agoodyarn | When We Were Monsters (Magnus 359)

When We Were Monsters (Magnus 359)

[ Death is a funny thing.

For normal people, it's an end. For people like them, like him and Jacobi and others... it's a choice. It's a moment when you decide whether you want to rest... or if there's something stronger in you. A need, a drive that's stronger than what your body can't handle. Something that defies the End, sends you towards a different path.

A path with teeth.

A path with claws.

A path that has him experiencing the most agonizing pain he's ever known, that has him burning and freezing and screaming wordlessly into the empty vacuum of space. Even the burn of the whiskey down his throat is lost in it, in all of it, flavor and meaning and words and thoughts and everything, everything lost to the drive, the need

the Hunt.

It's agony. Agony as he reaches and holds. Agony as he floats and burns and dies and does not die. And when the Goddard follow up crew finds him, moves to recover his body, he gives one of their officers the scare of their life when he sits up on the table.

Not for long, though, because their throat is in his teeth before he can even think.

Suffice to say, things on board do not go... peacefully.

But that's not really the important part. That's just the inbetween. That's just the how. It's not the why. It's not the what.

The what comes months later.

The what comes in a knock on Jacobi's door from a man in sunglasses and a Goddard Futuristics uniform that most people wouldn't realize has blood on it, but the man behind the door? There's no way he'd miss it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's looking to make sure that Jacobi knows what he just said without words. That he doesn't try to trick him with one of the traps.

Mostly because he's dismantled most of them, taken the bite and the sting out of the more obvious ones to ensure this would go smoothly. Because of course he's been in this apartment, multiple times in fact. He'd never go in on something like this without the proper groundwork.

Jacobi should know that.

But he'll find a spot to lean against, which is all he needed.

"One of those powers is called the Hunt. As you can imagine, getting... marked by them? Becoming something... a little. more. than human. in that respect? Worked very much to his advantage."

He dips his head towards Jacobi.

"When a Hunter faces death, if they're... deep enough in? If they've... given up enough of themselves for the Hunt? Sometimes... sometimes? There's more Hunt in them than something... that can die. And when that's the case?"

He gives Jacobi a terribly wolfish, terribly Warren smile.

"They have a choice. And my choice? Is always. 'not death'."

His heart skips once, though he's not sure if it's fear or something else. Either way, he has a hand in his pocket, not even trying to hide that he's holding something there. He was trained by this man, after all. But it's his own sort of warning. His own safeguard against what else this might be.

"So what are you doing here? Dressed in a bloody Goddard uniform?"

He looks down at his outfit as if he just realized that's what he's wearing, and he'll offer Jacobi a wicked little curl at the corner of his lips. There's a flicker of his eyes towards the pocket, a very deliberate one, before he stretches his shoulders with a sigh.

"I... took this off of the team that came to do clean up. They were good enough to retrieve my... 'body'? And very surprised when I sat up and ripped the throat out of the man doing my autopsy."

He reaches to the zipper and pulls it down, and as he opens the jumpsuit, there's more blood on his skin, the kind of blood you would get all over you from ripping someone's throat out. It's dry and crusted, obviously some time ago, but there's still the dark stain on him. He peels off the top, showing the deeply soaked brown mess of an undershirt he has beneath. He'll let it hang.

He's getting comfortable.

"You really don't know?" He pushes off the wall then and takes a couple of steps closer. "You really. have. no? idea?"

He doesn't step back from that. He's seen him with someone else's blood before. He's seen him coated in his own, as well. None of that fazes him.

What does?

That he's starting to believe him. That it's starting to sink in. That this man, this Warren is - or was - his. And all that anger. All that hurt. It all hits him at once.

"About what? This? What you just said? No. But - I don't think you're lying."

"Well," he says with a wry twist of his lip, "that's... A good. first. step, I think."

And he's going to take more than one step toward's Jacobi. In fact, he's going to get within three feet of him before he stops and looks at the pocket.

"You should get that over with. Sooner rather than later."

