Some actual fic!
Ahhh, it's been a long time, hasn't it? I wish I had more stuff to bring but RL's been really busy lately. So, all I have right now is these, uh... incredibly angsty ficlets.
I swear, one day I will write more fluff for these two. ONE DAY. God knows they deserve some actual happiness. Until then, have some more angst.
Title: Promise
Rating: PG-13 (cursing, character death, angst)
Fandom: Wolverine and the X-Men
Characters: Forge/Mortimer (mentioned Bobby, Hank, Kitty)
Word Count: 1161
Summary: They'd fought through hordes of undead to make it this far, but this might just be the one hurdle that Forge can't make it past. Zombie AU based on a play-through of Organ Trail.
Some nights, when it was still and quiet and they could all just relax for a bit, Forge pretended that things were okay again. It was always easy enough to do, at first. Just lean back against the cool metal of the van door and close his eyes, ignore the well-used shotgun lying across his lap, don’t look too closely at Mortimer’s hand clutched tightly in his own so he wouldn’t notice that it was black with infection. Don’t think about the fact that the only three people left in the world that he knew he could trust could all too soon become two. (Don’t think about how that number used to be four, should still have been four but this plague didn’t leave anyone untouched for long.)
He tried but it could never last; something always happened to shatter his fragile little fantasy into a thousand pieces. Some nights it was the sound of an approaching horde or the distant gunfire of other survivors. Tonight, though, it was only Mortimer’s voice whispering, “Do you really think they can fix this?”
The weak, defeated tone made Forge’s stomach twist and he reluctantly turned his head to meet half-lidded, bloodshot eyes. Where bright gold used to be there was now only a sickly red color, the same as the infected that hunted them. Forge could only look into them for a moment but dropping his gaze only gave him a good look at the blackened skin of Mort’s neck and the thin lines of infection beginning to spider-web up his jaw. That was only a small part of what the infection had taken over, under his jacket the whole of his right shoulder and arm had long since turned dark with it.
Swallowing hard, Forge tore his eyes away and forced a shaky smile onto his face. “I know they’ll be able to do something,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Hank or Bobby. He gave Mortimer’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re going to be okay.”
Even with such a shallow reassurance, Forge couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
Mort let out a rough hacking noise that Forge could only barely recognize as a disbelieving laugh. “Come on man, you don’t really believe that.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Forge said again, his voice firmer this time, trying to convince himself as much as he was Mortimer, “We’re going to get you to Haven, they’re going to be able to treat you, and you’re going to be just fine.”
There was another short, humorless laugh but Mort didn’t argue it any further. Slowly, he curled his knees up to his chest and propped his chin up on them. They sat in uncomfortable silence, looking everywhere but at each other, though neither of them loosened their grip on the other’s hand. In the quiet, Forge could all too easily hear how labored Mort’s breathing was. He almost sounded like he’d been running, even though the most activity he’d managed in days was getting out of the car. He vaguely remembered trouble breathing as one of the later symptoms of the infection. The implications made him sick to his stomach.
“We’re not going to be driving much longer,” Forge said finally, unable to listen to the harsh sound of Mortimer’s breathing anymore. “It should only take a few more days.”
Other than glancing at Forge out of the corner of his eye, Mort didn’t react at first. His gaze dropped down then and Forge only realized that he was staring at the shotgun seconds before he muttered, “I don’t think I’m going to make it a few more days.” Slowly, his eyes rose back up to meet Forge’s and the hopelessness in them sent chills up his spine.
“No,” Forge whispered before Mort could even ask, shoving the gun off his lap and hiding it from view. Mortimer tried to speak again but Forge cut him off, “Mort, I won’t do it. You can’t ask me to do it, not when there’s still a chance.”
Something in Mortimer’s expression broke then and he turned his face away. “You know there’s not still a chance.” His voice shook as he continued. “There never was a fucking chance.” His hand began to tremble and he weakly tried to pull it back but Forge didn’t let him. Forge tried to speak but the words died on his tongue and, not knowing what else he could do, he tugged on Mort’s hand to pull him into a gentle embrace. Mortimer flinched at the contact but didn’t fight it and, after a moment, he curled down to hide his face against Forge’s jacket, muffling his next words. “I just… I don’t want to end up hurting you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. A-and there’s only one way to make sure that I can’t.”
