BBB fic: I Dream a Nation of You (1/5)
I Dream a Nation of You
Band(s): Panic at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Empires
Pairing(s): Jon/Brendon, Jon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard, Ryan/Brendon, pre-Panic GSF (with mentions of Pete/Ashlee)
Word Count: 46,000
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Summary: It wasn't supposed to be like this; Jon and Helia were going to leave in the middle of night, silent and unnoticed. But now there were Government patrolmen on their heels, and it dawned on Jon that the time for simple getaways had passed.
(Or, a steampunk story about dragons and the boys who ride them.)
Notes: First and foremost, this story would never, ever have been finished without the unending support from siryn99 and themoononastick. They are both amazing and didn't think I was nuts to try to write a sci-fi/fantasy/steampunk story about band boys with dragons. Many, many thanks as well go out to gobsmackit and arsenicjade, who also beta'd and kept me going. This thing has been in the works in some form or another for six months, and I don't think I've ever loved a story of mine more.
(Title and lyrics taken from Franz Ferdinand)
art by hyunbin
music by themoononastick and wavesofwood
I dream a nation of you
A utopia for you to live in
I dream a nation of me
A new utopia we could live in
For such a vast room, Jon was surprised by how close the air felt. Everything smelled of hay and smoke, and the room was so very warm. He looked up at the ceiling, at the way it rose up into almost nothing, as if it were melting into the night sky; he felt terribly small, but he wasn't afraid.
"Jon, they're ready for you." His father's voice was soft and eager. Jon felt his heart begin to pound in excitement, knowing that this was the moment his father had been telling him about for the past two years, since Jon could remember. He took Jon's hand and led him through the doorway into the bonding chamber, and Jon saw the mother for the first time; tall and elegant, her long, amber body shimmering in the low light of the oil lamps mounted on the walls. Her eyes glinted green the moment Jon met her gaze, and in his mind Jon heard a kind, feminine voice say, Hello, Jonathan Walker.
Jon's eyes widened as he gasped, stumbling backwards into his father's legs. "H-hi," he replied, and reached back to grab his father's hand.
"It's all right, son," his father said, laughing gently. "She's pleased with you, as she should be."
"She...likes me?" Jon asked. He dared to let himself look back up into the mother's eyes, and this time he could tell she was smiling.
"Yes, very much." His father untangled their hands and nudged Jon closer, whispering, "You have nothing to be afraid of, Jon."
He took a cautious step forward, then another, suddenly overwhelmed by warmth and a strange coppery smell in his nose as he drew closer to her, watching the way the light reflected off the scales along her tail. For a moment, Jon looked back over his shoulder at the other people in the room-the breeders and their son, another little boy perhaps a year or two younger than Jon. He was hiding behind his mother's legs and watching Jon with wide blue eyes.
You're a brave boy, the gentle voice said inside Jon's head, making him snap back to attention.
"I..." Jon's throat went dry as he looked up at the mother. He didn't know what to say or do, and how could she possibly know if he was brave or not? He'd never really done anything brave before in his life; granted, he was only six years old, but even so-
Look, the voice said, and her tail twitched and swung to the side, away from her body. Snuggled tightly against her stomach was a tiny golden-colored baby, no bigger than Jon himself.
It was the most beautiful baby dragon Jon had ever seen.
The mother leaned down to nuzzle the baby with her snout, and the bundle of golden scales and thin wings wriggled and made a small whimpering sound. Without being told, Jon came closer and kneeled in the hay beside it, but did not touch.
Soon the baby lifted its head toward Jon and opened its eyes slowly. They were blue eyes, so light they were nearly gray, and Jon heard one of the breeders gasp, "Oh my."
This is Helia, the mother said, nuzzling the baby once more. She is yours.
Jon held his breath as he reach his hand out slowly and let his fingertips brush over the soft, smooth scales along the top of the tiny dragon's head.
Helia, he thought; somehow, he knew he didn't need to say the words out loud. He traced the edge of her nose reverently, never breaking his gaze. I'm Jon.
The dragon leaned into his touch. Jon, she repeatedly softly, and his heart swelled.
In that instant, Jon knew he'd never let himself be parted from her as long as he lived.
The snow had come early, and Jon didn't like it at all.
"It shouldn't be this cold this soon," he mumbled as he held his hands out over the cast-iron furnace. Normally he didn't take to wearing his fingerless leather gloves until well into December, but it was only mid-October. His fingers shouldn't have been going numb by nightfall.
I think the snow is lovely, Helia said, flicking her tail lazily against Jon's ankle. She was curled up on her bed of wool blankets, the length of her body taking up most of the far wall of the cabin near the kitchen. Sometimes Jon was thankful she hadn't grown to be as large as her mother, that she could easily fold herself into relatively small spaces.
You would, Jon replied with a smirk, and kicked at her playfully. When was the last time you even ventured out into the stuff, anyway?
Helia lifted her head and said prissily, I have delicate sensibilities, and unlike some, I can't wear gloves.
Jon snorted a laugh and shook his head. Helia raised an eyebrow, but eventually grinned as well. She was insufferable sometimes.
"So I guess I'm taking the trip into town alone again," Jon said out loud, feigning disappointment. It wasn't as if they had a choice, anyway; Helia spent most of her days in hiding, venturing out once every few weeks in the dead of night to stretch her wings. Jon hadn't ridden her in months, and the dull ache in his chest told him how much he missed it. He glanced at the trunk sitting at the foot of his bed, locked tight with a steel padlock-the leather harness and saddle, his gloves and gun, all of it tucked away under lock and key.
Helia yawned, her tail curling around Jon's ankle like a cat showing affection before sliding back around her body. You'll survive, I'm sure, she said. If you stop in to see Brendon, tell him I miss his muffins.
"I'm not telling him that, he'll bake you fifty million of them by tomorrow evening, and then the whole place will smell like fucking pumpkin." Helia had an affinity for everything pumpkin, and Brendon loved to spoil her. But Jon knew better than most that a spoiled dragon could be a pain in the ass.
Spoil-sport.
Yeah, I'm a real hard ass. Jon shrugged on his battered leather duster and leaned down to smack an obnoxious kiss to the top of her head. Be safe.
Always, she replied, curling into a tighter ball against the blankets as the cold wind tore through the door of house.
"Fucking snow," Jon sighed, and started trudging down the snow-covered road into town.
The town of Audrey had never been hit hard by the raids. Jon doubted many of the people living there had ever seen a dragon at all, let alone harbored Riders. Many of the stores were still in their original condition from before The Revolution, and the streets weren't blackened from fire, like many towns Jon had seen over the years. Audrey was quiet, simple, mild-mannered; and as such, the townspeople tended to look at Jon with unease.
Jon didn't care. He'd lived on the outskirts of Audrey for the past year and a half, since the safehouse in Grennling had been burned to the ground. The cabin, bought from an old, dying farmer with the little money Jon had, was enough to protect both himself and Helia, and since Audrey was mostly off the map as far as the Government was concerned, no one caused them any trouble. Here Jon could be invisible and keep Helia safe; that was all he wanted.
He pulled the tall collar of his duster closer to his neck and pushed through the front door of the little store on the corner of the square, its brass and wood sign announcing 'Finche's Market' creaking in the wind. He stomped the snow off his boots as the shopkeeper, Mr. Finche, looked up from the front counter, squinting over the tops of his bifocals.
"Walker," he said in a careful greeting, and nodded his head slowly at Jon. Jon nodded back as he made his way through the store, instantly aware of the tentative unease coming off Finche as Jon began gathering his rations for the week: a bag of oatmeal, a bottle of milk, some jerky, flour, cheese, vegetables. He was fortunate that Helia had never really developed a taste for meat-she was more than content to eat Jon's stew and cornbread.
