilan. Halt knew Will was well aware that Gilan was often sent by Morgarath to lead his troops. Gilan was skilled at it, and the soldiers respected him—likely far more than they respected most of the other commanders like Foldar who cared nothing for their men’s safety and would stay behind, protected, during battle while they threw away the lives of their own men. Will, however, clearly didn’t see what Halt was upset about until he spoke again.
“I know it was you who got word to the 8th infantry and helped them escape.”
Will’s eyes widened, then widened further still when Gilan didn’t deny it.
“I served with them for years. Their reward for those years of service and being among the most elite of Morgarath’s troops was a false accusation of treason followed by the guarantee of a painful death. And it was all for no other reason than Morgarath’s pride and paranoia at their strength.” Gilan was silent a moment before he looked Halt in the eyes. “The truth is, Morgarath was right to be paranoid—and now the 8th are indebted to me. And they aren’t the only ones. I’ve made connections and curried favor with several of the top divisions.”
“Did you ever stop to consider doing that was treason?” Halt demanded angrily.
Gilan looked genuinely confused by Halt’s fury, confused and frustrated.
“I thought that was what you wanted me to do?”
Halt’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You thought I wanted you to stage a military coup?”
“You can’t have expected that I would ever actually be loyal to Morgarath.” Gilan looked almost offended by the mere notion. “Especially not when you told me yourself that you weren’t loyal to him either—that you were just using him to get what you wanted.” The shadow of a vicious smile twisted his lips as he leaned forward. “Well, I wanted something too.”
Halt felt his blood run cold, a horrible twisting sensation racing across his scars to settle in his chest. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You would betray our position here, everything we have worked for, for the sake of the Kingdom?”
Gilan’s eyebrows rose in surprised incredulity before drawing downward in anger. He shook his head adamantly.
“I don’t care about the Kingdom and its politics; I care about us! Growing up with King Oswald, I saw nothing much better than Morgarath and we have suffered because of it. Training under you, I realized that the only way that we can truly stay safe and free from the wars, whims, and powerplay of others is to be the ones in power. And what about the people like us, those caught up in this and left to suffer and try to stay alive while other people play games with their lives?”
Gilan hadn’t raised his voice but Halt felt himself flinch as if he had. Truth had a bite sharper even than hatred. It was something that had been whispering in the corners of his own mind, a whisper that had grown steadily louder as the years passed by. But now that it had been given voice, it was chilling.
How many of those innocents ruled by Morgarath and King Duncan had loved ones they cared about as much as Halt cared about his apprentices? How many of those people had been like his little sister Caitlyn, who just wanted to live in peace and carve out some small measure of happiness from the world?
Caitlyn had cared about people… so had Crowley. Halt closed his eyes as another truth rang in his mind…. He had started to care again too. As the years passed, he had slowly started to realize that not every person was a potential threat… and that there were things worth protecting—things far more precious than his own survival and safety.
Gilan shook his head softly. “I wanted it all to stop, Halt. I’ve been moving pieces to that end ever since I was given my first command. But if the game is up for me as well before I could finish it, then so be it. Will and I will run together.”
“No.” Halt said firmly, stepping forward and placing a hand on each of his students’ shoulders and squeezing gently. “We will do what we can to help Malcolm and then we will all run together. Morgarath no longer has anything to offer me that I would value more than I value the two of you.”
They couldn’t defect to the Kingdom, that much was certain. People like them, ones who had served the enemy for so long would never truly be trusted. Once a traitor, always a traitor after all. Besides that, Halt had no desire to put himself at the service of a King—none of them would ever be worth trusting.
But if they left the country entirely it would do nothing to solve the problems of the people here. They would have to try something different, and Halt thought then that they might just have the connections they might need to do so. They had the network for gathering information he and Will had set up in King Duncan’s land. They also had the networks that Gilan and Malcolm had set up in Morgarath’s lands.
~x~X~x~
Crowley urged Cropper down the wooded path, coaxing as much speed from the little horse as he dared, considering the low light of the late hour. His mission was of some urgency after all. He needed to get to Baron Douglass of Highcliff Fief before first light if at all possible. The plea the Baron had sent to the King was nothing short of an emergency. If it was wholly accurate, it could spell disaster for the Kingdom as a whole.
Baron Douglass was many things, but he’d never been one for undue panic or exaggeration. This was why he, and King Duncan, had decided it would be safest to respond immediately. Duncan had already mobilized a small force and they were only a day behind Crowley. His task had been to ride ahead and provide any necessary immediate assistance and gather all the necessary intel to send back to the army so they would be fully ready when they arrived.