Another uncomfortable silence. Mort’s grip on his jacket tightened. “It doesn’t have to be you. W-we can ask one of the others to-“
“Mort, I can’t.” There was an unfamiliar, slightly hysterical edge to his voice that he didn’t even try to hide. When Mortimer started to protest, he hugged him even closer. “I can’t lose you. Not after…” his voice died before he could say her name but it didn’t matter. Mort knew exactly who he had meant.
“I miss Kitty too but I…” he trailed off at the look on Forge’s face, then slumped down into his arms. He laid there, still except for the slight tremors that ran through him. “I-if you won’t do it now,” he forced out, sounding as if every word was a chore. “Then you’ve got to promise me that wh- if I turn, you’ll stop me before I bite anyone.”
“I wo-“
Mortimer cut him off with a harsh tug on his jacket. “Promise me! Or I’ll… I’ll end it myself - right now!” His eyes were wide, pleading and Forge had to look away from them for a moment. When he took too long to answer, Mort pulled at the fabric again. “Promise me.”
“Alright…” His voice felt as if it were stuck in chest and he had to clear his throat before continuing. “Alright, I promise.” Mortimer’s grip loosened and he relaxed against Forge’s chest, finally satisfied. It was only a few minutes before his heavy breaths began to slow and he sank even deeper into Forge’s embrace, dropping off into a fitful sleep. Arguing must have taken what little energy he’d had left.
Careful not to wake him, Forge shifted him closer, clutching him to his chest. His hand began to shake as he gently drew it through Mortimer’s dreads. “It’s going to be okay,” he muttered almost inaudibly against matted hair. “I swear we’ll get through this.”
Falling silent again, he dropped his hand from Mortimer’s hair to the gun at his side and tried to ignore the hollow feeling of doubt eating at his guts.
Title: Coma, Warmth, Teeth
Rating: PG-13 (character death)
Characters: Forge/Mortimer
Summary: Three drabbles from the death fic drabble challenge. (Coma is a continuation of sorts to Dead Quiet.)
1. Coma
Mort didn’t even realize the shift at first, Forge’s hand had been cold and still in his own for so long that the slight limpness hardly registered. It was only when he realized that the background noise of breathing had stopped that he slowly, fearfully lifted his head. He let his hand slip away from Forge’s and hesitantly reached out to hover it over the man’s mouth, feeling for any sign of breath. Nothing.
He felt his throat close up so tight he could hardly inhale but that did nothing to quiet the sob that followed.
2. Warmth
God, he was so cold. Mort knew he shouldn’t be so cold in the middle of summer but it was only a distant thought, almost as distant as the realization that he’d been injured and that he was bleeding. At least, that’s what he thought had happened, his mind felt too fuzzy to properly recall and his vision darkened to rapidly to see for himself.
He tried to shift his legs a little and cried out weakly at a stabbing pain in his stomach. The knife, right. He could remember the knife now, could hardly think of anything else through the pain but the knife and the cold. Instinctively, he tried to curl in on himself but only brought another wave of pain that made him gasp.
As he fell limp again, he heard the sound of footsteps followed by a shocked yell. Then there were warm hands on his shoulders, pulling him close. Mort curled into the warmth, even though the movement made him hurt again, because at least that was more tolerable than the cold pressing in from all around him.
He felt an arm wrap around his back and a face pressing against his hair, muttering desperate pleas that he could only barely make out. The voice was familiar, reassuring, and he welcomed it, even with the increasingly frantic tones. He shut his eyes, his vision had long since gone dark anyway, and let himself relax against the comforting presence.
His pain slipped away and, in the next moment, so did he.
3. Teeth
If Mort had learned anything over the last few hellish years, it was to never let your guard down in battle. It only took a second of inattention for someone to get the drop on you and end it all right there. He knew that. But it didn’t stop him from pausing for just a moment too long after Caliban fell, letting his gaze follow the body down.
He didn’t notice the hulking mass behind him until huge hands came down to wrap painfully tight around each of his arms and hauled him off his feet. Mort yelped and kicked out but he was at all the wrong angles to actually connect a blow. Twisting to look behind him, he only caught a glimpse of gnarled yellow teeth in the seconds before they closed down onto his shoulder, sinking deep into his skin.
There was only a moment where he felt the agony, felt his bones cracking and muscles tearing and blood sliding down from the wounds. Then Grizzly jerked his head once like a dog shaking a toy and after that last blinding flash of pain he felt nothing more.