"Snow's getting worse," Finche said when Jon finally set his things on the counter. "And it's getting dark so early. You'd think it was nearing Christmas." Behind him on the wall, a cast-iron clock chimed seven-o-clock.
"Yeah, guess so," Jon replied, keeping his head down. He never made small talk in town; apprehensive or not, the people tended to be on the nosy side. He rubbed his cold fingers together for warmth as Finche figured up his bill with clinking strokes on the ancient register, and that was when Jon spotted the pistol laying on a stool behind the counter.
Jon had never seen a gun in Audrey. He'd been told more than once that weapons weren't tolerated, and that they'd all but been banned years ago. Only the handful of law keepers kept them, and Jon seriously doubted even they carried guns on a consistent basis.
It was a goddamn miracle the raids had never come here.
Jon cleared his throat and said quietly, "Make a new purchase lately?" He jerked his chin toward the stool when Finche raised an eyebrow.
"Oh." Finche shrugged. "I'd rather not have the thing in the store, but with all the rumors circling, I took my wife's advice."
Jon frowned, and against his better judgment, asked, "Rumors?"
"Goodness, Walker, have you not read the papers lately?" Finche reached under the counter and tossed the day's paper on the counter. On the front page was a simple headline in large, bold letters: Resistance Raids Begin.
Jon's stomach bottomed out. He took a step back from the counter and swallowed, hard. The air in the shop felt too close, like his chest was being squeezed. "The raids have started again?" he whispered, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
"There's some resistance movement forming, from what I hear. The Government is taking 'preemptive measures'-" Finche made lazy air quotes. "-to make sure it's nothing serious, I suppose. Rumor has it there was a raid in Brenton last week, but no one can confirm it."
Brenton was two hours north. A kind rancher had hidden Jon and Helia in his stable there before they'd made it to Audrey; Jon was nearly sick thinking about what might have happened to him. "You...you really think they'd come to Audrey?" he asked as evenly as possible as he paid for his goods.
Finche shook his head, seemingly unfazed by the conversation, but Jon immediately felt Finche's unease turn to strong anxiety. Jon considered it fear. "They left us alone during the whole Rider witch-hunting, so I can't imagine why they'd think we'd be keeping rebels." He put all of Jon's supplies into a canvas knapsack. "I don't think there's anything to be concerned about, to be honest, but my wife isn't happy unless she worries." He laughed dryly.
Jon couldn't think of a reply. He could only about how much time it would take for him and Helia to pack up whatever they needed and get the hell out of Audrey.
The lights of Brendon's tiny cottage were out, but Jon knew that didn't mean much; Brendon liked to curl up in bed and read by lamplight. Jon knocked twice against the cold wood, right below the gold-plated sign that read Dr. Urie, Veterinarian.
It was several moments before Brendon answered, dressed in his pajamas and robe. He blinked sleepily at Jon for a second before breaking into a wide smile. "Oh hey!" he said, then promptly yawned. "Sorry, I was up late last night with a sick horse. Thought I'd turn in early."
There were very few things Jon liked about Audrey, but Brendon was definitely one of them. For the first time in ages, Jon felt almost reluctant to leave a place. He'd kind of forgotten what it was like to have a friend who couldn't read his thoughts.
"God, come in, Walker, it's freezing!" Brendon held the door open wider for Jon, holding his robe tightly to his chest.
Jon took a deep breath and said, "We're going to leave."
The smile slid off Brendon's face. Jon winced at the fierce stab of shock and hurt that hit him square in the gut-Brendon's emotions were never far from the surface. "What? You mean, as in leave Audrey? You and Helia?"
"We can't stay here anymore." Jon dropped his voice, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I saw the paper, Bren. I know about the new wave of raids."
"But you don't know for certain they'd come here, that's the whole reason you stayed." Brendon grabbed Jon's wrist and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him. "You said so yourself, Audrey's safe."
"Nowhere's safe, not really." Jon wondered if he still had his maps of the low country and the surrounding plains; he and Helia could fly through the night and hide in the forests until-
"I bought a gun. You can have it."
Jon jerked out of his thoughts and glared at Brendon. "You don't have any fucking business owning a gun, you hate guns." Something tight and painful pulled at his chest, warring with the determination and fear that radiated off Brendon. It wasn't his fault Brendon had grown up sheltered and oblivious to what the Government could really do to its people, but sometimes Jon felt guilty that Brendon was beginning to learn the truth.
Brendon tipped his chin up defiantly. "Unlike everyone else in this town, I like to be prepared." He'd yet to drop his hand from around Jon's wrist. "Just. You don't even know where you're going, do you?" He glanced down at his hand, letting Jon go with a sigh.
"We'll figure something out."
"You've asked Helia about it?"
Jon flushed. "Not yet, but I know she'll-"
"Bullshit, she knows you're as safe here as anywhere."
Jon wanted to make a snippy comment about how Brendon could never really know what's in Helia's mind, but he held back. Instead, he sighed and said, "I was on my way back from the market." He dropped the knapsack on the floor, where the snow from his boots was melting onto Brendon's rug. "I figured since you were on my way, I'd break the news to you."
"Before breaking the news to your dragon," Brendon shot back, but he immediately shook his head and put his arms around Jon, hugging him tight. Jon had let Brendon hug him only one other time, and that had been the night they'd first met, when Jon thought Helia was going to die.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, but please don't go, Jon, please," he whispered into Jon's shoulder. "At least stay another day until we can figure something out."
Jon knew he should say no. The sooner they slipped out of town before trouble came, the better. He could hear Frank's voice in his head, saying over and over, You gotta survive, kid. That's all that matters. For the millionth time, Jon wished he knew if Frank were still alive himself.
But Brendon's hold was firm, warm, and above all, comforting. No matter how much Jon told himself that he only needed to know Helia was safe and alive to be happy, it was the comfort he missed the most. And Brendon knew how to give it in spades.
"I'll stay a few more days," Jon replied softly, letting his hand rest gently against Brendon's lower back. "But that's all."
Brendon pulled back and beamed at him. "We'll figure something out, all right? Now." He held up one finger and ran down the hall to the kitchen. "I'm going to make you some tea and Helia some pumpkin bread, what do you say? I'll be over in a few hours."
Jon couldn't bring himself to protest. "She'll love you forever and ever," he replied as he hefted the knapsack onto his shoulder to brave the cold once more.
A few days turned in to a week, which then turned into two.
They haven't come yet, Helia said one evening as Jon set a bowl of stew out for her with a slice of Brendon's pumpkin bread. Maybe Brendon's right, maybe we should just stay-
"We can't, you know that," Jon replied wearily, even though he knew he'd been reluctant to actually pack their things and make it seem real. They'd both been holding their breath, waiting for something to happen to spur them into action. That, and Brendon had barely left them alone for more than a day since Jon announced they were leaving.
It helps knowing someone, Jon, having a friend. It's not like the old days with Frank and Gerard-
You don't think I know that? Jon glared at her, making Helia fold her wings tight against her body.
I'm only saying that Brendon cares about us, and maybe that's more important in the end.
"Nothing matters in the end but staying alive." Jon sighed, rubbing both hands over his face. He was so tired of running, always running, and they were putting Brendon in danger by staying. Brendon tried to act like he didn't understand the threat, but he did; Jon may not have been the strongest telepath, but he felt the surge in Brendon's pulse when he lied, felt the anxious dread whenever a car engine roared in the distance. He'd never seen a Government motorcade, but Jon had told him enough about them.
Brendon was terrified, and it was their fault.
In that moment, Jon made up his mind to leave at dawn. Helia lifted her head from her bowl, her eyes flashing blue, but said nothing in return.
Then, suddenly, there was hard, desperate pounding on the cabin's door.
Jon's heart nearly flew out his mouth. He only allowed himself moments of scared vulnerability in front of Helia, and he looked at her with wide, frightened eyes-We're too late, fuck.