His mouth set itself in a grim line at the thought. Things had been relatively stable for the past year and he had no desire to return to the chaos and near constant warfare of the many years before. And this news was akin to an ill omen, boding its inevitable return.
It had seemed for a while that they were on the back foot against Morgarath. Defeat had been all but guaranteed. All they had been doing was staving off the inevitable—something Crowley had been more than willing to do… up to his last breath. But then, things began to change. Morgarath’s kingdom had begun to destabilize, piece by piece. It had started with the peasants' Rebellion in Morgarath’s lands, and then with the disbanding and would-be execution of the 8th infantry.
The 8th were of Morgaraths most elite troops. They, along with their commander, were the only unit in Morgarath’s army that had earned his grudging respect for their skill, discipline, intelligent tactics, and shocking lack of brutal, cruel, or dishonorable conduct when compared to any other of Morgarath’s divisions or commanders. He supposed that might well be the reason Morgarath had wanted to get rid of them. However, the 8th infantry escaped Morgarath’s judgment and had, along with some more disgruntled troops, joined the peasant uprising. This left Morgarath to fight a war on two fronts, from within and without.
But the change wasn’t just in Morgarath’s lands, it was in the King’s lands too. For them, however, it wasn’t destabilization but its opposite. Key generals of Morgarath’s had been taken out before or during battles. There had been destructive raids on enemy encampments and supply trains undertaken that they had not been a party to. There had been advanced warnings of attacks and plans given, along with the foiling of several assassination attempts. The few reports given back to him of those who had done it were vague, nothing more than rumors of a ‘hooded man’.
And not everything had been on a large scale either. He’d heard more vague reports of people being helped or saved by a ‘hooded man’ all over the King's land and even Morgarath’s. After looking at the reports of these incidents, their locations, and timing, Crowley had come to the conclusion that this… vigilante… for lack of a better word, could not be one man alone, but rather two or three men working under the guise of the ‘hooded man’ to the same end.
It could be that the ‘hooded man’ had started as one individual and the others were copycats. However, their actions and movements were too professional, consistent, and organized for that to be the case. To what ends the ‘hooded man’, or rather 'men', were operating, he was not yet certain. And that unsettled him almost as deeply as the means behind them. To have access to the amount of intelligence needed to pull all that off suggested an information and informant network that would rival that of the Rangers and Couriers combined. And that was a terrifying prospect. His only solace was that they did not seem to be currently acting against the interest of the Kingdom.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a warning rumble from Cropper, some scent or sound causing the little horse to warn of potential danger. Alert now, his eyes were able to pick out the obstacle of several fallen trees and branches spanning the length of the highway ahead. A trap. He pulled Cropper to an immediate stop, turning his head to his left even as he began to wheel the little horse in that direction.
Even amateur roadside bandits would know that most warriors were right-handed, and so they would give themselves an advantage to approach from the left, where a defender would have to wheel or reach awkwardly across to defend. They likely would try to block his retreat as well.
Sure enough, he caught sight of movement from the left and behind. Crowley had an arrow knocked and aimed at the closest shadowed figure on his left, letting his arrow fly even as Cropper pivoted gracefully around. This gave him a larger view of the area. That was when he saw it. They weren’t just coming from the left and from behind, they were coming from all sides and there were far more of them than he had anticipated. Even in the moonlight, he could see that they were also far better armed and armored than any average highwayman group had any right to be.
These men were soldiers. Crowley’s next arrow felled another man and he had only just enough time to roll from his horse’s saddle in order to avoid the quarrel flung towards him from one of the three crossbowmen he could make out. He fell and heard the bolt hum past his ear. He hit the ground in a recovery roll and rose smoothly into a crouch, another arrow drawn aimed, and fired at his enemies, first to one side of the road and then the other. The crossbowman fell along with a swordsman.
That was when reflective defense gave way to grim understanding. Even with a Ranger’s speed and accuracy, he knew there were too many, and he had no cover. Another bolt whizzed past his face, opening a gash across his cheek in its flight. Cropper reared and kicked in a desperate attempt to protect his master from the approaching men, but it wasn’t enough. Crowley set his teeth then, determined that if this was going to be his end, his attackers would pay dearly for it.
Then suddenly, several of the men nearest him fell in quick succession. He could see the glisten of a broadhead arrow protruding from one of the bodies, along with the clothyard shaft from a longbow—vastly distinct from the short quarrels of his adversaries.
It gave Crowley the space and breath he needed to rally, and move to some cover. He once more aimed and shot at blinding speed. The unseen archer that had come to his aid was dropping as many enemies as quickly as he did, if not quicker. Ranger-level shooting, his mind supplied. And it was exemplary Ranger-level shooting at that.
