O' LONELY HEART.

the one where blackburn doesn’t like seven. // prompted by @codedfaith!!

OH i’m so glad you sent these in!! they are actually very connected….. okay, let’s get down to BUSINESS!!

laurent: a name that has been whispered in secret, kept alive despite outside forces trying to make that part of him disappear, to kill the before him once and for all… now, it is said so easily, and the gravity of it is really, truly, starting to sink in for the first time since the decision to leave had been made, the plan set into motion.

vanderwood — laurent — cannot help but smile.

‘ what do you want? ‘ saeyoung asks, and laurent has to take a moment, has to stop himself from replying with nothing, the conditioned response he has said for years.

what does he want?

for so long, laurent had dared not want, had dared not be selfish, not asking for anything beyond the necessities. hell, even the things he owns — owned — were cold and impersonal, ready to be dropped at a moments notice and leave no trace of who they belonged to. ( material things are a weakness, the perfect agent doesn’t want, doesn’t need, they simply do what they are told. )

but now: they are not an agent, are they? now, laurent is…free. free to want.

( greedy, greedy, a boy always hungry, a boy always denying himself. does he rember how to want? how to want and not devour? )

gloved fingers are laced together, laurent leans back as he considers the question, honey-brown eyes drifting over to look at saeyoung. ( saeyoung, always beside him, always with him, saeyoung, who is sunlight-kissed in this moment, looking like a saint framed in gold. )

“ mm… ” laurent lets out a quiet hum, smile playing about his lips. what does he want? it is hard to think of in the daylight, not under the cover of darkness, not hidden beneath bedsheets and shadows.

laurent wants — craves! he wants, he wants…a quiet life. he wants a place to call home. he wants somewhere he feels safe. he wants to be normal, he wants to be loved, and oh! in all of those, saeyoung is featured, a fixture: he cannot imagine any of the things he wants without saeyoung with him. he wants happiness, and his happpiness, he thinks — knows! — , is saeyoung.

of course, it has been this way for years. laurent has secretly kept this selfish want to himself, kept these daydreams close to his heart. in all of his possible futures, saeyoung is always there.

so, really, what he wants — has wanted for so long — is fairly simple, when one thinks about it.

he wants to be happy, and for himself to be happy…. it’s so simple — selfish ( no, it’s not selfish, not anymore ).

" i need you, please! " tears sting his swollen eye, freely flowing down freckled cheeks, mixing with the small spatters of blood from elsewhere. once vanderwood turns the corner, saeran begins to sob more, and babbles, to try and explain his current injured state.

" i was--i was just taking a walk, to get some fresh air... these guys, they came out of nowhere, and they were talking about the agency, and, and...! " (a sniffle, he basically collapses in vanderwood's arms.)

as vanderwood's gaze falls upon saeran, a cold sensation washes over him, his heart stopping in his chest. the tang of blood on the air, coppery and heavy, is all too familiar, and a scent he thought they had long since left behind. he is beside saeran in an instant, gently pulling him inside, door kicked shut behind them, as vanderwood quickly takes stock of the situation.

" it's alright, " he is saying, even as he takes mental notes, " saeyoung isn't home, but i'm here, you're safe now. " vanderwood's fingers card through saeren's hair as he holds saeran close, trying to make sense of what the other man is saying--

' they were talking about the agency. '

vanderwood's blood is ice, his heart in his throat, cold dread and horror burrowing into his bones. " what--? " the word catches in his throat, half- swallowed, as an arctic anger begins to burn in the hollow of his lungs. they targeted saeran? saeran, who had nothing to do with the agency, who was an innocent in it all, who had not wrong- ed them, who had done nothing against them--?

vanderwood realizes his fingers have curled into fists, white-knuckled, hands itching for a weapon: something to rip and tear and kill with, something to dismantle the bastards who dared lay a hand on saeran, who dared target him when it is not him that they want, not really, not truly.

( i will tear them apart. )

a familiar beast, bloodthirsty and hungry, rears its head, and vanderwood takes a slow breath, a deep breath. ( not yet, he tells it, not yet, first, we have to make sure saeran is safe. )

" i'm sorry, " vanderwood says, doing his best to keep the bite, the venom, out of his voice. " they shouldn't have-- shit, saeran, i don't know how they found us, but " -- they will regret even thinking of touching you, it will be repaid tenfold -- " i'll take care of it, i promise. saeyoung and i will handle it. " ( the unspoken: no one else will hurt you, i swear it. )

he has to tell saeyoung, he has to let him know, but first:

a steadying breath drawn, vanderwood begins to guide saeran to the kitchen. " let's... let's get you patched up, alright? here, let me see. where did they hurt you? "

even as he begins to set about looking at saeran, vanderwood has to fight the rising fury, the rising hatred, a plan already beginning to form in the back if his mind.