Helia tilted her head toward the door, but then slowly shook her head. No, Jon, it's not that. Whoever's out there doesn't mean us harm.
But Jon's hands were already shaking as he fumbled with the lock on the chest at the foot of his bed, throwing the lid open and grabbing his rifle, loaded with the few bullets he still possessed. The pounding grew more insistent, and Jon could barely breathe.
They're not going to take you, he thought fiercely as he stood in front of the door, rifle aimed and ready.
Helia hunched down, ears flat against her head, wings folded tight, her body curved around the table. The tip of her tail pressed against Jon's back. They won't, Jon.
He closed his eyes, counted to three, and flung the door open.
Standing in the doorway were two men, damp with snow and sweat. The thinner of the two was holding the other, taller man upright; it seemed to be taking all his strength to stay standing, and it dawned on Jon that he'd been shot.
He didn't lower his rifle. "Get the hell out of here," Jon growled, carefully positioning his body in the doorway to block any sight of Helia.
The thinner man shook his head, his eyes wide, pleading. "Please," he whispered. "My friend's been shot, and the men who did it aren't far behind us."
Jon lost his breath all over again. "You're Resistance?" he said over the barrel of his gun.
The man nodded shakily, staggering a little under the weight of his unconscious companion. "We-we are. I wouldn't ask this of anyone, but I don't know what else to do, they'll kill us-"
Instantly, Jon felt Helia's thoughts wrap around his own. Let them in, Jon, please. Trust me.
With a heavy sigh, Jon lowered his rifle. "All right," he said. "But-you must know that-that I'm-"
But he was already pushing past Jon into the cabin, only he came up short the second he laid eyes on Helia. "You're a Rider," he breathed, sounding both awed and terrified as Helia rose to her full height and shook her wings a little.
Jon slammed the door. "I am, and if you think you're gonna cause trouble, I swear to fucking-"
"No, no, I wouldn't dream of it, I grew up with Revolutionaries." The man swallowed and slowly tore his eyes away from Helia. He shifted his companion's weight against his shoulder, wincing.
Helia flicked her tail across the table, pushing the soup bowls aside. Put him on the table.
"We should get him on the table," Jon said, and it was strange, the way the man blinked at Helia for a moment before doing as instructed with Jon's help. They got his coat and scarf off, and Jon grabbed a pillow off his bed to prop the wounded man's neck up.
"I'm Ryan, by the way," he said, nodding his head at Jon. Then he bit his lip and pushed the damp hair off his friend's forehead. "This is Spencer." Jon felt fear and remorse rolling off of Ryan, along with deep affection. The two had to be very close.
"You'll forgive me for not shaking hands," Jon replied tightly as he shrugged into his leather duster. Spencer's right shoulder was soaked dark red. "But it looks like Spencer needs more than what my abilities will allow. I'm going to get a doctor."
He took his rifle with him, sprinting down the road to Brendon's.
"I can't do this, Jon." Brendon wrung his hands as he stood over Spencer's body. "This isn't a horse or a sick greyhound, this is a human being with a goddamn bullet in his shoulder." But his medic bag was beside him on the floor, and Jon knew Brendon wouldn't have brought it if he'd thought there was no possible way for him to help.
"All you need is to get the bullet out, right?" Ryan was pacing so frantically alongside the table, Jon expected him to start wearing a groove into the floorboards. He tried to ignore the fact that Ryan's hands were stained with Spencer's blood, that the white collar of his shirt was streaked red as well.
"I...yes." Brendon finally took a deep breath and opened his medic bag. "But you're going to have to hold him. I don't have any tranquilizers-at least, none for humans."
Ryan frowned. "But he's out cold."
"Doesn't matter. He'll feel it." Brendon glanced over his shoulder at Jon, who was curled up against Helia's side on her pile of wool blankets, knees drawn to his chest as he silently watched the proceedings. "You need to help, too."
Jon took a deep breath and rubbed a hand against his temple. He wasn't used to being in close quarters with so much intense emotion; the constant hum of worry and guilt from Ryan mingled with the anxiety and doubt vibrating off Brendon was enough to make Jon's head pound. "Can't you just strap him down?" he mumbled, avoiding Ryan's eyes.
"With what?" Brendon flailed his hand around. "This isn't exactly an operating room, Jon." His voice was sharper than normal, higher, and Jon grimaced as he felt Brendon's fear rush through him like a spark of heat.
There was a soft nudge at his shoulder. Go help him, Helia said, firm but gentle. Be human for once.
Jon sighed heavily, but didn't argue. The sooner Spencer was treated, the quicker these two were out of his house and on their way; for all he knew, Government patrolmen were searching all of Audrey this very moment.
Spencer's shirt had been removed, the blood cleaned from around the wound. His skin was sickly pale, his lips nearly gray; Jon closed his eyes and looked away into the fire, swallowing against the cold clench of his stomach. He knew what a dying man looked like, and he'd told himself he'd never see it again, not if he had a choice.
"All right," Brendon said slowly, holding up a small silver clamp. It looked like the device Jon had seen him use to pull teeth from dogs' mouths. "Just...just hold his shoulders steady. It'll probably be a few seconds before the pain registers to his brain. Here." He tossed Jon a damp cloth. "Keep the blood from going everywhere."
"This'll work, right?" Ryan asked, his hands gripping Spencer's shoulders tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Jon felt the pounding in his head turn into a painful throb. "The bullet's not that deep, he was only shot a few hours ago, it shouldn't be-"
"I'll do what I can." Brendon cut him off with a terse glare, and Jon knew that meant he was nervous as hell.
Jon held the cloth against the skin below the bullet hole, trying to focus over the pain in his head and the increasingly overwhelming flood of emotions in the room. "Tell us what to do," he said simply, quietly, his free hand curled around Spencer's bicep.
Brendon sucked in a loud breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked a little more steady. "Hold him," he said once more, finally leaning over Spencer's shoulder to dig into the wound with the clamp.
For the first few seconds, Spencer didn't move at all. But then his breath caught and he began to gasp, his face contorting in pain. He moaned, and the sound grew louder each time Brendon shifted the angle of the clamp.
The throbbing in Jon's head became almost unbearable.
"Brendon?" Ryan's voice was sharp, too high.
"It's hit a vein, I can't-" He squinted down at the wound over the tops of his glasses, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Blood was flowing steadily over his fingers. "Jon, can you-?"
Jon fumbled with the cloth. "Yeah, sorry," he mumbled, mopping at the blood and wishing he'd learned how to focus better, to block out the waves of feelings when he needed to most.
He wished it even more when Brendon dug his clamp in deeper and Spencer screamed, jerking hard against Jon and Ryan's hands. A white-hot surge of pain shot through Jon's body; he grit his teeth and tried not to pass out as Brendon yelled, "Hold him, goddamn it, I think I've almost got it!"
Between the three of them and Helia wrapping her tail around Spencer's ankles, they managed to keep Spencer steady long enough for Brendon to remove the bullet. He held it up triumphantly, staggering back from the table as blood dripped down his arm. Spencer gasped just before his body sagged against the table.
Ryan went very still. "Is he...?"
"He'll be fine, he's just unconscious," Brendon replied breathlessly. He rinsed the bullet off in the basin of water beside the table, then handed it to Jon. "Look familiar at all?" he asked quietly.
Jon's hands were shaking; he felt drained, worn to the bone. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into his bed and sleep forever. But he still held the bullet in his palm and watched the lamplight glint off the Government-issued serial numbers etched into the side.
"He's lucky to be alive," Jon breathed before dropping the bullet onto the table beside Spencer's shoulder.
Ryan sighed, heavy enough that the tension physically left his shoulders. All the worry and fear bled out of him, and Jon felt the weight lift off himself as well.
"Thank you both," Ryan whispered, suddenly looking just as exhausted as Jon felt.