From behind their respective cover, he and his ally were able to take on the last of the soldiers until the clearing was once again silent. Hearing and seeing nothing of the strange ally that had come to his aid, he was about to open his mouth to address the night at large when a voice spoke first.
“Baron Douglass of Highcliff Fief is working for Morgarath—has been for some years now, in secret.”
Crowley easily pinpointed the voice’s location in the dark, turning swiftly in that direction, bow still partially drawn for the sake of caution. Having honestly expected one of the voices of his Rangers, he was taken a little aback. The voice did strike a chord in his memory, but not enough to belong to one of the men he’d been working closely with and leading for the past 10 years.
As he watched, he saw a figure slowly melt into view, once again unsettlingly Ranger-like in his movements. His right hand was raised in a gesture of peace, his left hand still clutching his strung longbow. His shape was reminiscent of a Ranger as well. His ally was a cloaked and hooded man… perhaps one of the ‘hooded men’.
“Morgarath’s been getting pretty desperate lately. And all this was his idea of a trap… an assassination attempt.”
“Damn near successful too,” Crowley said with some feeling before adding, the thanks apparent in his words, “if not for you.”
The hooded man offered a nod of acknowledgment. Despite Crowley’s genuine gratitude at the man's intervention, there was something about him that whispered in warning in the back of his mind. It was something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right. But he had precious little time to dwell on it as the man turned to make his leave.
“How did you find out about this? Do you have any proof of what you said about Douglass and Morgarath?” he asked then, his words stopping the man’s planned retreat.
The hooded man stopped, offering only a shrug as he turned back around to face him.
“Who else knew that you’d be on the road this late?” he asked eventually instead of answering. “These were clearly no simple highwaymen. If it's physical evidence you need, you might find it if you search the bodies for correspondence, or got a confession from one who is still alive.”
The man’s voice was quiet, the barest edge of a Hibernian burr lilting the words in a way that was… so familiar. That was when it hit him; the recognition caused a pit to open up in his stomach even as an old pain flared up near his heart.
The hooded man, the one who had been destabilizing Morgarath’s holdings, aided the kingdom, and assisted the peasantry on both sides of the war. Crowley knew him. His fingers flexed on his bow, undecided whether or not to draw it further back. This man was his enemy… but he had not always been. This man had wreaked havoc on the King's land… but he had also just saved Crowley’s life.
“Halt,” he said, the name coming out tight with a painful mix of emotions he could not hold back.
“Crowley,” came the quiet reply, his words thick with an emotion of his own.
A soft breeze rustled the forest branches overhead as they faced each other, a question unanswered riding with the breath of the wind.
I am trying to sleep since the dash is dead but I do think since Maelle/Alicia were/are very anxious kids I believe she does suffer panic attacks from time to time and there are some certain triggers but then are times they just come out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. Also the scene at camp after Maelle meets our Painted fam for the first time and Gustave was immediately on it he knew how to comfort.
please, please have some camp camp angst. trigger warning for past child abuse. for david of course. that is the crux of this fic. i believe this is the best one i've made for this fandom. it made me feel something.
“Mr. Campbell, I can’t keep this,” he gestures around to the burning camp, “a secret. One of the campers could have been seriously hurt.” And over what? Some insurance money? He was going to risk their lives over that? David’s image of the camp founder is crumbling before his eyes, but rather than what he hopes he’ll do, which is to pull him into a hug and apologize and help them put out the fire and tell him that he was right the whole time and never meant to hurt anyone and of course he’ll turn himself in because he went too far this time, Campbell glares.
“Is that any way to treat the man who practically raised you?” he taunts. David stiffens. He wants to tell Max to go, but he finds himself unable to utter a word. “Davey, I’ve always been so kind to you. So generous. I never once beat you like they did, not even when you deserved it. I fed you, even when you hadn’t earned it. And you’d send me to jail? The person who cared about you more than your own parents?”
David clenches his fist, angry tears springing to his eyes. His heart begins to race. Memories come flooding back, ones that he has to work every single day to keep from resurfacing. And now someone is throwing them back in his face, someone he cares about very deeply. Whom he’s protected over and over, even at great personal cost. Using the experience to try to get something out of it, yet again. That’s all he’s ever cared about.
“Don’t forget what I protected you from.”
“By what? Throwing me into the foster system? You didn’t do anything. Social services stepped in. You didn’t raise me. Mrs. and Mrs. Washington did.”
“This camp saved you—”
“You ran this camp for money.” Campbell rolls his eyes.
“Don’t act like you don’t get a paycheck.”