I swear, one day I will write more fluff for these two. ONE DAY. God knows they deserve some actual happiness. Until then, have some more angst.
Title: Promise
Rating: PG-13 (cursing, character death, angst)
Fandom: Wolverine and the X-Men
Characters: Forge/Mortimer (mentioned Bobby, Hank, Kitty)
Word Count: 1161
Summary: They'd fought through hordes of undead to make it this far, but this might just be the one hurdle that Forge can't make it past. Zombie AU based on a play-through of Organ Trail.
Some nights, when it was still and quiet and they could all just relax for a bit, Forge pretended that things were okay again. It was always easy enough to do, at first. Just lean back against the cool metal of the van door and close his eyes, ignore the well-used shotgun lying across his lap, don’t look too closely at Mortimer’s hand clutched tightly in his own so he wouldn’t notice that it was black with infection. Don’t think about the fact that the only three people left in the world that he knew he could trust could all too soon become two. (Don’t think about how that number used to be four, should still have been four but this plague didn’t leave anyone untouched for long.)
He tried but it could never last; something always happened to shatter his fragile little fantasy into a thousand pieces. Some nights it was the sound of an approaching horde or the distant gunfire of other survivors. Tonight, though, it was only Mortimer’s voice whispering, “Do you really think they can fix this?”
The weak, defeated tone made Forge’s stomach twist and he reluctantly turned his head to meet half-lidded, bloodshot eyes. Where bright gold used to be there was now only a sickly red color, the same as the infected that hunted them. Forge could only look into them for a moment but dropping his gaze only gave him a good look at the blackened skin of Mort’s neck and the thin lines of infection beginning to spider-web up his jaw. That was only a small part of what the infection had taken over, under his jacket the whole of his right shoulder and arm had long since turned dark with it.
Swallowing hard, Forge tore his eyes away and forced a shaky smile onto his face. “I know they’ll be able to do something,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Hank or Bobby. He gave Mortimer’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re going to be okay.”
Even with such a shallow reassurance, Forge couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
Mort let out a rough hacking noise that Forge could only barely recognize as a disbelieving laugh. “Come on man, you don’t really believe that.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Forge said again, his voice firmer this time, trying to convince himself as much as he was Mortimer, “We’re going to get you to Haven, they’re going to be able to treat you, and you’re going to be just fine.”
There was another short, humorless laugh but Mort didn’t argue it any further. Slowly, he curled his knees up to his chest and propped his chin up on them. They sat in uncomfortable silence, looking everywhere but at each other, though neither of them loosened their grip on the other’s hand. In the quiet, Forge could all too easily hear how labored Mort’s breathing was. He almost sounded like he’d been running, even though the most activity he’d managed in days was getting out of the car. He vaguely remembered trouble breathing as one of the later symptoms of the infection. The implications made him sick to his stomach.
“We’re not going to be driving much longer,” Forge said finally, unable to listen to the harsh sound of Mortimer’s breathing anymore. “It should only take a few more days.”
Other than glancing at Forge out of the corner of his eye, Mort didn’t react at first. His gaze dropped down then and Forge only realized that he was staring at the shotgun seconds before he muttered, “I don’t think I’m going to make it a few more days.” Slowly, his eyes rose back up to meet Forge’s and the hopelessness in them sent chills up his spine.
“No,” Forge whispered before Mort could even ask, shoving the gun off his lap and hiding it from view. Mortimer tried to speak again but Forge cut him off, “Mort, I won’t do it. You can’t ask me to do it, not when there’s still a chance.”
Something in Mortimer’s expression broke then and he turned his face away. “You know there’s not still a chance.” His voice shook as he continued. “There never was a fucking chance.” His hand began to tremble and he weakly tried to pull it back but Forge didn’t let him. Forge tried to speak but the words died on his tongue and, not knowing what else he could do, he tugged on Mort’s hand to pull him into a gentle embrace. Mortimer flinched at the contact but didn’t fight it and, after a moment, he curled down to hide his face against Forge’s jacket, muffling his next words. “I just… I don’t want to end up hurting you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. A-and there’s only one way to make sure that I can’t.”