"He should take it easy for the next day or two," Brendon said as he cleaned the wound and wrapped it with clean bandages. "I don't know what your plans were, but you both should stay put for now."
Jon was too tired to argue, but Helia said, I think they'll be fine. The outside is quiet, and we can't turn them away like this, you know that.
As long as they let me sleep, Jon replied before saying out loud, "Fine, you can stay." He handed a couple of Helia's wool blankets to Ryan, adding, "But as soon as he's well enough to walk, I want you both gone."
Ryan nodded, his gaze flicking between Jon and Helia. "Yeah, of course, I understand." He took one of the blankets and threw it over Spencer, tucking the ends in gently around his body. Without another word, he wrapped the other blanket around himself and curled up on the floor by the fire, as if he were completely accustomed to sleeping wherever there was a spot for him.
Jon let himself glance back at the table. Spencer was still very pale, but his lips weren't quite as gray, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His scruffy beard was damp with sweat; he appeared older than Ryan, but there was a roundness in his cheeks that suggested he was younger than he looked. For the first time, Jon wondered how the two of them managed to end up in Audrey.
"Jon." Brendon's whisper pulled Jon out of his thoughts. "I think I'm done here."
He rubbed both hands over his face and sighed. "You did an amazing job," Jon replied softly. He laid a hand on Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon smiled crookedly.
"I can officially say I saved a human life. My repertoire is expanding." Brendon laughed to himself, ducking his head a little as he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
For Jon, close contact with others was something he'd learned to avoid, but with Brendon it came naturally, like it was something they were meant to do. It didn't hurt that Brendon's relief was washing over Jon in warm, comforting waves, helping to ease the gradually fading pain in his head. Jon wrapped his arms around Brendon, holding him close as he whispered against Brendon's temple, "Thank you."
He felt something else well up inside Brendon, something softer than relief. It swirled around inside Jon's chest, making him feel almost...safe. "You're welcome," Brendon mumbled into Jon's shoulder, his hands clutching at Jon's back.
Helia made a snuffling sound behind them, and when Jon finally let go of Brendon, he saw that she'd draped another blanket over Ryan. He raised an eyebrow at her.
He was shivering, Helia replied simply, tucking her face back into her wing.
Brendon smiled. "I guess I'll head back. You've got enough going on in here for now, I think."
Jon nodded, but as Brendon opened the front door, he said, "Brendon, about that gun you mentioned."
Brendon's eyes widened slightly. "Yeah?"
"Don't be afraid to use it." He knew he didn't need to elaborate anymore than that.
"All right." The smile faded, and Brendon's eyes were serious once more. "I'll be back in the morning to check on your patient. Get some sleep."
Jon rarely dreamed; years back, Frank had trained him to keep his mind clear during sleep, so that he could wake at a moment's notice clear-headed and focused. It had also helped to keep the nightmares at bay, the constant replay of his parents' deaths and all the terrible things that had followed. At fourteen, it had been hard to sleep for more than three hours at a time without waking up in a cold sweat, curled tightly against Helia's chest.
Jon didn't dream anymore, but that night, after Brendon left and the cabin became filled with the soft sounds of Ryan and Spencer sleeping nearby, Jon had a nightmare.
He was sixteen again, back in the safehouse with Frank and Gerard, watching Frank play a game with his dragon, Xira, while Gerard sat cross-legged against the far wall with a sketchbook in his lap. Gerard was always sketching Frank and Xira, and Frank would complain that Xira made him look too tiny.
"You are tiny, fool," Gerard would answer blithely without looking up, and sometimes he'd make Xira laugh (Xira was huge for a dragon, standing almost fifteen feet tall from nose to ground. Her black wings were massive and stark against her bright red body). Frank would throw back an insult about Gerard's mother, and Gerard would sigh and hold up his middle finger. Eventually Frank would tackle him to the ground in a giant hug, and when they'd start to kiss, Jon would flush and look away, ignoring the strange little tug of envy in his heart.
Only now they were in the safehouse, and everyone was smiling, happy, content-until a giant explosion blew out the windows and everything became engulfed in flames. Frank yelled at Jon to get Helia and run-Jon felt his fear and panic like a punch to the gut, making his breath catch in his throat. But the fear wasn't just from Frank, it was everywhere, a swirl of chaotic emotions pulling at Jon like a thousand frantic hands. The smoke was too thick, Jon could barely make out the golden blur of his dragon. He called for Frank, and Gerard, too, but his voice stuck in his throat, choking him, and he couldn't hear anything but the screaming in his head, the pounding, horrible rush of terror flooding through every inch of his body.
Jon knew, without a doubt, that he was going to die. He screamed again, blindly pawing the air, desperate to wrap his hands around Helia, but there was nothing, only smoke and fire and pain-
Jon.
He gasped and sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, looking frantically around him. There was no fire, only the small one slowly burning itself out in the hearth. He was back in the cabin in Audrey, and his dragon was standing over his bed, her eyes full of worry.
You were having a nightmare, she said simply.
Yeah. Jon dug the heel of his hand into his eyes and tried to will away the residual feeling of dread. He told himself it wasn't the same anymore; he was older, wiser, and knew how to protect Helia and himself. But it didn't do much to calm his racing heart.
Then he heard soft whimpering coming from where Spencer lay on the table. By the light of the fire, Jon could make out the way he winced, his good arm twitching at his side.
Ryan will take care of it, Jon thought, but Ryan didn't stir from his spot curled up in front of the fire.
Helia nudged at his shoulder. Go give him some water, or maybe some more of those painkillers Brendon gave him.
Jon sighed as he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and got up. Spencer made another quiet, choked noise, but Jon didn't touch him on his way to the sink. He filled a cup with water, then fumbled around in the dim light for the bottle of pills Brendon had left behind, taking a deep breath as he set the cup on the table beside Spencer's shoulder.
He splayed his fingers gently over the skin not covered by bandages. "Spencer, hey."
Spencer exhaled a short breath and very slowly, his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked completely lost. "What...am I-?" His voice was rough, barely more than whisper.
"You're safe, don't worry." Jon bit his lip and held up the cup. "You look like you could use another dose of meds."
He shifted to sit up, but immediately gasped in pain. "Yeah, I'd say you're right, uh..."
"Jon." There wasn't the normal hesitation to share his name, because he was waiting for the rush of pain to set in. Except the rush never came, but Jon was too tired to really think too hard on it.
But then he noticed Spencer's eyes for the first time-they were the same color as Helia's.
Jon swallowed and added softly, "I'll try not to hurt you," as he awkwardly slid a hand under Spencer's back and helped him be upright enough to sip the water.
His father had always told him that dragons never had blue eyes, that Helia was special in that regard. Jon had never met anyone, human or dragon, who shared the same color, and because of that he'd believed Helia's eyes were unique to her and her alone.
Jon was vaguely aware of Helia slinking back to her bed behind him as Spencer swallowed his pill. It was a little strange that she didn't seem to be analyzing Spencer, or making any comment on him whatsoever.
I thought you said he wasn't a threat, Jon said, glancing over his shoulder at her as she curled up on the pile of blankets.
He's not. But there's something...different about him. Different, yet familiar. She narrowed her eyes at Spencer thoughtfully, her claws tucked neatly underneath her, like a cat.
Jon didn't know what to make of that, but then Spencer winced and pushed the cup away, moaning a little as he laid back down. "Thanks," he gasped, his face turned into the pillow. "Is-is Ryan-"
"Yeah, Ryan's here. You're both safe." Again, Jon should've felt something from Spencer-a prick of anxiety or worry, or at least a shadow of the pain he was in.
That's what I mean, Helia said softly. He's different.
It didn't make much sense, but Jon figured he was too exhausted to properly read Spencer. Or maybe Spencer himself was too weak to really project his emotions. It's nothing, he's worn out, Jon said as he crawled back into bed and flipped his pillow over to the dry side.