“It’s not the fucking same,” Max chimes in. David pauses and uses the distraction to wipe the tears from his face before Campbell can see them, if he hasn’t already. “David does all this shit from the bottom of his stupid heart. You probably make more in a day than David does all summer.”
“Seems as though you’ve fooled even your favorite camper, Davey. But I know better. I’m the only person who’s ever given you the love you need, and if I’m gone, then that’s gone, too. So think carefully about your next move.”
“He doesn’t need you.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong.”
“No, he’s not,” David manages in a shaking, small voice. “Cameron, I think you should go if you want a head start. Because when the feds break through those doors, I’m telling them everything.” The rarity of his first name surprises him, but he simply scoffs.
“Hm. I knew I’d wasted my time on you.”
Campbell turns and slams the door behind him so loudly David recoils hard, leaving him alone in the room with a very frightened Max. He turns and curses, stomping one foot. He knows he shouldn’t in front of a camper, but it just jumps out.
“David?”
“Hey, kiddo,” he starts, wanting so badly to comfort him but feeling his own walls closing in, “you should go find Gwen. I’ll be there in a minute.” He takes in a shuddering breath, puts one hand to his chest. Trying to control his breathing long enough to allow Max to leave is already making him lightheaded. Another breath comes quicker than he’d like it to. He’s going to start hyperventilating in the same way he does every time he thinks about his parents. Max can’t be witness to that. Can’t watch him have a breakdown.
Max doesn’t move.
“Really, just give me two seconds and I’ll be out there with you—”
He feels a sudden pressure on his knees. When he glances down, two tears fall from his eyes and onto the head of Max, who is, for some reason, hugging him. And not letting go. He pats his hair.
“You shouldn’t have—” he has to pull in a hitching breath, “have had to listen to that. Sorry.”
“Shut up.” He breathes out as slowly as he can, but the tears are coming; the panic is coming, and he can do nothing to stop it. He presses his hands over his face and inhales two shaky breaths. And another two. Breathes out, then in again far too soon. Out and in, now rapidly. His heart is going to stop. He’s dying. He’s going to pass out. Or throw up. Or—
“Hey. Breathe slow.”
“I’m trying,” he complains between breaths. “You don’t—don’t have to—shouldn’t be—go catch up with—” he’s unable to finish any of his thoughts because they’re coming in and out of his mind like boats at sea.
“Sit down.” Max leads him by the elbow to the armchair in the counselor’s cabin. “Come on. Deep breaths. Don’t let that asshole do this to you.”
It’s not like it’s a choice. His breath is coming even faster now and he doubles over, bringing his head to his knees. He’s trying to cover his face so that Max can’t see the tears, but he knows he’s taking in all of it. There’s no way the kid is ever going to respect him after this. Now that he knows everything. That he’s damaged. His optimism is a coping mechanism for how fucked up he is inside. For the rest of his life, he’s going to see him as a broken piece of shit who got knocked around as a kid and became a weak little pushover because of it.
“It’s just a panic attack. It’s gonna be over in a few minutes.”
“You don’t need to—see this.”
“Tough. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Stop talking. And thinking about me. Focus on breathing.”
David takes his advice reluctantly because if he doesn’t, he thinks he might faint. He takes a deep if stuttering breath through his nose, releases it through his mouth, and repeats.
“Just keep doing that.” Max pats him on the back awkwardly. “Good job, camp man.”
“How do you know how to do this?”
“Neil,” he says simply. He doesn’t elaborate about which one of them panics. David can’t guess. It could be either. He should talk to both of them about it, let them know he’s always here to talk, mention that he’s got feelings puppets that can make it easier to express—
Breathe.
He sits there for a minute until his jagged breathing evens out for the most part and the tears stop, which is much harder to force but Max is right there, so he can’t keep crying like this. He sits up dry-eyed. Max’s eyebrows are furrowed and his face is full of concern rather than the contempt he expects. Deserves.
“Okay now?”
“Okay now. Thanks. I’m sorry about that.” There’s an awkward silence in which David has to brace himself for whatever Max might say next.
“Why did you never say anything about all that shit?”
“You saw what happens when I think about it. I try not to.” He smiles. “This won’t happen to you just because you’re in the same boat. After camp, I’m going to talk to your school counselor to organize—”
“Stop.” He pats David on the knee. “Yeah, I know you’ll take care of us. Just focus on your fucking self for a second.” He gives him a moment to process that. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“Wrong answer.” David takes another slightly shuddering breath.
“A little shaky. It’s time to get back with Gwen. We can still help put out some of the fires.”
