By the end of the day, Jeremiah is tired. He’s been browsing the dark web for muscle for hire, people experienced with Paths, and he’s got someone coming tomorrow. There’s a chair on the way as well; he hopes it comes before his new hire does, because the camp chair currently behind his appropriately impressive desk just ruins the effect.

He orders himself a burrito and saunters out of his office to check on the Paths. The class-G still hasn’t moved, and it’s been long enough, by now, that Jeremiah’s a little concerned. There’s no way it’s faking, not after this long. It’s way too whiny for that, it’d have been asking for water or crying or something by now. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he tips its head to one side and pulls a half-shut eyelid open. Dull, unfocused green eyes don’t move, and its face remains slack through the handling. He slaps it to make sure, and when that gets no response he’s ready to admit that it might need some attention. It looks dry, and it feels a little hot through the gloves. Trying to make it drink while it’s like this doesn’t appeal to him, though, and he sits back on his heels, looking at the other one speculatively. The class-J straightened when it heard him coming, and now it’s listening hard, head tipped to one side. Its breath picks up a little every time Jeremiah makes a sound. He grins and shifts one knee suddenly, scraping cloth against the rough cement floor. The Path flinches, and Jeremiah snorts.

“Jumpy much?” he taunts.

Keep reading

“V…?” “I got you, cariño, don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

- for @whump-sprite​ who requested a fever anders with vic looking after him! i hope this meets all your feverish needs! 

Victor Paredes slides out of his nightmares of Anders dying. He finds himself, instead, in a real-life nightmare. Unable to breathe, choking on his own blood. He panics, yelps as he comes to, and as soon as he makes a noise, a fist assaults his nose. A fist covered in brass knuckles. “Nnghh…” Again, a punch. Again, Vic’s neck jerks back, his head hits the wall — god that hurt, he must have taken a hit to the head before, although he can’t remember.

“Wh —” Vic tries to form words.

“Hello, Mr. Paredes,” intones the cop sarcastically.

“What’d - y’gahh, want, what —“ His words come slowly through the avalanche of agony pounding through his skull. Vision flickering, the cop’s face develops an extra set of eyes and lips. “— nnhh, who’re you —“

The cop doesn’t answer, but cocks his fist again, hits Vic in the chin this time. Neck whipping to the side, Vic slumps forward. He doesn’t lift his head. He can’t. His skull is surely broken, his brain is surely bleeding, he must be dying, how could he hurt this much if he isn’t dying —

It’s a concussion and a broken nose. Anders would be able to deal. One clear thought, like a lance into his pain-addled mind, forces him to look up. What would Anders do?

“They—ghh, my people’ll, hhh, find you —“ “We’d like them to try,” murmurs the cop standing in the background, that Vic hadn’t noticed before. To be honest, Vic hadn’t noticed much except the fist in his face, but now he attempts, for a moment, to focus his eyes. Jail cell. No windows. That’s all he can ascertain before it hurts too much to think. “If by your people, Mr. Paredes, sir, you mean that group of dangerous militants calling themselves the Resistance?” 

Every word is a dagger in his skull. He can’t think of how they know that. He can’t think at all.

“D’no what you’re —“ He’s interrupted by a fist in the chest, and his breath vanishes in a scream under the sickening crunch of a rib. His vision swims and he clings desperately to consciousness, gasping through the unrelenting agony.

“I think you do know, Mr. Paredes.”

“Who —“

“I’m Roger. This is Neil. You are at a government prison. Your dear friends Alex and Taryn Morgen were here once. Don’t worry, I’ll have someone like them stabilize you once we’re done with the photos.” “Photos?” Crunch. Another rib. Another scream. How does anyone not scream? What is, what is happening, how did this happen, what do they want, where is Anders, Anders, please, help me — 

Anders won’t come for him anymore. “Take his shirt off, we need to show his chest,” orders Neil. Roger obliges, while Vic lets out a whine as Roger’s hands press against his broken ribs. Anders would be able to handle this. Anders would be able to handle this. What would Anders say? He’d curse them out, yeah, he’d curse them out -  “What’the f -” “Oh, shut up. He needs some electric burns, here, maybe, right?”  “Yeah. Do it.” A taser is pressed almost lovingly to his chest, onto the pulsating broken rib, and the button is fired. Vic shrieks, howls at the top of his lungs and arches his back against the stone wall. All thoughts of how Anders could have tolerated this are gone, obliterated by mind-numbing agony. Indeed, all thoughts are gone, as he slumps forward against the cold stone of the prison, unconscious, blood dripping down his neck.

Anders stabbed, part two

“Anders?”

Vic’s voice rings out over the intercom through the fog of the fever, and a swell of gratitude bursts in Anders’ chest. “V,” he croaks.

“You okay in there?“

“Nnnhh… fine,”  He’s slurring badly. His tongue won’t listen to him; nor will his lips. He knows he’s doing a terrible impression of fine.