We'll see.
Band(s): Panic at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Empires
Pairing(s): Jon/Brendon, Jon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard, Ryan/Brendon, pre-Panic GSF (with mentions of Pete/Ashlee)
Word Count: 46,000
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Summary: It wasn't supposed to be like this; Jon and Helia were going to leave in the middle of night, silent and unnoticed. But now there were Government patrolmen on their heels, and it dawned on Jon that the time for simple getaways had passed.
(Or, a steampunk story about dragons and the boys who ride them.)
Notes: First and foremost, this story would never, ever have been finished without the unending support from siryn99 and themoononastick. They are both amazing and didn't think I was nuts to try to write a sci-fi/fantasy/steampunk story about band boys with dragons. Many, many thanks as well go out to gobsmackit and arsenicjade, who also beta'd and kept me going. This thing has been in the works in some form or another for six months, and I don't think I've ever loved a story of mine more.
(Title and lyrics taken from Franz Ferdinand)
art by hyunbin
music by themoononastick and wavesofwood
I dream a nation of you
A utopia for you to live in
I dream a nation of me
A new utopia we could live in
For such a vast room, Jon was surprised by how close the air felt. Everything smelled of hay and smoke, and the room was so very warm. He looked up at the ceiling, at the way it rose up into almost nothing, as if it were melting into the night sky; he felt terribly small, but he wasn't afraid.
"Jon, they're ready for you." His father's voice was soft and eager. Jon felt his heart begin to pound in excitement, knowing that this was the moment his father had been telling him about for the past two years, since Jon could remember. He took Jon's hand and led him through the doorway into the bonding chamber, and Jon saw the mother for the first time; tall and elegant, her long, amber body shimmering in the low light of the oil lamps mounted on the walls. Her eyes glinted green the moment Jon met her gaze, and in his mind Jon heard a kind, feminine voice say, Hello, Jonathan Walker.
Jon's eyes widened as he gasped, stumbling backwards into his father's legs. "H-hi," he replied, and reached back to grab his father's hand.
"It's all right, son," his father said, laughing gently. "She's pleased with you, as she should be."
"She...likes me?" Jon asked. He dared to let himself look back up into the mother's eyes, and this time he could tell she was smiling.
"Yes, very much." His father untangled their hands and nudged Jon closer, whispering, "You have nothing to be afraid of, Jon."
He took a cautious step forward, then another, suddenly overwhelmed by warmth and a strange coppery smell in his nose as he drew closer to her, watching the way the light reflected off the scales along her tail. For a moment, Jon looked back over his shoulder at the other people in the room-the breeders and their son, another little boy perhaps a year or two younger than Jon. He was hiding behind his mother's legs and watching Jon with wide blue eyes.
You're a brave boy, the gentle voice said inside Jon's head, making him snap back to attention.
"I..." Jon's throat went dry as he looked up at the mother. He didn't know what to say or do, and how could she possibly know if he was brave or not? He'd never really done anything brave before in his life; granted, he was only six years old, but even so-
Look, the voice said, and her tail twitched and swung to the side, away from her body. Snuggled tightly against her stomach was a tiny golden-colored baby, no bigger than Jon himself.
It was the most beautiful baby dragon Jon had ever seen.
The mother leaned down to nuzzle the baby with her snout, and the bundle of golden scales and thin wings wriggled and made a small whimpering sound. Without being told, Jon came closer and kneeled in the hay beside it, but did not touch.
Soon the baby lifted its head toward Jon and opened its eyes slowly. They were blue eyes, so light they were nearly gray, and Jon heard one of the breeders gasp, "Oh my."
This is Helia, the mother said, nuzzling the baby once more. She is yours.
Jon held his breath as he reach his hand out slowly and let his fingertips brush over the soft, smooth scales along the top of the tiny dragon's head.
Helia, he thought; somehow, he knew he didn't need to say the words out loud. He traced the edge of her nose reverently, never breaking his gaze. I'm Jon.
The dragon leaned into his touch. Jon, she repeatedly softly, and his heart swelled.
In that instant, Jon knew he'd never let himself be parted from her as long as he lived.
The snow had come early, and Jon didn't like it at all.
"It shouldn't be this cold this soon," he mumbled as he held his hands out over the cast-iron furnace. Normally he didn't take to wearing his fingerless leather gloves until well into December, but it was only mid-October. His fingers shouldn't have been going numb by nightfall.
I think the snow is lovely, Helia said, flicking her tail lazily against Jon's ankle. She was curled up on her bed of wool blankets, the length of her body taking up most of the far wall of the cabin near the kitchen. Sometimes Jon was thankful she hadn't grown to be as large as her mother, that she could easily fold herself into relatively small spaces.
You would, Jon replied with a smirk, and kicked at her playfully. When was the last time you even ventured out into the stuff, anyway?
Helia lifted her head and said prissily, I have delicate sensibilities, and unlike some, I can't wear gloves.
Jon snorted a laugh and shook his head. Helia raised an eyebrow, but eventually grinned as well. She was insufferable sometimes.
"So I guess I'm taking the trip into town alone again," Jon said out loud, feigning disappointment. It wasn't as if they had a choice, anyway; Helia spent most of her days in hiding, venturing out once every few weeks in the dead of night to stretch her wings. Jon hadn't ridden her in months, and the dull ache in his chest told him how much he missed it. He glanced at the trunk sitting at the foot of his bed, locked tight with a steel padlock-the leather harness and saddle, his gloves and gun, all of it tucked away under lock and key.
Helia yawned, her tail curling around Jon's ankle like a cat showing affection before sliding back around her body. You'll survive, I'm sure, she said. If you stop in to see Brendon, tell him I miss his muffins.
"I'm not telling him that, he'll bake you fifty million of them by tomorrow evening, and then the whole place will smell like fucking pumpkin." Helia had an affinity for everything pumpkin, and Brendon loved to spoil her. But Jon knew better than most that a spoiled dragon could be a pain in the ass.
Spoil-sport.
Yeah, I'm a real hard ass. Jon shrugged on his battered leather duster and leaned down to smack an obnoxious kiss to the top of her head. Be safe.
Always, she replied, curling into a tighter ball against the blankets as the cold wind tore through the door of house.
"Fucking snow," Jon sighed, and started trudging down the snow-covered road into town.
The town of Audrey had never been hit hard by the raids. Jon doubted many of the people living there had ever seen a dragon at all, let alone harbored Riders. Many of the stores were still in their original condition from before The Revolution, and the streets weren't blackened from fire, like many towns Jon had seen over the years. Audrey was quiet, simple, mild-mannered; and as such, the townspeople tended to look at Jon with unease.
Jon didn't care. He'd lived on the outskirts of Audrey for the past year and a half, since the safehouse in Grennling had been burned to the ground. The cabin, bought from an old, dying farmer with the little money Jon had, was enough to protect both himself and Helia, and since Audrey was mostly off the map as far as the Government was concerned, no one caused them any trouble. Here Jon could be invisible and keep Helia safe; that was all he wanted.
He pulled the tall collar of his duster closer to his neck and pushed through the front door of the little store on the corner of the square, its brass and wood sign announcing 'Finche's Market' creaking in the wind. He stomped the snow off his boots as the shopkeeper, Mr. Finche, looked up from the front counter, squinting over the tops of his bifocals.
"Walker," he said in a careful greeting, and nodded his head slowly at Jon. Jon nodded back as he made his way through the store, instantly aware of the tentative unease coming off Finche as Jon began gathering his rations for the week: a bag of oatmeal, a bottle of milk, some jerky, flour, cheese, vegetables. He was fortunate that Helia had never really developed a taste for meat-she was more than content to eat Jon's stew and cornbread.
"Snow's getting worse," Finche said when Jon finally set his things on the counter. "And it's getting dark so early. You'd think it was nearing Christmas." Behind him on the wall, a cast-iron clock chimed seven-o-clock.