“I think you should take another minute. You still don’t seem very… David.” Tears build up in his eyes again and he wipes them away roughly with the palm of his hand. “Does Gwen know?”
“No. Not a thing. Please, don’t tell her. I’d like you to forget all about it, but I know you can’t. I would really prefer if you kept this between us.”
“Jesus. I’m not gonna tell anyone. Has anyone ever been, like, nice to you?” He hesitates, doesn’t say anything because he can’t think of a time. “Cameron is shitty. Gwen’s shitty. I’m shitty.”
“You’re absolutely not. You’re creative and expressive.”
“I torture you.”
“Creatively!” He sighs. “My foster parents were nice. I was only there for about eight months. But it helped.” Eight months. Eight months of kindness and support in his entire fucking life. That’s all he’s ever had, all he’s ever earned. “And Gwen is nice in her own way. Campbell is just complicated.”
“Don’t make excuses for people who treat you like shit.” David smiles.
“You’re so strong, Max. I really admire that about you. You know your worth.” Max rolls his eyes, but the compliment does sink in, he can tell. If it just beaded up on the surface and slid off, he’d see it. He’s great at seeing through the kids. That’s one benefit of his own trauma. “He really did help me. He reported to CPS. It got me out of there.”
“And then he ditched you.”
“I guess.” He places a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Listen, I know about your situation at home. The neglect. I want you to know that if you want to… if we have to… do the same for you, some day, that I will never, ever abandon you. You wouldn’t be alone for a second. You just have to say the word.”
“Don’t think that far ahead. Just chill.”
“And—and you can talk to me about it. I know I freaked out a little just now, but please don’t let that keep you from talking to me. I want you to.”
“You asshole, you were just triggered into a panic attack by some manipulative bastard that used your fucking abusive childhood to get you to do whatever he wants. It would be disturbing if you didn’t freak out.” He twists the strings of his hoodie. “I never knew it was like that for you.”
“You’re just a kid. I shouldn’t have relied on you to do this just now. And I feel awful that I did.”
“I… wanted to stay? I wasn’t gonna just leave you. Though I guess that’s kinda what you’re used to.” David chuckles, but it’s not a joke. Max glares. He drops the smile.
“What do you need to do to get over… this? Write in a diary? Play with your stupid puppets?”
“I’m already over it, kiddo. Don’t worry.”
“Huh. Sounds like you just kinda repressed it.”
“Maybe.” He stands despite still feeling a little dizzy. Just around the edges. Not enough to have him stumbling. “Let’s get back to the group. It’ll help to get my mind off it.”
“Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want.” David pats his head again, this time met by Max swatting his hands away.
“You’re a good kid, Max. A really good one.” He smirks.
“Your favorite camper?”
“Of course I don’t have a favorite.” He tugs at his hand to urge him forward toward the door. “But if I did, it’s you.”
Together, they walk back toward the rest of the camp. The fires are slowly being put out. Everyone cares enough to not want the camp to burn. That’s something. Something he’s doing right. Max wrenches his hand away from David’s far before they approach anyone who might see. But not a moment before. And when the feds do come, David holds strong and points in the direction in which Cameron had taken off. Then serves dinner with Gwen in the charred mess hall like nothing ever happened.
Prompt: alt 8 - on the run
Fandom: Letterkenny, Stewart/reader
You run back to Letterkenny, but the life you left behind was always going to catch up. Luckily, Letterkenny sticks up for its own.
I think I'm getting sick lmao I sat here all morning and forgot to post. buuuut here we go!! my indulgent I-love-Stewart fic, where he calls you 'my dear' because of COURSE he says that shit, and holds you and Letterkenny helps you out.
@febuwhump
warnings: abuse, past abuse, abusive parents, panic attacks, lots of drug use (reader is a skid ok), Letterkenny typical violence
(the link embed is breaking maybe I'll try again later)
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Nightwing, Batman-All Media Types
Prompt: Whumptober Day 1: Safety Net
Rating: T
Warnings: panic attacks, referenced canonical rape/non-con
Notes: Happy whumptober!
Summary: Dick's always been the resident safety net, but sometimes even he needs to be caught.
"Just a little further," Dick pushed through clenched teeth. "You're okay."
Tim didn't respond. He had his teeth clenched and his eyes squinted behind his domino mask; his whole face twisted in effort and glazed with sweat. His gloved hands squeezed into Dick's biceps, practically bunching up the skintight material of his suit in his trembling hands.
Dick didn't fault the younger hero for not answering; Tim got a surprise face-full of fear-toxin not fifteen minutes ago.