It's all more need to know bullshit. It's all above his head. Things he didn't want to know. Things he couldn't have known because he was too busy following orders.

The hand stays in his pocket for a defiant half second before he pulls it out, empty, and he spreads out his fingers as silent proof.

"You should change clothes, sir," he finally says, an actual admission that he believes him. "There's a suitcase in my closet. It has some of your stuff and - uh - hers." It had once been for practical reasons, but now, or so he thought, was entirely sentimental. He didn't have graves for them. No headstone. No ashes to spread. All he had was old clothes and a nice little box in his mind where he had put them both. A box that had just been violently ripped open.

His eyes focus on that hand, on those fingers, and he licks his lips for a moment before his gaze lifts to Jacobi's face.

"If you don't mind me using your shower," he says, grin crooked and terribly appealing. Then there's a flicker over him as his head tilted back and forth.

"Care to join me?"

Jacobi's brain stutter-starts and he opens his eyes wide. And then he lunges for him, weaponless, pushing back against his chest with just his hands. He ignores what he is. Ignores the eyes, the hands, the blood, everything. Because right now, he's just Warren.

"Fuck you!" he shouts. "Fuck you for that. For - everything. You left me. You don't get to do this now!"

Before, on the ground, he couldn't be, wouldn't be moved. But he's shoved back against the wall he'd been leaning against, lets it happen, revels in it because it's still closeness. It's response. It's attention and passion, even if it's anger.

It's still Jacobi.

It's still... why he'll always choose life.

He doesn't push back, doesn't try and put him in his place, doesn't play the predator or the monster. Instead, his arms wrap around Jacobi, pulling him in as he rests his forehead against the top of his head and kisses into his hair.

"There's no other time but now," he says, very very quietly. There's no hint of a tease or a game, no hint of anything but how fragile the words hang in the air. Those claws are against his side, rest lightly on fabric that he could rip apart as easily as skin. And yet, he knows Jacobi isn't afraid of him.

They both know he'd never harm a hair on his head. Jacobi just has to remember that in his front brain, as far as he's concerned.

"You have two options, Daniel. Only two. Two ways this ends. And you know that, but... I'll remind you:" and those claws drum lightly along his side as he pulls him a little closer, breathes him in rapturously.

"Love me... or kill me." The squeeze that comes after that shows a touch of something less tender. "Yourself. This doesn't end any. other. way. So figure it out."

A pause before some of the smile comes back to his voice.

"Quick as you like."

Take this bomb apart, Mister Jacobi. There's only one other option.

Edited 2022-08-29 14:02 (UTC)

He doesn't react other than to sink completely into his embrace. It's what he wanted anyway, what's he's always wanted. And he's still angry and hurt and sad and betrayed because it's all broken, but there's a lifeline.

He still...smells like him, which is something Jacobi's brain just can't wrap around yet. He looks so different and there's claws at his back and a monster kissing his hair, but it's still him. It's everything he's lost, everything he had raged and cried and killed over.

He pushes everything else aside, all the extraneous information, the box-worthy, the compartmentalized, and focuses on the essence. He's always been good at that.

His entire body tenses, like a cat about to pounce, and he pulls back to grab his hair and kiss him. To make his choice, easy as that. He's not going to let him die again. Loving him is the hard road, the tough road, but it's the only choice he has.

They've never kissed before. There's a part of Warren that laments the fact that they'll never know what it would be like to have kissed when Warren was even remotely human, but the majority of him is too focused on this, now, everything that's happening in this moment. In the way Jacobi tastes, the way his mouth feels, drinking in the need and the love and the tension of it. And even then, as always, the bulk of his focus isn't on receiving but on giving, pulling Daniel close and kissing him the way he wants to be kissed, needs to be kissed, putting every ounce of observation and desperation and the burning, snarling, roiling intensity in his chest into the kiss so Daniel knows without a doubt that that love, that need, that choice... is reciprocated.