“You don’t sound okay.”

“Just got… bit of a fever, mmm, think…”

“How’d you get a fever?”

“’Mmm, infected, ahh, stab wound…”

“How the fuck did you get a…”

“Shhhhhhit happens.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m going to go to where you are, I’ll be right outside the door when they get you out.”

“Mmm… kay, V.”

And again, he’s alone, slumped against the elevator wall, wishing for the smallest breeze to soothe the heat of his face.

He’s not going to be able to get up anytime soon, he knows. Not going to be able to get up, before they open the door. His side is on fire, and the flickering fluorescent lights of the elevator dance dizzily in his vision. His tongue is heavy and dry in his mouth; he’d fucking kill for a drink of water. He closes his eyes, puts a hand over them to ease his headache.

Hello? A woman, this time, over the intercom.

Yeah, s’me, still here, Anders grouses, although there’s an eerie familiarity to her voice that he hadn’t noticed before.

I’ve missed you, darling. Bit warm in there? Anders’ heart hammers, his voice catches in his throat. Her voice is crystalline, hazy, but this time, unmistakable. It’s a hallucination, from the fever, it must be, but what if it’s not, what if she’s here, what if the fixer lied…

No… no, fuck no… you’re… fuckin’ dead…

That’s a nasty thing to say about me, my love. I hope I don’t have to punish you.

Nhhh… no, please, m… She’s not real. He doesn’t have to say mistress over the intercom. Please, mistress.

It’s okay, darling, we’ll just go home, share a Scotch on the couch and watch a movie, how about that?

Please…

Anders’ ears ring as he hyperventilates in terror. He imagines, in excruciating detail, the lit blowtorch entering the wound in his side. His hand, almost unconsciously, goes to the seal in the door, as if to pry it open. 

But of course, he’s trapped.

He’s as trapped as he was in that box, waiting to be rescued, utterly helpless.

For a few minutes, he hears nothing, and then: You’re real pretty when you breathe like that, darling.

reunion, vic

Vic paces outside his door, up and down the driveway, peering down the street for the car.

Found him. Alive, talking. Bringing him home.

Talking is good. Talking is better than the alternative. It doesn’t mean okay, though. Of that, Vic is keenly aware.

It’s only been two weeks since he’s had Anders in his arms. It feels like an eternity. So when the car arrives, he barely notices Dev, knows he owes Lux a great debt, but his eyes are only for Anders.

He can’t help but let his eyes rove to the worst of the injuries.

The warlock’s leg is horrendously swollen, despite Lux’s efforts to heal it. There’s a fresh bruise on his jaw, which is set in the all too familiar posture that Vic recognizes as Anders in excruciating pain. Under his clothes, Vic doesn’t know how many more wounds await.

But he’s here.

“Cariño.”

“V,” Anders whispers, and Vic feels an enormous weight lift off his shoulders.

Every night that Anders has been in captivity, he had the same dream. Every night, he found Anders, and Anders didn’t recognizing him. Every night, he saw those gorgeous light green eyes gone dark and empty from too much pain.

Lux helps Vic get Anders inside and onto a bed, one of Anders’ arms over each of their shoulders. Then Lux, tactfully, vanishes.

Left alone with Anders, Vic suddenly doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “C-can I hug you? Will - will it hurt too much?”

“Mmm,” is all Anders can manage.

Vic’s arms wrap gingerly around Anders’ bruised body, and immediately, as if Vic’s touch released all the pain and terror of the last week, Anders melts, crumples into Vic’s chest and starts sobbing into Vic’s shoulder.

Vic doesn’t know what to do but hold him, stroke in between his shoulder blades where there are no bruises, and murmur, over and over, “I’ve got you, cariño.”

“Fuck, Vic, I thought this was it, I thought it was over, if I went back there, I, I, I wouldn’t have come out, Vic…”

“She’s gone, she’s gone, I’ve got you.”

“I, I, don’t want you to leave anymore. Please stay, I know I’m not, I’m not easy, to, to be with, but, please stay.”

“I’m here. I’m here. I love you.”

Vic holds him, one hand on his back and the other wound into his hair, until the crying and shuddering stops, until he’s still. Anders peeks up with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m just fucking tired. That’s why I’m so emotional. Sorry.”

That, or the torture, perhaps, but Vic doesn’t bother to argue. “Then sleep.”

“Mmm,” Anders says again.

Vic gently lowers him onto the bed, gingerly slides a pillow under the swollen knee and finds a couple of ice packs to surround it with. Then he lies down next to Anders, wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s body and pulls the blankets up over them.

It’s midday. Vic isn’t tired at all, he’s humming with adrenaline from pacing up and down the driveway, terrified, waiting for Lux and Anders to get back.

He’s content, though, to stay here, savoring the feeling of Anders’ body against his chest, safe and warm and here, as Anders drifts off to sleep.