vanderwood has been concerned about how quickly seven seems to have 'bounced back', so to speak, after such a terrifying ordeal: to be taken, to be tortured, is not something people recover from quickly. it is not something he voices aloud, of course, but it something that has worried him in the quiet hours of the night, when the world is still and his thoughts feel like his own.

a crash: and vanderwood is rushing into the kitch- en, hand reaching for a concealed weapon, on high alert ( if something else happened to seven, if vanderwood isn't there, isn't able to help again--! )

it is a relief to see that shock of red hair, but the relief is quickly outweighed by concern as vanderwood's heart feels as if it has been ripped asunder. i don't want to die, seven is saying, and vanderwood does not think as he crossed the distance between the two of them, kneeling beside seven amidst the broken glass.

it feels natural, despite how he has been trained ( conditioned ), to reach out for seven. " i'm here, " he says, a tentative hand placed overtop of seven's. " i'm here, seven. " his voice is soft, cold facade stripped away to reveal the kindness ( they can't take it from him, they have not beaten it out of him ) beneath.

( vanderwood cannot forget the fear he felt while seven was gone, cannot forget the rage, the fury, tearing a bloody path to get his partner back. he cannot forget the helplessness he felt, the fear. never again, he promised himself, and he swears it again: never again. )

vanderwood, so used to avoiding touch, hesitates a moment before he pulls saeyoung close. " i promise, " vanderwood murmurs, " i'll protect you. you're not... you're not going to die. not like this. " not like this, he says, and he means: not in this agency. not a senseless, unmourned death. not as agent 707, name forgotten.

vanderwood draws a slow breath, holding seven to himself, as if this alone is enough to shield him, to protect him from the horrors of the life they have been handed. " i've got you, alright? " he says, voice low, a promise hidden in those words. " this-- life. it eats people alive, but... not you. " never him.

vanderwood's heart breaks as seven cries, as seven feels, and god, his partner feels so much, feels everything, and vanderwood wishes he could take even part of the burned from him. the agency would be furious, would be disgusted with this display of-- of-- ( weakness ) ( no ) of grief.

when vanderwood first shed blood, he had still been under the tutelage of his mentor: an older agent who he had been assigned to who went by the code-name of blackburn. his mentor had been beside him, a silent observer, waiting for him to pull the trigger, to put an end to the life of the target.

( always call them the target, blackburn had said. do not give them a name. do not think of their face other than to recognize them. that is not a person, they are a target, no different from a shooting range. )

truthfully, it hadn’t taken much: a twitch of vanderwood’s finger on the trigger, the sound of the gunshot muffled by a silencer, and then… it was a halo of blood and gore, vanderwood’s head spinning, bile rising in his throat, an unexpected wave of emotions washing over him that left him reeling.

he remembered: move it, boy, we have to go. he remembered: nails digging into his arm as he was dragged along, stumbling over his own feet, only a boy of fifteen, a child made a killer.

the mission was completed, and that was what had mattered. blackburn was like that: cold, calculating. no margin for error. no room for weakness.

( vanderwood remembered the nightmares that night, every night for months, waking in silent tears as he trembled, tasting the ghost of blood and gunpowder on his tongue. )

it had only been natural to him, then, when he had found seven after his first kill ( self-defence, not some- thing premeditated ), found him shaking and covered in blood, to kneel down, to gently take the knife from seven’s hands and offer comfort, to hold him until the worst had passed.

you’re alright, vanderwood had said, don’t worry. go to the van. i’ll handle the rest. it had been second nature to help seven to his feet, to guide him outside, and to later sit with him.

it had felt right to tell seven: i know. it’s hard. i promise, you’re alright. i promise, it gets easier. it had felt natural to share one of his closely-guarded secrets, to tell a little of his own experience.

it wasn’t as if he had done it for some ulterior motive: in the moment, he had simply wanted to be kind. ( he had wanted to prove to himself that blackburn hadn’t beaten it out of him. )

when seven brings up these memories, these years gone by, vanderwood is a little surprised. “ what prompted this—? ” he begins, but the words stick in his throat as seven continues to speak.

you should’ve had someone that’d be gentle with you , too.

it isn’t tears that prickle at his eyes, vanderwood tells himself, and he blinks hard. why did that simple sentence, that quiet sentiment, make an unnamed feeling swell in his chest, so large that it may swallow him whole?

vanderwood swallows, throat tight, and he offers seven a shaky smile. ( shit, it is tears that prickle at his eyes, that makes breathing hard. ) “ i… ” words fail, none of them seeming adequate to express this— this warmth in his chest, the flowers in his lungs, the way his heart feels as if it is being cradled by someone who cares.

“ …thank you, ” vanderwood finally says, but the words do not feel as if they even begin to express the depths of what it means to him. not only that: to be thanked for something, for something that had felt right to him…

TRAGEDY IS IN THE BLOOD.