They—Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Robin—had been infiltrating the latest bad-guy lair while Batman, Red Hood, Signal, and Spoiler, had been fucking things up and causing a distraction outside. The thing was, Scarecrow wasn't even apart of this mission. As far as Dick knew, Scarecrow should be locked up back at Arkham. No normal recurring members of Gotham's Rogue Gallery had anything to do with this; it was supposed to be a human trafficking bust, fear-toxin was one of the furthest things on Dick's mind.
And yet, they found a thug in some sort of supply closet, and when they tried to take him out, he threw a vial right at them that immediately burst into smoke.
Tim got the worst of it, but judging by the circus music he can hear somewhere at the back of his head and the unusual speed of his heart, Dick thinks he's gotten a whiff of it too before shouting to not breathe it in.
Lucky for them, the mission had already passed the chopping-off-the-head stage. Cass had found the leader and had taken him out, so now it was just a matter of finding the captives and taking out any thugs stupid enough to hang around. After getting hit, Dick hit the communicators and alerted Bruce of Tim's rapidly declining condition—he didn't mention his own, mostly because he didn't he didn't know he'd inhaled any until a few hallways ago. Bruce instructed them to meet him outside the front doors, he'd be waiting with the batmobile and a dose of catch-all antitoxin, and Steph who had taken a hit to the knee and needed to get back to the cave anyways. After taking Tim and Steph back to Alfred's loving care, he'd return and help everyone else finish clearing the place out.
Nightwing was expected to take over leading the group, as he's the eldest and he had the most experience with leading anyways. Dick had agreed, and it was supposed to be as simple as that.
Dick's was almost able to convince himself that it would be as simple as that too, even with the miniscule dose of toxin in his system, but after he finally managed to drag himself and Tim to the front of the building, whispering every comforting word he could think of to keep Tim moving, the circus music began to be accompanied by the sound of crushing bones.
Bruce loaded Tim into the passenger seat of the batmobile while Steph waved at Dick from the back; she was facing sideways, talking up all three cushions with her raised and bandaged leg. While Bruce went to administer the antitoxin for Tim—poor kid had doubled over in the chair, ears between his knees—Dick snuck a dose for himself.
"Watch over them, Nightwing," was all Bruce said before he got behind the wheel and drove away. He didn't even give Dick time to consider backing out and telling Bruce about his own condition; Dick very quickly found himself standing alone at the curb of the road, in charge and probably not in the best shape to be in. He closed his eyes for a moment, going through fear dampening exercises, before he took his own dose of antitoxin and rushed back into the building, ready to make sure no more in their family were injured tonight.
The antitoxin worked for a little while.
Honestly, Dick barely even noticed the returning symptoms until he was hailed by Jason to assist in clearing out a recently found room of thugs holding hostages.
However, when he did notice the returning symptoms, they returned stronger. He could feel his anxiety levels rising as he rushed through the building, finding Jason, and swinging in just in time to kick a thug in the head who had a gun to a hostage's head.
"Knew I could count on you," Jason greeted, voice halfway between grateful and sarcastic.
They made quick work clearing out the room and leading the hostages out the building. Dick's hands only started to tremble a little after he and Jason parted ways.
The next few hours went similarly to that, rushing around the building that had no business being so large from one sibling to the next, helping out where he can and giving orders that they pretended to be disinclined to follow.
Helping Cass calm down some captives, breaking an argument between Damian and one of the police officers waiting outside, assisting Signal with what appeared to be a malnourished guard dog. Task after task after task, and all the while the fear only grew. It didn't help that Bruce never came back, as the strand of fear toxin was an older version, which meant the newest cure didn't work completely.
Most of the time, it lingered with auditory hallucinations, but by the time the last police van of criminals shut its doors and drove off, Dick could feel invisible hands touching him in ways he did not want to be touched. It took all of his self control to power through it. Bruce was counting on him to finish leading the mission, and it was already so close to ending, and no one had noticed anything wrong otherwise.
"Good job everyone," Dick said as it finally became time to call it a night. He was thankful for the white lenses of his domino mask, he could barely look anyone in the eye, because if he did he could hear all the hateful, anger-induced arguments he'd ever had with them. "Stop by the cave when you can with your reports and mask footage. B'll update us on Red and Spoiler's conditions when he can."
Everyone broke off with various complaints about hunger, various goodbyes, and various finishing of plans to see each other later. Dick only lingered long enough to tell Damian that he had some plans alone so he needed Damian to ride back with Cass instead of with himself. If Damian caught the lie, he didn't mention it. Even anxious and barely keeping together as Dick was, he's endlessly proud of Damian and how far he'd come since the jaded, angry boy he first was. A few years back, Damian would have demanded to know why and would have argued to come along; but now he just nodded his head and turned to find Cass before she left.