"Yeah, guess so," Jon replied, keeping his head down. He never made small talk in town; apprehensive or not, the people tended to be on the nosy side. He rubbed his cold fingers together for warmth as Finche figured up his bill with clinking strokes on the ancient register, and that was when Jon spotted the pistol laying on a stool behind the counter.
Jon had never seen a gun in Audrey. He'd been told more than once that weapons weren't tolerated, and that they'd all but been banned years ago. Only the handful of law keepers kept them, and Jon seriously doubted even they carried guns on a consistent basis.
It was a goddamn miracle the raids had never come here.
Jon cleared his throat and said quietly, "Make a new purchase lately?" He jerked his chin toward the stool when Finche raised an eyebrow.
"Oh." Finche shrugged. "I'd rather not have the thing in the store, but with all the rumors circling, I took my wife's advice."
Jon frowned, and against his better judgment, asked, "Rumors?"
"Goodness, Walker, have you not read the papers lately?" Finche reached under the counter and tossed the day's paper on the counter. On the front page was a simple headline in large, bold letters: Resistance Raids Begin.
Jon's stomach bottomed out. He took a step back from the counter and swallowed, hard. The air in the shop felt too close, like his chest was being squeezed. "The raids have started again?" he whispered, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
"There's some resistance movement forming, from what I hear. The Government is taking 'preemptive measures'-" Finche made lazy air quotes. "-to make sure it's nothing serious, I suppose. Rumor has it there was a raid in Brenton last week, but no one can confirm it."
Brenton was two hours north. A kind rancher had hidden Jon and Helia in his stable there before they'd made it to Audrey; Jon was nearly sick thinking about what might have happened to him. "You...you really think they'd come to Audrey?" he asked as evenly as possible as he paid for his goods.
Finche shook his head, seemingly unfazed by the conversation, but Jon immediately felt Finche's unease turn to strong anxiety. Jon considered it fear. "They left us alone during the whole Rider witch-hunting, so I can't imagine why they'd think we'd be keeping rebels." He put all of Jon's supplies into a canvas knapsack. "I don't think there's anything to be concerned about, to be honest, but my wife isn't happy unless she worries." He laughed dryly.
Jon couldn't think of a reply. He could only about how much time it would take for him and Helia to pack up whatever they needed and get the hell out of Audrey.
The lights of Brendon's tiny cottage were out, but Jon knew that didn't mean much; Brendon liked to curl up in bed and read by lamplight. Jon knocked twice against the cold wood, right below the gold-plated sign that read Dr. Urie, Veterinarian.
It was several moments before Brendon answered, dressed in his pajamas and robe. He blinked sleepily at Jon for a second before breaking into a wide smile. "Oh hey!" he said, then promptly yawned. "Sorry, I was up late last night with a sick horse. Thought I'd turn in early."
There were very few things Jon liked about Audrey, but Brendon was definitely one of them. For the first time in ages, Jon felt almost reluctant to leave a place. He'd kind of forgotten what it was like to have a friend who couldn't read his thoughts.
"God, come in, Walker, it's freezing!" Brendon held the door open wider for Jon, holding his robe tightly to his chest.
Jon took a deep breath and said, "We're going to leave."
The smile slid off Brendon's face. Jon winced at the fierce stab of shock and hurt that hit him square in the gut-Brendon's emotions were never far from the surface. "What? You mean, as in leave Audrey? You and Helia?"
"We can't stay here anymore." Jon dropped his voice, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I saw the paper, Bren. I know about the new wave of raids."
"But you don't know for certain they'd come here, that's the whole reason you stayed." Brendon grabbed Jon's wrist and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him. "You said so yourself, Audrey's safe."
"Nowhere's safe, not really." Jon wondered if he still had his maps of the low country and the surrounding plains; he and Helia could fly through the night and hide in the forests until-
"I bought a gun. You can have it."
Jon jerked out of his thoughts and glared at Brendon. "You don't have any fucking business owning a gun, you hate guns." Something tight and painful pulled at his chest, warring with the determination and fear that radiated off Brendon. It wasn't his fault Brendon had grown up sheltered and oblivious to what the Government could really do to its people, but sometimes Jon felt guilty that Brendon was beginning to learn the truth.
Brendon tipped his chin up defiantly. "Unlike everyone else in this town, I like to be prepared." He'd yet to drop his hand from around Jon's wrist. "Just. You don't even know where you're going, do you?" He glanced down at his hand, letting Jon go with a sigh.
"We'll figure something out."
"You've asked Helia about it?"
Jon flushed. "Not yet, but I know she'll-"
"Bullshit, she knows you're as safe here as anywhere."
Jon wanted to make a snippy comment about how Brendon could never really know what's in Helia's mind, but he held back. Instead, he sighed and said, "I was on my way back from the market." He dropped the knapsack on the floor, where the snow from his boots was melting onto Brendon's rug. "I figured since you were on my way, I'd break the news to you."
"Before breaking the news to your dragon," Brendon shot back, but he immediately shook his head and put his arms around Jon, hugging him tight. Jon had let Brendon hug him only one other time, and that had been the night they'd first met, when Jon thought Helia was going to die.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, but please don't go, Jon, please," he whispered into Jon's shoulder. "At least stay another day until we can figure something out."
Jon knew he should say no. The sooner they slipped out of town before trouble came, the better. He could hear Frank's voice in his head, saying over and over, You gotta survive, kid. That's all that matters. For the millionth time, Jon wished he knew if Frank were still alive himself.
But Brendon's hold was firm, warm, and above all, comforting. No matter how much Jon told himself that he only needed to know Helia was safe and alive to be happy, it was the comfort he missed the most. And Brendon knew how to give it in spades.
"I'll stay a few more days," Jon replied softly, letting his hand rest gently against Brendon's lower back. "But that's all."
Brendon pulled back and beamed at him. "We'll figure something out, all right? Now." He held up one finger and ran down the hall to the kitchen. "I'm going to make you some tea and Helia some pumpkin bread, what do you say? I'll be over in a few hours."
Jon couldn't bring himself to protest. "She'll love you forever and ever," he replied as he hefted the knapsack onto his shoulder to brave the cold once more.
A few days turned in to a week, which then turned into two.
They haven't come yet, Helia said one evening as Jon set a bowl of stew out for her with a slice of Brendon's pumpkin bread. Maybe Brendon's right, maybe we should just stay-
"We can't, you know that," Jon replied wearily, even though he knew he'd been reluctant to actually pack their things and make it seem real. They'd both been holding their breath, waiting for something to happen to spur them into action. That, and Brendon had barely left them alone for more than a day since Jon announced they were leaving.
It helps knowing someone, Jon, having a friend. It's not like the old days with Frank and Gerard-
You don't think I know that? Jon glared at her, making Helia fold her wings tight against her body.
I'm only saying that Brendon cares about us, and maybe that's more important in the end.
"Nothing matters in the end but staying alive." Jon sighed, rubbing both hands over his face. He was so tired of running, always running, and they were putting Brendon in danger by staying. Brendon tried to act like he didn't understand the threat, but he did; Jon may not have been the strongest telepath, but he felt the surge in Brendon's pulse when he lied, felt the anxious dread whenever a car engine roared in the distance. He'd never seen a Government motorcade, but Jon had told him enough about them.
Brendon was terrified, and it was their fault.
In that moment, Jon made up his mind to leave at dawn. Helia lifted her head from her bowl, her eyes flashing blue, but said nothing in return.
Then, suddenly, there was hard, desperate pounding on the cabin's door.
Jon's heart nearly flew out his mouth. He only allowed himself moments of scared vulnerability in front of Helia, and he looked at her with wide, frightened eyes-We're too late, fuck.
Helia tilted her head toward the door, but then slowly shook her head. No, Jon, it's not that. Whoever's out there doesn't mean us harm.
But Jon's hands were already shaking as he fumbled with the lock on the chest at the foot of his bed, throwing the lid open and grabbing his rifle, loaded with the few bullets he still possessed. The pounding grew more insistent, and Jon could barely breathe.
They're not going to take you, he thought fiercely as he stood in front of the door, rifle aimed and ready.
Helia hunched down, ears flat against her head, wings folded tight, her body curved around the table. The tip of her tail pressed against Jon's back. They won't, Jon.
He closed his eyes, counted to three, and flung the door open.
Standing in the doorway were two men, damp with snow and sweat. The thinner of the two was holding the other, taller man upright; it seemed to be taking all his strength to stay standing, and it dawned on Jon that he'd been shot.
He didn't lower his rifle. "Get the hell out of here," Jon growled, carefully positioning his body in the doorway to block any sight of Helia.
The thinner man shook his head, his eyes wide, pleading. "Please," he whispered. "My friend's been shot, and the men who did it aren't far behind us."
Jon lost his breath all over again. "You're Resistance?" he said over the barrel of his gun.
The man nodded shakily, staggering a little under the weight of his unconscious companion. "We-we are. I wouldn't ask this of anyone, but I don't know what else to do, they'll kill us-"
Instantly, Jon felt Helia's thoughts wrap around his own. Let them in, Jon, please. Trust me.
With a heavy sigh, Jon lowered his rifle. "All right," he said. "But-you must know that-that I'm-"
But he was already pushing past Jon into the cabin, only he came up short the second he laid eyes on Helia. "You're a Rider," he breathed, sounding both awed and terrified as Helia rose to her full height and shook her wings a little.
Jon slammed the door. "I am, and if you think you're gonna cause trouble, I swear to fucking-"
"No, no, I wouldn't dream of it, I grew up with Revolutionaries." The man swallowed and slowly tore his eyes away from Helia. He shifted his companion's weight against his shoulder, wincing.
Helia flicked her tail across the table, pushing the soup bowls aside. Put him on the table.
"We should get him on the table," Jon said, and it was strange, the way the man blinked at Helia for a moment before doing as instructed with Jon's help. They got his coat and scarf off, and Jon grabbed a pillow off his bed to prop the wounded man's neck up.
"I'm Ryan, by the way," he said, nodding his head at Jon. Then he bit his lip and pushed the damp hair off his friend's forehead. "This is Spencer." Jon felt fear and remorse rolling off of Ryan, along with deep affection. The two had to be very close.
"You'll forgive me for not shaking hands," Jon replied tightly as he shrugged into his leather duster. Spencer's right shoulder was soaked dark red. "But it looks like Spencer needs more than what my abilities will allow. I'm going to get a doctor."
He took his rifle with him, sprinting down the road to Brendon's.
"I can't do this, Jon." Brendon wrung his hands as he stood over Spencer's body. "This isn't a horse or a sick greyhound, this is a human being with a goddamn bullet in his shoulder." But his medic bag was beside him on the floor, and Jon knew Brendon wouldn't have brought it if he'd thought there was no possible way for him to help.
"All you need is to get the bullet out, right?" Ryan was pacing so frantically alongside the table, Jon expected him to start wearing a groove into the floorboards. He tried to ignore the fact that Ryan's hands were stained with Spencer's blood, that the white collar of his shirt was streaked red as well.
"I...yes." Brendon finally took a deep breath and opened his medic bag. "But you're going to have to hold him. I don't have any tranquilizers-at least, none for humans."
Ryan frowned. "But he's out cold."
"Doesn't matter. He'll feel it." Brendon glanced over his shoulder at Jon, who was curled up against Helia's side on her pile of wool blankets, knees drawn to his chest as he silently watched the proceedings. "You need to help, too."
Jon took a deep breath and rubbed a hand against his temple. He wasn't used to being in close quarters with so much intense emotion; the constant hum of worry and guilt from Ryan mingled with the anxiety and doubt vibrating off Brendon was enough to make Jon's head pound. "Can't you just strap him down?" he mumbled, avoiding Ryan's eyes.
"With what?" Brendon flailed his hand around. "This isn't exactly an operating room, Jon." His voice was sharper than normal, higher, and Jon grimaced as he felt Brendon's fear rush through him like a spark of heat.
There was a soft nudge at his shoulder. Go help him, Helia said, firm but gentle. Be human for once.
Jon sighed heavily, but didn't argue. The sooner Spencer was treated, the quicker these two were out of his house and on their way; for all he knew, Government patrolmen were searching all of Audrey this very moment.
Spencer's shirt had been removed, the blood cleaned from around the wound. His skin was sickly pale, his lips nearly gray; Jon closed his eyes and looked away into the fire, swallowing against the cold clench of his stomach. He knew what a dying man looked like, and he'd told himself he'd never see it again, not if he had a choice.
"All right," Brendon said slowly, holding up a small silver clamp. It looked like the device Jon had seen him use to pull teeth from dogs' mouths. "Just...just hold his shoulders steady. It'll probably be a few seconds before the pain registers to his brain. Here." He tossed Jon a damp cloth. "Keep the blood from going everywhere."
"This'll work, right?" Ryan asked, his hands gripping Spencer's shoulders tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Jon felt the pounding in his head turn into a painful throb. "The bullet's not that deep, he was only shot a few hours ago, it shouldn't be-"
"I'll do what I can." Brendon cut him off with a terse glare, and Jon knew that meant he was nervous as hell.
Jon held the cloth against the skin below the bullet hole, trying to focus over the pain in his head and the increasingly overwhelming flood of emotions in the room. "Tell us what to do," he said simply, quietly, his free hand curled around Spencer's bicep.
Brendon sucked in a loud breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked a little more steady. "Hold him," he said once more, finally leaning over Spencer's shoulder to dig into the wound with the clamp.
For the first few seconds, Spencer didn't move at all. But then his breath caught and he began to gasp, his face contorting in pain. He moaned, and the sound grew louder each time Brendon shifted the angle of the clamp.
The throbbing in Jon's head became almost unbearable.
"Brendon?" Ryan's voice was sharp, too high.
"It's hit a vein, I can't-" He squinted down at the wound over the tops of his glasses, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Blood was flowing steadily over his fingers. "Jon, can you-?"
Jon fumbled with the cloth. "Yeah, sorry," he mumbled, mopping at the blood and wishing he'd learned how to focus better, to block out the waves of feelings when he needed to most.
He wished it even more when Brendon dug his clamp in deeper and Spencer screamed, jerking hard against Jon and Ryan's hands. A white-hot surge of pain shot through Jon's body; he grit his teeth and tried not to pass out as Brendon yelled, "Hold him, goddamn it, I think I've almost got it!"
Between the three of them and Helia wrapping her tail around Spencer's ankles, they managed to keep Spencer steady long enough for Brendon to remove the bullet. He held it up triumphantly, staggering back from the table as blood dripped down his arm. Spencer gasped just before his body sagged against the table.
Ryan went very still. "Is he...?"
"He'll be fine, he's just unconscious," Brendon replied breathlessly. He rinsed the bullet off in the basin of water beside the table, then handed it to Jon. "Look familiar at all?" he asked quietly.
Jon's hands were shaking; he felt drained, worn to the bone. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into his bed and sleep forever. But he still held the bullet in his palm and watched the lamplight glint off the Government-issued serial numbers etched into the side.
"He's lucky to be alive," Jon breathed before dropping the bullet onto the table beside Spencer's shoulder.
Ryan sighed, heavy enough that the tension physically left his shoulders. All the worry and fear bled out of him, and Jon felt the weight lift off himself as well.
"Thank you both," Ryan whispered, suddenly looking just as exhausted as Jon felt.