Another uncomfortable silence. Mort’s grip on his jacket tightened. “It doesn’t have to be you. W-we can ask one of the others to-“
“Mort, I can’t.” There was an unfamiliar, slightly hysterical edge to his voice that he didn’t even try to hide. When Mortimer started to protest, he hugged him even closer. “I can’t lose you. Not after…” his voice died before he could say her name but it didn’t matter. Mort knew exactly who he had meant.
“I miss Kitty too but I…” he trailed off at the look on Forge’s face, then slumped down into his arms. He laid there, still except for the slight tremors that ran through him. “I-if you won’t do it now,” he forced out, sounding as if every word was a chore. “Then you’ve got to promise me that wh- if I turn, you’ll stop me before I bite anyone.”
“I wo-“
Mortimer cut him off with a harsh tug on his jacket. “Promise me! Or I’ll… I’ll end it myself - right now!” His eyes were wide, pleading and Forge had to look away from them for a moment. When he took too long to answer, Mort pulled at the fabric again. “Promise me.”
“Alright…” His voice felt as if it were stuck in chest and he had to clear his throat before continuing. “Alright, I promise.” Mortimer’s grip loosened and he relaxed against Forge’s chest, finally satisfied. It was only a few minutes before his heavy breaths began to slow and he sank even deeper into Forge’s embrace, dropping off into a fitful sleep. Arguing must have taken what little energy he’d had left.
Careful not to wake him, Forge shifted him closer, clutching him to his chest. His hand began to shake as he gently drew it through Mortimer’s dreads. “It’s going to be okay,” he muttered almost inaudibly against matted hair. “I swear we’ll get through this.”
Falling silent again, he dropped his hand from Mortimer’s hair to the gun at his side and tried to ignore the hollow feeling of doubt eating at his guts.
Title: Coma, Warmth, Teeth
Rating: PG-13 (character death)
Characters: Forge/Mortimer
Summary: Three drabbles from the death fic drabble challenge. (Coma is a continuation of sorts to Dead Quiet.)
1. Coma
Mort didn’t even realize the shift at first, Forge’s hand had been cold and still in his own for so long that the slight limpness hardly registered. It was only when he realized that the background noise of breathing had stopped that he slowly, fearfully lifted his head. He let his hand slip away from Forge’s and hesitantly reached out to hover it over the man’s mouth, feeling for any sign of breath. Nothing.
He felt his throat close up so tight he could hardly inhale but that did nothing to quiet the sob that followed.
2. Warmth
God, he was so cold. Mort knew he shouldn’t be so cold in the middle of summer but it was only a distant thought, almost as distant as the realization that he’d been injured and that he was bleeding. At least, that’s what he thought had happened, his mind felt too fuzzy to properly recall and his vision darkened to rapidly to see for himself.
He tried to shift his legs a little and cried out weakly at a stabbing pain in his stomach. The knife, right. He could remember the knife now, could hardly think of anything else through the pain but the knife and the cold. Instinctively, he tried to curl in on himself but only brought another wave of pain that made him gasp.
As he fell limp again, he heard the sound of footsteps followed by a shocked yell. Then there were warm hands on his shoulders, pulling him close. Mort curled into the warmth, even though the movement made him hurt again, because at least that was more tolerable than the cold pressing in from all around him.
He felt an arm wrap around his back and a face pressing against his hair, muttering desperate pleas that he could only barely make out. The voice was familiar, reassuring, and he welcomed it, even with the increasingly frantic tones. He shut his eyes, his vision had long since gone dark anyway, and let himself relax against the comforting presence.
His pain slipped away and, in the next moment, so did he.
3. Teeth
If Mort had learned anything over the last few hellish years, it was to never let your guard down in battle. It only took a second of inattention for someone to get the drop on you and end it all right there. He knew that. But it didn’t stop him from pausing for just a moment too long after Caliban fell, letting his gaze follow the body down.
He didn’t notice the hulking mass behind him until huge hands came down to wrap painfully tight around each of his arms and hauled him off his feet. Mort yelped and kicked out but he was at all the wrong angles to actually connect a blow. Twisting to look behind him, he only caught a glimpse of gnarled yellow teeth in the seconds before they closed down onto his shoulder, sinking deep into his skin.
There was only a moment where he felt the agony, felt his bones cracking and muscles tearing and blood sliding down from the wounds. Then Grizzly jerked his head once like a dog shaking a toy and after that last blinding flash of pain he felt nothing more.