Dick couldn't get away quick enough.
He took the long way back to where he parked his bike, doing everything he could to get himself calm enough to not be a hazard on the road. Bruce had identified the strand, and if Dick remembered correctly, and he usually did, this particular strand rarely caused long lasting damage and faded on its own after a handful of hours. He didn't need to bother Bruce about it, or worry his siblings. He was the strong, assured, put together eldest brother, the first Robin, the multiuniversal constant. Dependable, confident, definitely always mentally sane and heaven forbid not a little fucked up in the trauma department.
He was being irrational. He should just call one of his siblings to pick him up and take him back to get some of Bruce's recreated cure... but the thought of calling just filled him with more anxiety. What if he called and Bruce got mad at him for not telling him sooner? What if it all just proved he's not as dependable as everyone always seemed to think he was and his siblings stop coming to him for help? He was always meant to be the safety net. For Bruce, for Blüdhaven, for his siblings and friends...
He was being irrational. He was being irrational.
He stopped walking, gasping, his arms wrapped around his stomach. He felt nauseous and weak, his hands trembled as he leaned against a grimey brick wall in a grimey alleyway and sank. He curled up on himself, breath coming in quick and painful as he hit the ground. His hands had somehow gotten to the back of his skull, pulling painfully at his hair, as he curled behind his knees.
It felt like his ribs were cracking; like his heart pounded against each one of them like a feral bear in a chicken-wire cage.
Believe it or not, Dick Grayson knew what an anxiety attack felt like. He had plenty of them when no one was around to see them. He did his best to work through it, let it slide, but moments stretched into what must be hours and it wasn't stopping. All his fears bubbled one by one to the surface. His parents dying, him not being enough for Bruce, not enough for his siblings... worthless and useless, good for nothing except eye-candy.
His bones ached as Two-face beat him with a baseball bat, his skin crawled as Tarantula climbed on top of him, illness spilled into his stomach as Jason shouted at him for 'pretending' to have died.
Dick gasped and curled, sobbing into his knees. The fear had completely crippled him—he had no way to tell if it was because he inhaled a larger dose than what he thought, or if fighting it for so long only made the impending breakdown worse.. but that didn't matter. What mattered was that it wasn't stopping.
"-crap, N?"
Boots scuffled in front of him, and a large figure bent down. Terror glaired in Dick's veins. He was an idiot. Of course his breakdown in a random alleyway would attract unwanted attention. It could be anyone—a civilian at best case scenario, a criminal at worst. Both would get Dick yelled at by Bruce.
A hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched hard enough that his skull bounced against the wall. "Don't-" he choked, "don't touch me!"
The hand thankfully released, and Dick squeezed his eyes shut and returned to panicking into his knees.
"... crap. Nightwing? It's Hood. The squirt was worried about you—for good reason too. You understand me?"
Dick barely understood a word. Too many voices in his head were calling him worthless to hear anything otherwise.
"N... Dick, work with me... shit." A shuffling of clothes. "B? You might want to send someone out here, N got some of the toxin too, he's unresponsive—Yeah, yeah I'm trying—He doesn't want to get touched, so I'll do what I can—got it, we'll be waiting."
The figure moved so they're next to Dick, not quite touching, but close enough for Dick to feel their presence as they sit down beside him.
"Okay wingnut, B's on his way with the antitoxin. It worked with Red, so it should help you pretty quickly. You just gotta try and control your breathing, okay? Come on, let's try 4-7-8."
He began to explain the exercise, counting the seconds gently even though Dick wasn't really following along. Dick tried to latch onto the steady lull of the voice, the deep rumbling tone, tried to focus on it because it was the only voice not saying he was overrated and a waste of time. Eventually, the familiarity snapped in his mind, and he recognized Jason's voice. He creaked open his eyes, staring at his little brother just to make sure, then made the monumental effort to follow along with Jason's instructions.
Eventually, his breathing felt like something he could control. The anxiety still lingered and still pounded against his skeleton, but at least now he could swallow and find his voice.
"Jay," Dick croaked. He forced one hand away from clutching at his hair and reached out.
Jason stopped his counting and immediately took Dick's hand. "I'm here," he said.
Dick shook his head, choking down a sob. "Shouldn't... shouldn't have to see me like this."
Jason gave a soft scoff. "Heaven forbid Nightwing acting like a normal human under fear toxin."
"Not... 'm not supposed to break," Dick insisted. "Safety net."
"... Wing, you have to let people catch you sometimes. We want to help you too. Is that why you didn't tell anyone you got hit?"
Dick bit his lip. "Wasn't... wasn't bad at first. Could hide it. Could wait. Didn't want to... let anyone down."
Jason sighed. "We're definitely talking more about this once you're recovered."
"..."
They sat together in silence until the familiar growl of the Batmobile turned into the alleyway. Jason never let go of his hand, which kept Dick anchored somewhat in reality.
Bruce exited the car and approached them, and Dick's anxiety spiked with intimidation. Somewhere, at the back of his head, he knew Bruce was here to help, but over a decade of constant fear of disappointing the man in a way that couldn't be forgiven, couldn't be ignored.
"Nightwing," Bruce said, kneeling down in front of them.
Dick cringed within himself, pressing his head into his knees and squeezing Jason's hand probably harder than what's comfortable for the other man.
"'M sorry..."
Bruce didn't reply for a moment, though Dick could practically feel Jason glaring at Bruce beside him.
"... You're not in trouble," Bruce finally said. "I need you to let me access your skin. Your neck, or you can remove a glove. It'll help you feel better."
Dick didn't want to move, but he'd been hit with fear-toxin enough times to know it was better to suck up the discomfort for even a moment if it meant no longer feeling awful after. He swallowed and tilted his head, mentally beginning to count his breathing and clutching Jason's hand.
Bruce wiped something cold and wet on Dick's neck, which had his heart jumping. When he pressed the needle into Dick's skin, he could barely fight the whimper clawing through his throat.
The syringe emptied itself into his system, then pulled out a moment later. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the solution spread within him despite knowing that's impossible. The relief was near immediate, and the voices faded into unintelligible sounds, and then into nothing.
Dick breathed through it, continued breathing through it until nothing but the brick at his back, the concrete beneath him, Jason's hand, and the band-aid stuck to the puncture was touching him. The unwanted phantom touches fully stopped, and Dick felt his entire body relax as exhaustion replaced the fear.
"Okay," he gasped, "'m okay."
"We need to get you to the Cave," Bruce said, his voice a lot softer than what Dick's used to. "Can you walk?"
Dick thought about it, but his entire body felt like jelly. He could probably walk, but he'd also probably trip up a few times in the process.
Bruce seemed to sense his hesitation because after a moment of silence, he continued. "I could carry you."
Bruce could, Dick had no doubt. Dick was a meager weight to the amount Bruce could regularly deadlift. It had been years, though, since the last time he'd been carried by Bruce. The thought was mortifying... and... Dick couldn't lie he wanted it anyways. He wanted to be held and touched in a way that didn't have violation as the intention. Dick was always tactile, he always found comfort in it, even if sometimes it was used against him.
He swallowed, then nodded his head.
Bruce grunted. "Alright," he said. "Hood, will you find his bike and hide it somewhere to be retrieved later."
Jason squeezed Dick's hand a final time. "I'll see you soon, big-bird."
Dick could tell in his voice that their earlier conversation wasn't over, but he's had enough of feeling fearful so Dick shoved that future conversation to the back of his head.
Jason left soon after that, leaving Bruce to carefully gather Dick into his arms. Dick buried his head into Bruce's shoulder and wrapped his arms around his neck while Bruce held him under his knees and back.
For a moment, Dick could imagine himself three times smaller and dressed in different colors. That moment was the most comforting thing he'd felt all night. It promised that everything would be alright, and no one was mad at him, and that home was a quick drive away.
He may dedicate himself to catching everyone around him, but curled up in his father's arms, he knew he could fall sometimes too, and there will be nets waiting to keep him from hitting the ground.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"Leo, puh-lease, you can't balance that for more than a minute."
"Ha! Bet."
Casey looked up from his computer only to immediately regret doing so. He blinked uncomprehendingly. What the—?
"Leo, you and I both know you can't balance like that for shit," Mikey said from his spot on the couch, lying upside down as he tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth. He was by far the least weird part of this situation.
"Tell that to my pizza box stack record. Not even Raph could break that." Leon was walking across the backs of several chairs lined up, his katana, for some reason, balanced on his head, the pummel of the hilt on his head as the blade wobbled precariously in the air.
"Isn't that a safety hazard…?" Casey trailed off. He watched as Leon took another wobbly step and sighed. He wouldn't be able to stop this, would he?
"Only if I let it be," Leon grinned as he took another step, ignoring Mikey's call of "That doesn't even make sense," as he continued, arms held aloft for balance as he tilted to the right before centring himself again. "And Mikey, where's your optimism? You were full of it when I did the pizza box challenge!"
Mikey shrugged the best he could while upside down. "Well, that was when you were trying to beat Don's record." He tossed another piece of popcorn into his mouth. "Now you're just being a dumbass."