"He should take it easy for the next day or two," Brendon said as he cleaned the wound and wrapped it with clean bandages. "I don't know what your plans were, but you both should stay put for now."
Jon was too tired to argue, but Helia said, I think they'll be fine. The outside is quiet, and we can't turn them away like this, you know that.
As long as they let me sleep, Jon replied before saying out loud, "Fine, you can stay." He handed a couple of Helia's wool blankets to Ryan, adding, "But as soon as he's well enough to walk, I want you both gone."
Ryan nodded, his gaze flicking between Jon and Helia. "Yeah, of course, I understand." He took one of the blankets and threw it over Spencer, tucking the ends in gently around his body. Without another word, he wrapped the other blanket around himself and curled up on the floor by the fire, as if he were completely accustomed to sleeping wherever there was a spot for him.
Jon let himself glance back at the table. Spencer was still very pale, but his lips weren't quite as gray, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His scruffy beard was damp with sweat; he appeared older than Ryan, but there was a roundness in his cheeks that suggested he was younger than he looked. For the first time, Jon wondered how the two of them managed to end up in Audrey.
"Jon." Brendon's whisper pulled Jon out of his thoughts. "I think I'm done here."
He rubbed both hands over his face and sighed. "You did an amazing job," Jon replied softly. He laid a hand on Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon smiled crookedly.
"I can officially say I saved a human life. My repertoire is expanding." Brendon laughed to himself, ducking his head a little as he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
For Jon, close contact with others was something he'd learned to avoid, but with Brendon it came naturally, like it was something they were meant to do. It didn't hurt that Brendon's relief was washing over Jon in warm, comforting waves, helping to ease the gradually fading pain in his head. Jon wrapped his arms around Brendon, holding him close as he whispered against Brendon's temple, "Thank you."
He felt something else well up inside Brendon, something softer than relief. It swirled around inside Jon's chest, making him feel almost...safe. "You're welcome," Brendon mumbled into Jon's shoulder, his hands clutching at Jon's back.
Helia made a snuffling sound behind them, and when Jon finally let go of Brendon, he saw that she'd draped another blanket over Ryan. He raised an eyebrow at her.
He was shivering, Helia replied simply, tucking her face back into her wing.
Brendon smiled. "I guess I'll head back. You've got enough going on in here for now, I think."
Jon nodded, but as Brendon opened the front door, he said, "Brendon, about that gun you mentioned."
Brendon's eyes widened slightly. "Yeah?"
"Don't be afraid to use it." He knew he didn't need to elaborate anymore than that.
"All right." The smile faded, and Brendon's eyes were serious once more. "I'll be back in the morning to check on your patient. Get some sleep."
Jon rarely dreamed; years back, Frank had trained him to keep his mind clear during sleep, so that he could wake at a moment's notice clear-headed and focused. It had also helped to keep the nightmares at bay, the constant replay of his parents' deaths and all the terrible things that had followed. At fourteen, it had been hard to sleep for more than three hours at a time without waking up in a cold sweat, curled tightly against Helia's chest.
Jon didn't dream anymore, but that night, after Brendon left and the cabin became filled with the soft sounds of Ryan and Spencer sleeping nearby, Jon had a nightmare.
He was sixteen again, back in the safehouse with Frank and Gerard, watching Frank play a game with his dragon, Xira, while Gerard sat cross-legged against the far wall with a sketchbook in his lap. Gerard was always sketching Frank and Xira, and Frank would complain that Xira made him look too tiny.
"You are tiny, fool," Gerard would answer blithely without looking up, and sometimes he'd make Xira laugh (Xira was huge for a dragon, standing almost fifteen feet tall from nose to ground. Her black wings were massive and stark against her bright red body). Frank would throw back an insult about Gerard's mother, and Gerard would sigh and hold up his middle finger. Eventually Frank would tackle him to the ground in a giant hug, and when they'd start to kiss, Jon would flush and look away, ignoring the strange little tug of envy in his heart.
Only now they were in the safehouse, and everyone was smiling, happy, content-until a giant explosion blew out the windows and everything became engulfed in flames. Frank yelled at Jon to get Helia and run-Jon felt his fear and panic like a punch to the gut, making his breath catch in his throat. But the fear wasn't just from Frank, it was everywhere, a swirl of chaotic emotions pulling at Jon like a thousand frantic hands. The smoke was too thick, Jon could barely make out the golden blur of his dragon. He called for Frank, and Gerard, too, but his voice stuck in his throat, choking him, and he couldn't hear anything but the screaming in his head, the pounding, horrible rush of terror flooding through every inch of his body.
Jon knew, without a doubt, that he was going to die. He screamed again, blindly pawing the air, desperate to wrap his hands around Helia, but there was nothing, only smoke and fire and pain-
Jon.
He gasped and sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, looking frantically around him. There was no fire, only the small one slowly burning itself out in the hearth. He was back in the cabin in Audrey, and his dragon was standing over his bed, her eyes full of worry.
You were having a nightmare, she said simply.
Yeah. Jon dug the heel of his hand into his eyes and tried to will away the residual feeling of dread. He told himself it wasn't the same anymore; he was older, wiser, and knew how to protect Helia and himself. But it didn't do much to calm his racing heart.
Then he heard soft whimpering coming from where Spencer lay on the table. By the light of the fire, Jon could make out the way he winced, his good arm twitching at his side.
Ryan will take care of it, Jon thought, but Ryan didn't stir from his spot curled up in front of the fire.
Helia nudged at his shoulder. Go give him some water, or maybe some more of those painkillers Brendon gave him.
Jon sighed as he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and got up. Spencer made another quiet, choked noise, but Jon didn't touch him on his way to the sink. He filled a cup with water, then fumbled around in the dim light for the bottle of pills Brendon had left behind, taking a deep breath as he set the cup on the table beside Spencer's shoulder.
He splayed his fingers gently over the skin not covered by bandages. "Spencer, hey."
Spencer exhaled a short breath and very slowly, his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked completely lost. "What...am I-?" His voice was rough, barely more than whisper.
"You're safe, don't worry." Jon bit his lip and held up the cup. "You look like you could use another dose of meds."
He shifted to sit up, but immediately gasped in pain. "Yeah, I'd say you're right, uh..."
"Jon." There wasn't the normal hesitation to share his name, because he was waiting for the rush of pain to set in. Except the rush never came, but Jon was too tired to really think too hard on it.
But then he noticed Spencer's eyes for the first time-they were the same color as Helia's.
Jon swallowed and added softly, "I'll try not to hurt you," as he awkwardly slid a hand under Spencer's back and helped him be upright enough to sip the water.
His father had always told him that dragons never had blue eyes, that Helia was special in that regard. Jon had never met anyone, human or dragon, who shared the same color, and because of that he'd believed Helia's eyes were unique to her and her alone.
Jon was vaguely aware of Helia slinking back to her bed behind him as Spencer swallowed his pill. It was a little strange that she didn't seem to be analyzing Spencer, or making any comment on him whatsoever.
I thought you said he wasn't a threat, Jon said, glancing over his shoulder at her as she curled up on the pile of blankets.
He's not. But there's something...different about him. Different, yet familiar. She narrowed her eyes at Spencer thoughtfully, her claws tucked neatly underneath her, like a cat.
Jon didn't know what to make of that, but then Spencer winced and pushed the cup away, moaning a little as he laid back down. "Thanks," he gasped, his face turned into the pillow. "Is-is Ryan-"
"Yeah, Ryan's here. You're both safe." Again, Jon should've felt something from Spencer-a prick of anxiety or worry, or at least a shadow of the pain he was in.
That's what I mean, Helia said softly. He's different.
It didn't make much sense, but Jon figured he was too exhausted to properly read Spencer. Or maybe Spencer himself was too weak to really project his emotions. It's nothing, he's worn out, Jon said as he crawled back into bed and flipped his pillow over to the dry side.
We'll see.