It's a small thing, how there's fingertips instead of claws against his side now. It's a small thing how the gold fades to amber brown beneath the eyelids closed in kissing, how the teeth that Jacobi's tongue is sliding against seem to shrink. The tension of a cornered, feral animal flows out of him as they talk to each other in the only language that ever really made sense to them: touch, action, desperation.

When Jacobi needs a breath, he'll only part from him far enough to let them both suck in a breath and speak, his lips brushing against Daniel's in a panting murmur.

"You feel free to do that... whenever you like.

"There's nothing but you and me now. Nothing. else. matters."

He digs fingers deep into his bloody shirt, nails embedding in skin as he takes everything he's given and wants for nothing more. He could sob at how good it is, how freeing it is, but he doesn't. When Warren pulls away, Jacobi sags against him just slightly.

"You and me," he repeats. It's true. It is all they have. Each other.

"I'm not showering with you," he tells him. "Not when you're covered in blood."

And as much as it sounds good, to forget, to just touch and have, he knows he needs a few seconds alone to just think. To act instead of react.

"Is that a standing requirement? Or... just for the moment?"

There's less growl in his voice now, the tone more the lazy, slow, steady thing he's known for years. Smokey, but smoother. There's one more kiss into his hair before he disengages, respects that boundary, and slides his hands back to his sides. Jacobi is looking at something that's a lot more like the man he knew before, a lot less animalistic... but there's flecks of gold in the amber.

This isn't a mask; it's a facet. And this facet is what's useful now.

He'll wait for the answer before he slips away, heads for the closet and then for the bathroom with the suitcase in hand. It's a message, like everything is: could he walk out in a towel and play games that appeal to Jacobi's raw loneliness and desire? He could. But... he won't.

Jacobi's chosen. Now they just... have to defuse the bomb.

He'll take a moment to nod to Daniel as he closes the door to the bathroom, and then Jacobi has his moment alone. He's going to wash up, shave, all that.

Edited 2022-08-29 15:00 (UTC)

"Just this one time," he says and lets him be, turning his back to him in an absolute show of trust rather than dismissal, and collapses on the couch. There, he seems to just fold in on himself, scratching his scalp so hard that it hurts, but enjoying the feel of it anyway.

The sound of the shower seems startling in his normally silent apartment, and he finds himself listening to it through the thin walls, remembering all the times he did the same on missions. In flimsy hotels. Wanting for something that couldn't be.

And now that he has it, he has no idea what to do with it except pack everything away.

So, feeling a little more on his feet, he turns on his television to the murder documentary he had started and finally gets the food he had ordered. He doesn't have much appetite, but there's something soothing about noodles. Normalcy is what he needs.

Warren will return, still much more human than when he'd first come in. Of the clothes that had been in the suitcase, he'd chosen the most casual: a fresh t-shirt, worn in just right, with a blue flannel shirt and a pair of well-broken-in jeans. He'd skipped socks and shoes, leaving his feet bare as he walks over and settles beside Jacobi.

There's no room for Jesus there and he slings his arm behind Jacobi without hesitation. Fuck waiting. They can argue while his man is wrapped up in him just as well.

"Smells... delicious.". A pause. "Not to mention the noodles."

He elbows him in the ribs almost instinctively, mid-noodle slurp. The arm around him is new. The proximity is not. It had almost been a game for them for so long that Jacobi knows how to play, even with new rules. Pretend to not want it. Don't think too hard. Take it to bed or a shower later.

"There's enough for two if you want it," he responds as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been pinned to the floor earlier. "I was going to have leftovers."

He sniffs, leaning back with his feet on the coffee table. "What was that all about when you got here? A little dramatic, don't you think?"

Jacobi knows that when Warren's working and he sees nothing blocking him, he'll immediately go for what he wants, what he needs. He has no shame, no hesitation. The kind of considerations that most people make are so much air to Warren, even if he has his own; the myriad of motivations and plans and intentions are what make him cautious and subtle to move, nothing else.

Right now, he leans over and gets his nose in Daniel's hair again, nuzzling into the curls without an ounce of shame as he gives an 'eh whatever, maybe later' noise to the offer of noodles (Jacobi eats first, he'll eat what's left once he's properly sated) and he huffs in amusement at the question as he very reluctantly draws back to talk.

Ugh, being a person. He hadn't missed it in some ways.

"I've been stalking you for weeks. Or. hadn't you wondered why I knew your apartment. Dismantled your defenses. And. Obviously. Took up the job they were doing just in case."

He breathes out slowly, the deep sigh holding just a tiny little growl right at the bottom of the register but no more.

"If you'd closed the door, I'd have had to break it down. Breaking it down had a likelihood of needing repair to have a properly defensible door. Repair and reattachment takes time, effort, and supplies. Plus, there's the chance, however slight? Of attracting attention. Which I didn't want.

"So... we skipped that. And. I made sure no one else had... touched you. To. Settle."

He tilts his head just a little.

"...you've seen how I've... changed. When you first saw me was..." he presses his lips together as he clearly considers scaling accurately. "About the halfway point. Where now? I'm... as human as I'll ever be."

Edited 2022-08-29 16:56 (UTC)

"I assumed so," he tells him. "That you've been here before. You're the only person who could get past me without me noticing."

It's a point of contention for him and he still wants Warren to feel pride for him.

"And no one has - touched me. This is the most boring bachelor pad in the world."

He looks up to him. "So you're...settled now? You're not going to lose control?"

"Of course," and the words are offered easily; he knows how good Jacobi is. He knows how skilled, how observant. He is proud of him.

He died proud of him.

The question gets a low chuckle, though, and he'll give Daniel a squeeze before he leans back against the couch and puts his own feet up.

"I never lost control." A pause. He'll be more truthful than that. "Well. Since I've been on earth. That's... not a concern. But I was... on a Hunt until I finally got to you properly. And you're... mine. Which is also important."

"I'm not yours," he says automatically. "You don't get to claim me after everything that happened."

He sets down the food on the table and gets up to get a drink. Because boy does he need one.

He lets him go, and he watched him move to get the drink. He says nothing for a moment, clearly working through what he wants to say.

He pointedly stays seated.

"I say what's true. What you did. What I did. It doesn't change that. Nothing... Can change that. And you knew that. even while I was dead."

He tilts his head.

"I wasn't just checking because I'm possessive. Though. I am. But. I had to know that you still knew.

"And you do. So let's talk about the real issue."

He pointedly returns to the couch in exactly the same place, right up against him, cold bottle in his hand.

"The real issue. Yeah."

He takes a long drink. "Before you say anything...I know. I know what you did."

"I figured. Hera would know. And she wasn't cruel."

And Jacobi would need something, traveling alone with those people. Hera would know that best of all.

"Exactly. And after what happened to - Eiffel and Pryce, I think they forgot what I did."

He clicks fingers against his bottle. "So what do you want to say about it?"

Words are hard.

He's quiet, but not because he's gathering his words. They both know he has his arguments prepared. He's giving it the gravitas it deserves.

"Everything I was. And everything I am. Loves you. And Maxwell. And it never. even. occurred to me. That you wouldn't know that. That your points when we spoke after her death were... real. Because I thought you'd know. Believed. Iron-clad. That you knew. That my... ruthlessness. In the light of her death. Was because Hera was listening.

"That they didn't deserve to see my pain. And. That. Like hell. Was I. Going to give them an inch. After what they took."

He looks over at Daniel.

"I kept the information from you because Pryce was looking for any. excuse. to get into Maxwell's head. Need to know... was a protective action. For you. and her. And I didn't. And don't. See where that information would have saved her life."

He makes sure he has his eye as he finishes.

"The decision I made was... in my mind? Between saving us all, losing one, and losing all of us. Because Minkowski was the soft link. Between Lovelace, Hilbert, and herself. That she'd gotten a call to earth... We missed that. And it threw off my estimation. When I ran the numbers?"

He breathes out.

"I made the decision I believed Maxwell would want. And I accept responsibility for that."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject