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northstarfanOriginally posted by lazaefair over on Tumblr, archiving here:
So there’s the pain. Pain he can deal with. Even excruciating, even with shattered bones and peeled skin and cigarette burns and probably internal bleeding. Always was cursed with high pain tolerance. And he’s pickled himself in enough alcohol it’s got to have had an effect on his poor nerve endings by now. So he’d been coping middlingly well with chronic injuries for years, before…before…well, if this’d been any other mission, he’d’ve survived the night. Even without using the rudimentary healing meditation techniques Storm had been teaching him.
But what would be the goddamn point?
Goodnight Robicheaux closes his eyes, too dehydrated to cry, too hurt for his body to muster the energy for it anyway. If he’s lucky, whatever’s bleeding will kill him inside of a decent timeframe. Or the cold desert night will freeze him before morning. Or he’ll choke to death in the next sandstorm. Either way, his body’ll decay to nothing but dust and ashes, heaped up next to the pile of dead tires they dumped him by, and Lord willing by then he’ll be far away scouring every fuckin’ corner of Hades, Diyu, Chiok, Yomi, or where the hell ever for that white-clad, son of a bitch, bastard of a ninja.
Because Storm Shadow is dead. Has to be. No other reason for them to let him go. Retired, aging, broken ex-Joes are not high value targets, anyone with two brain cells to rub together can deduce that. No, the only thing he’s worth these days is whatever value one particular renegade Arashikage had assigned to him for some unfathomable reason. And if Goody’s been released - means taking him hostage worked, and he’s back to being of zero use to anyone.
Didn’t even merit the honor of a proper execution. Got taken out like a goddamn bag of garbage.
So there will be no healing meditation. No gritting of teeth, no hitching up of bootstraps, no survival at all costs for God and country. It ain’t how he envisioned himself shuffling off this mortal coil - always figured it was either gonna be a grenade or cirrhosis of the liver - but it’s all right. This is about what he deserves.
He’s just gonna sit here with the rest of the trash, and let his life run out into the sand, and hope whichever divine judge rules the next dimension has enough mercy to at least let him be strapped to the rack next to Storm’s.
Goodnight is not dead.
Five English syllables beating out a steady rhythm in his brain in time with his footsteps, wrapped around his heart, held close to his soul with the same implacable, iron-clad faith he’d cultivated for twenty years while biding time for revenge. As holy as the prayers bound up in Outlaw’s rosary, as sacred as the mantras recited daily by his old masters in the mountains.
Goodnight is not dead.
It’s running through his mind now, worn smooth over the course of thirty-six sleepless hours. The trail led him out here to some patch of nowhere, bouncing among the dunes in a stolen truck.
“Ow!”
Storm Shadow ignores the captive bound in the back as a particularly hard bounce clonks his head off the truck bed. The captive is alive solely because he’d finally broken ranks and given up the coordinates for the most likely of the mercenaries’ body-dumping locations. Storm took him along as insurance, and potentially more helpful information. Especially since he’d already slaughtered their boss. In front of them.
(What the Joes don’t witness, they can’t disapprove of.)
The site is a literal dump. Husks of vehicles, metal scrap, piles of junk. The stink of rotting meat is out of place among all the mechanical detritus. Storm reflexively rejects the idea that Goodnight is part of that miasma. Bogue’s mercenaries hadn’t finished him; they’d left him alive, to suffer a slow death. And Storm is going to find him before that happens.
Goodnight is not dead.
The moon is nearly gone, the sun is just a promise. Storm Shadow finds Goodnight anyway, at the very edge of the dump site. He knows the shape of his lover’s body in silhouette, even curled in on itself. Goodnight hides from his nightmares asleep as much as awake, tries to disappear before they possess him completely.
He doesn’t need light to catch the cloying, ferric scent of blood, or to feel how Goodnight’s unnervingly cool flesh sticks to his fingers when he rolls him over. Storm Shadow doesn’t need light to realize he’s the only one breathing.
“Goody…”
Goodnight is not dead!
“I told you not to follow me. I told you…” Storm tamps down the dumb, animal panic rising in the back of his mind as he presses fingers to Goodnight’s neck, willing a pulse to be there. “You stupid soldier! Goodnight, breathe!”
He does. A ragged, shallow swallow of air that gives Storm permission to draw breath again.
Storm slumps as relief washes over him. This idiot. This blockhead yangnom mule. Goodnight doesn’t always listen to him (he wouldn’t be in this shit if he did!), but at least he will obey, given incentive.
He stands, heads back to the truck. He needs to get a proper look at Goodnight.
The brights come on, and Storm Shadow’s breath stops once more at the sight of Goodnight’s body, territory that he’s memorized by touch, now bloodied, burned, torn and trespassed upon to the point of ruin.
He’s on autopilot when he hauls the bound merc out of the truck bed and puts a bullet in his skull. Thinking again a second later, on his knees at Goodnight’s side, assessing.
It doesn’t matter that they have transportation. Goody’s barely breathing. Dehydrated. He’s lost so much blood, it’s a miracle the shock didn’t kill him. Thirty miles of rough terrain in that truck will finish the job. Carrying him wouldn’t be much gentler, and would take far longer.
There’s a radio in the truck. Putting out a general call for help will get them killed. But… Storm knows codes he shouldn’t. Channels exclusive to Joes. They’re obsolete now. Compromised. But he knows Breaker and Goodnight still monitor them, even two years after Zartan’s kill order against all GI Joe units. They still hope against hope that more survivors will turn up.
It’s the only chance Goody has. All Storm can do is put out the call, and hope that COBRA gave up on those channels when they started hunting down straggler Joes the hard way.
Storm can’t move Goodnight very much without worsening his injuries. He can move the truck, and some of the junk piles. That at least gives them shade as the sun comes up. And cover, in case someone is stupid enough to come after them.
Storm almost hopes hostiles find them. He would dearly love to kill someone - anyone - right now.
He doesn’t know if he managed to get through to help. There’s only waiting now, sitting in the shade with Goodnight’s head cradled in his lap. Relief and adrenaline both ebb away, replaced by an unfamiliar helplessness.
There was a gallon jug of water and a sports drink the truck. Storm moistens Goodnight’s lips, feeds him liquids drop by drop. Eventually, Goodnight swallows.
Goodnight is not dead.
Storm Shadow slides his hand beneath the bloody rag of Goodnight’s shirt, finding reassurance where he can. Breath. Heartbeat. A stomach that’s soft, not rigid and distended by internal bleeding.
It’s not much. Not when he can count half a dozen injuries for every slim proof of life.
There’s only the harsh desert sun, the stench of death and the painful drag of Goodnight’s breath over his cracked lips to fill Storm Shadow’s senses. He takes stock of Goodnight’s injuries between bouts of hydration; the more Doc knows, the faster he can start treating Goody.
It should be easy, this meditation on pain. He’s intimately familiar with it, receiving and inflicting. He notes where the cords cut deep into Goodnight’s wrists, where fingernails were torn away, strips of missing skin, and the small red pits of cigarette burns.
But he can’t focus on the injuries. His mind dwells on Goodnight’s suffering. On how his lover lay here for day and most of a night, discarded like so much garbage, in agony but alive. That knowledge alone shifts uneasily within Storm, a fresh anger burning like poison in his blood. But there’s something else.
Goodnight hadn’t fought for his life, not at the last. He hadn’t tried to find help, or even crawl to shade, and Storm can’t understand it. Robicheaux is damaged, but he’s also too damn stubborn for his own good. Just lying down to die isn’t in the man’s character. Especially not if he came all this way looking for… him.
The truth strikes like the sharpest blades.
Goodnight thought he was dead, the same as those idiot mercenaries with their half-assed ambush. And that loss was enough that Goodnight was willing to let himself die by inches under the desert sun. Nausea and panic writhe in Storm Shadow’s guts. No one should care about him that much. No one should care enough that they’d torture themselves for the chance to chase him into death.
Goodnight Robicheaux is a blind fool, but that does nothing to account for the sudden tightness in his own chest. No. He can’t afford to be weak, especially not now. He reaches for the water jug and looks back down to Goodnight for distraction.
Shadowed blue eyes lock with his. There’s too much red in that blue, and they’re not quite focused, but Goodnight is looking up at him. Blood encrusted fingers wrap desperately around Storm’s, spasming weakly, spurring painful memories a lifetime gone.
Storm tries to tell Goodnight to rest. He needs to conserve his strength.
Instead, he sobs a rough, ragged, “I told you not to follow me.”
Blinding white light. Freedom from pain. Ambrosia on his tongue. And...Storm Shadow, here, with him, over and under and around him. Hand resting on Goody's heart.
He's saying something, beautiful lips moving, but relief pounds too loudly in Goody's ears for the words to come through. Easier to cling to his hand, warm and solid and here, and look up at him. Drink his face in while a drugging bliss settles into his bones.
Something glitters on Storm's cheek. They're tears, Goody realizes, which only confirms his conclusion that they're definitely dead. This is his moment of grace, then. The briefly granted reunion meant to sustain him through the rest of eternity alone in the hell he deserves. He can even feel the black hole hovering somewhere nearby, yawning wide and slowly drawing him out of Storm's presence, but this is already so much more than he expected.
He'll content himself with this, come what may.
Storm's hand is heavier than he remembers, but he manages to lift it to his lips with the last of his strength. His lover deserves at least that much.
"Mon amour," Goody sighs, or thinks he does, and then the darkness swarms up over him again.
The airlift arrives just as twilight settles in.
Storm Shadow doesn’t move as the medics swarm their small fortress. It doesn’t matter if they see him sheltering Goodnight. Goodnight is still breathing. That’s all he cares about.
Storm inwardly flinches when they pull Goodnight’s hand free of his, but he keeps it off his face. Doesn't reach for him.
Somehow, he doesn’t notice Snake Eyes until a fresh grip closes on his hand, and he’s pulled to his feet.
Snake signs to him. We need to go. Are you coming?
He should be annoyed that his sword brother laid a hand on him. But he doesn’t feel anything.
“If I don’t,” Storm mumbles, “he’ll come looking for me.”
Feeling has crept back into his chest by the time they let him into the sickbay. He sets up vigil by Goodnight’s bed, swords strapped to his back, throwing stars at his belt, SIG holstered at his side. He probably won’t need them. But it’s better to have them nearby.
Doc doesn’t protest. Maybe he thinks Storm will finally allow medics within arm’s reach of him if he can watch over Goodnight while they examine him. That’s not going to happen. He’s fine.
Goodnight looks worse. Every injury stands out against the sterile white of his sheets and pillow. But he’s healing. Intravenous fluids. Sedatives. Pain killers. Goodnight’s not feeling anything, at least. He’s not in pain.
“You would have done better to bring a book.”
Storm knows Bounty Hunter’s voice. He doesn’t look up. Goodnight shifts ever so slightly. An unconscious twitch, Storm tells himself. Not nightmares.
“I know you’re not much for talk,” the Joe goes on, “but reading’s easy enough. It would let him know you’re staying with him.”
Storm’s fingers itch for his swords. He knows Goodnight’s friends don’t approve of their arrangement. Considering that said disapproval has already earned him a bullet in the back, he thinks he’s entitled to be on his guard around them.
But Bounty Hunter isn’t Flint. He’s not Outlaw. Some days, Storm’s guard slips and he even thinks of him as “Sam”. He doesn’t usually put Storm on edge like this.
“Doc says he won’t wake up any time soon,” Storm says finally. “If that’s why you’re here.”
“More curious as to why you’re here, if Goody’s supposed to be down for a while. You could be anywhere else.”
Storm Shadow remembers dry lips scratching across the back of his hand in a farewell kiss.
“No. I couldn’t be.”
Sam nods, slowly, as Storm visibly loses interest in him and goes back to watching Goody. He's not used to seeing that expression on the faces of ex-COBRA ninjas with more blood on their hands than some small armies, but the expression itself's familiar enough.
Fearful and hopeful and exhausted to the bone, all at once. He's seen it in the faces of countless military spouses, of the loved ones of fighters and warriors the world over. Felt it a time or two on his own face, first keeping vigil over his mother and sisters, and then over too many men under his command. Knows it's tightening the corners of his mouth now, even if he does have a little more experience hiding it than Storm does.
Sam sits in the other chair in the room. Rifles through his mental catalog and settles into Position Number Three for coping with hard plastic infirmary chairs for longer than five minutes at a time.
He lets the silence stretch and make itself at home for a while before he says quietly, "Heard you put an end to Bart Bogue, when you went lookin' for Goody."
Storm stops meditating on the rhythm of Goodnight’s breathing just long enough to spare Sam a glance. Talking about his kills is far easier than talking about Goodnight, but he doubts the change of subject is for his benefit.
“I’ll be watching my back again when your Sergeant Cullen finds out. She wanted his head.” Storm is in no way a confidant of Scarlett’s, regardless of her relationship to Snake Eyes, but he doesn’t have to be to know she loathed the man. When the intel on who was supplying mercenaries for some of COBRA’s smaller operations had landed, her reaction had been just short of murderous.
He supposes it might pose problems for the Joes down the line, if anyone ever ties Bogue’s kidnapping and murder to him. Until then, it will simply have to be a mystery as to how a Fortune 500 corporate shark turned up in pieces in an Arizona desert. Assuming anyone ever finds Bogue and his men.
He turns back to Goodnight. He wants to suck a bruise to Goodnight’s neck, if only to put some mark among all of those wounds that belongs to him. It’s something Goody would take comfort in. But he doubts Doc would appreciate the significance.
“What’s your interest in Bogue?”
Sam sucks on his teeth for a second, decides fuck it. Storm would even appreciate this kinda thing.
"Brutalized my mother and sisters," he says. "Lynched me and left me for dead, but I was a hair too light for it to take. He was just hirin' neo-nazi thugs then. Hadn't graduated to professionals yet."
"Your family got in his way," Storm says.
Sam almost smiles. Of course, they're all familiar with the type. "Another fine, historically black neighborhood razed to the ground for urban renewal. It's an old story. Even common."
Storm regards him with cool eyes, as if Sam can't read the hair-trigger tension radiating off of him loud and clear. "And will you be coming after me as well? For taking your revenge away?"
"How'd that work out for you, after you killed Zartan?" Sam asks instead of answering. "Found your inner peace? Achieved nirvana? Got all," he swirls a hand in the universal sign for woo, "self-actualized? Yeah, didn't think so."
Anger heats Storm Shadow’s blood at that dismissal, but he can be honest enough with himself to acknowledge the relief beneath it. If Bounty Hunter can make that comparison between them so easily, he doesn’t know the full account of how completely Zartan decieved him or how utterly the sick bastard threaded himself into every aspect of Storm’s life for decades without him ever guessing.
It means Goodnight has been keeping his secrets.
He wants Goodnight awake so badly that it takes his breath for a moment. Bounty Hunter doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except being the first thing Goody sees when he opens his eyes.
If he ever does…
He’s been awake too long, almost three days now. That’s why he can’t discipline his mind to keep these wayward thoughts from intruding. It’s stupid. The doctor said Goodnight was going to pull through. He just needs to rest.
Except that Doc wasn’t there in the desert. He doesn’t know that Goody meant to let himself die. But Goodnight had opened his eyes, he’d seen that Storm was alive…
He’d told Storm Shadow that he loved him. Storm doesn’t speak French very well, but he knows those words. And he and Goodnight don’t talk that way to each other. Even Goody’s most tender affections - his “cher”, his “darlin’” - are wrapped in teasing. Their intimacies are in touch, in action, not words.
Words of love are for when you’re dying. When there will never be a chance to say them again.
Storm Shadow pulls himself out of those thoughts when the bedrail creaks under his white-knuckled grip.
He focuses himself, turns to Bounty Hunter again.
“Good. I have too many enemies here as it is.” Let him take the loss of control for anger. For ego. It doesn’t matter.
You've been awake too long, Sam has the sense not to say, because he knows good and well from personal experience that pride is just about the only emotional defense Storm has left right now. Still, it doesn't stop Sam from wincing internally at just how long the ninja had zoned out there. Sure sign of exhaustion. It'll take him down eventually, no matter what kind of mind-over-matter tricks he has up his sleeve.
Least the man had showered and changed at some point, probably in the one brief snatch of time he'd allowed Goody out of his sight, which was when they'd rolled Goody into surgery. (Even the toughest Joes know that neither God nor man dares cross Doc when he's operating on a patient.) But it'll do Storm a little bit of psychological good, being clean and comfortable while he holds vigil.
The opening of the door announces the arrival of yet another interested party. The sight of Outlaw has Storm Shadow’s gaze going cold and steely, but he holds his tongue. The fastest way to get rid of Outlaw would result in Storm being ejected from the room, probably right into the brig. So he decides to just keep quiet until Outlaw is done hovering over Goodnight. Odds are, he’ll leave before long, and it will just be him and Bounty Hunter sitting vigil again.
“You know my problem with you?”
Of course the son of a bitch would have to open his mouth at Storm across Goodnight’s sickbed.
“It’s not just that you’re a murderer,” Outlaw grinds out between his teeth. “Or that you turn on anyone stupid enough to trust you…”
“Vasquez.”
Ignoring Bounty Hunter isn’t something done lightly. Outlaw pushes ahead anyway.
“It’s that this...” Outlaw gestures at Goodnight, at the walls around them. “...is all you can ever offer him. Nothing but pain. You think we’re ever going to cut you free, pandejo? After what you did? Not a chance.
“You’re going to be paying penance until something kills you, or you run away again. You have no future.” Outlaw all but spat the words. “And you don’t care what that means for Goodnight. Eres venenso. You’ll just drag him along until you break him or get him killed.”
Storm rises to his feet, is across the room and three inches from Outlaw in a breath. He leaves his weapons; he doesn’t need them.
“How many times did you contact Goodnight after he left your unit? Do you even remember?” His voice is deceptively cool; all he wants to do is break Outlaws neck. “Three times. In four years. While he was holding on by threads. You’re no friend to Goody. Don’t act like you give a damn now.”
He’s already moving when Outlaw takes a swing. Dodging. It’s Sam who blocks, stepping smoothly between them. Storm doesn’t linger, just heads back to his seat as the first orderly rushes in to demand Outlaw leave.
Storm fixes his attention on Goodnight again, ignoring the insult Outlaw hurls in passing. He tells himself that bastard doesn’t matter; all that matters is being here when Goodnight opens his eyes. But he can’t release the tension coiling down his shoulders and spine, no matter how he tries.
Sam watches as Goody shifts a little in his sleep, fingers twitching. Watches Storm zero in on him like a falcon pinpointing its prey - no. Like a man worrying over his lover, and something in Sam relaxes a little more at the sight. Because those ninjas might pride themselves on their control, but it don't take a psychic to read the hope written into the intense focus of Storm's gaze.
"He'll be okay," Sam says, finally. "Seen worse, survived worse. You should still read to him, though. He'll follow your voice."
Storm doesn't respond. Doesn't so much as glance his way as he makes his way to the door. That's all right. He's got classes to teach and missions to run, but he'll be back. Probably with a book.
If he's in hell, hell sounds an awful lot like angry shouting. And not even shouting at him - dozy as he is, Goody can recognize a good old-fashioned flaming row when he hears one. Funny; he'd expected more shrill screams of tortured pain. Crack of whips, maybe. Sulfur, not - antiseptic?
He wakes up a little more, still floating dreamy on a bed of cotton, but all the cotton in the world can't disguise the unmistakable discomfort of a catheter inserted where the sun don't shine. Fuck. He'd hoped to never experience that particular unpleasantness ever again, but apparently the devil'd had other plans.
The devil, who...has...black hair...
...dressed in white...golden skin...
"Storm?" Goody croaks out through a throat full of fucking fire, before he can think better of it. Could be a trick. Got to be a goddamned trick…
Storm isn’t quite sure how he winds up on his knees next to Goodnight’s bed, but he doesn’t care. It puts him on Goody’s level as his eyes flutter open, as he struggles to wake and orient himself. There’s still too much red in his eyes, enough to stir fresh rage in the depths of Storm Shadow’s soul, but still… this is better than last time they were face to face. Goodnight isn’t fading now. He’s trying to make sense of things. It’s up to Storm to let him know he’s been rescued. He’s safe.
Except now Goodnight’s looking at him. Actually seeing him. Breathing his name. And it’s like there’s a hot knife twisting in his heart, an iron band constricting around his throat. It’s the most confusing, welcome pain he’s ever felt.
“Hey,” he manages. “I killed the men who did this to you.” Too late he thinks that was, perhaps, not the most reassuring thing he could have said, heartfelt as it is. Storm tries again.
“You’re safe. We’re back at The Pit.” And Doc will be there in a few more seconds. Storm leans in as best he can, until he and Goodnight are sharing breath across Goodnight’s pillow. Like it’s their own bed.
“You’re an idiot, so I’ll say this so you remember next time - I’ll always find you, Goodnight. Always.” One more breath. “And if you ever tell anyone I shed tears over you, they’ll never believe it.”
He pushes himself onto his feet as Doc and another medic enter the room. Doc is a hair taller than Bounty Hunter, though built leaner and sharper, not nearly so broad in the shoulders. Younger, but with more grey in his black hair. But he and Bounty Hunter have that same air of absolute authority, and Storm gives way before it, moving aside, eyes still on Goodnight.
OK then.
Seems...seems Goody’s not dead after all.
Seems Storm’s not dead either.
Unless Hell’s chosen to torture him with visions of being rescued and alive and with Storm before they snatch it all away and destroy all hope. Goody still ain’t ruling that out.
Mighty odd choice to make the vision so vivid they’ve gone and perfectly simulated every ticking second of the boredom of a hospital stay, though. Hours of it, Christ. And if they’re trying to build up his hope, then why the fuck hasn’t he seen Storm in two days? He’s seen Sam. He’s been debriefed by Roadblock and Scarlett. He’s seen every last man of his old squad and half the Pit, feels like. Even seen Jinx and Snake Eyes and Billy. But apart from the one brief, dizzying conversation Goody still half-thinks he dreamed up when he first woke up in sickbay, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his lover, and that. That hurts.
“Goody?”
“This,” Goody says distractedly, “this ain’t some mystical afterlife hallucination, is it? You’re not some demon or some pagan oracle wearin’ my best friend’s skin to lull me into a false sense of security before you fuck with my head?”
Sam pauses. “If I were, you think I’d tell you?” he finally says, looking at Goody with that achingly familiar mix of fondness and exasperation, and that weirdly makes him relax a lot more about it.
Even if Storm’s still stubbornly missing. Where the hell is he?
“Do you know why you’re still here?”
Storm Shadow barely looks up as Roadblock speaks. And that does absolutely nothing to alleviate Roadblock’s concerns, if he's being honest with himself.
After 48 hours in a vault cell, he’d expected Storm Shadow would be so agitated about being separated from Goodnight, he’d be about ready to tear his way out of his own skin. Hell, he’d half-expected to be attacked the moment he’d stepped inside be to conduct his first debriefing. But Storm had answered every question fully, without emotion or any attempt at justification --
(And of course he’d taken off after a possible lead on Zartan. Even dead, that man was a point of obsession with Storm Shadow.)
-- and once left alone, drawn himself into a corner of his bunk and stayed there. No pacing. No training. He’d eaten, at least, and probably taken some form of sleep. But nothing more.
Roadblock frowns.
“Hey. Do you remember what I told you when Goodnight brought you and Billy back to The Pit?”
“I’d used up my one chance,” Storm says, his voice a dull monotone, his gaze fixed forward. “If I went off-leash again, you’d turn me over to the courts.”
He’d said it, and he’d meant it. But then he’d lowered his guard. He’d seen Storm Shadow’s devotion to Goodnight. Seen the respect he got from the greenshirts. Seen him form bonds with Billy that went beyond teaching the boy how to hone his training and temper his killing instincts. Witnessed the slow, awkward progress as he and Snake Eyes had started to see each other in a new context. And he’d assumed that all translated to some kind of trust on Storm’s part.
But then, what was it Coach Steve used to say about “assume”?
“That’s right. And have you got any good reason for me to go back on my word?”
Storm’s hands clench into fists on his knees.
“No.”
Roadblock slams his fist into the wall beside Storm’s head. Not a twitch. But that, at least, he’d have expected of Storm any day.
“What did you think was going to happen with the unit if you got yourself killed or sent off? Or to Goodnight? Did any of that cross your mind? Why the hell was it worth losing all of that to chase after a dead man?”
“I don’t know why he wanted me. Why it was worth infiltrating the Arashikage clan just to cut me out from the others.” Monotone. Matter-of-fact. No self-pity. No anything. “Zartan had a contingency for everything. Even as a corpse, he has plans in motion. Until I know what they are, he’s not truly dead. And I can’t plan for what might follow me here.”
Finally, he looks at Roadblock.
“Even aside from the accolades it would buy you, I can think of more good reasons for you to turn me in than I can for you keep me here.”
Coward. Roadblock manages to catch the word in his teeth before it comes out; verbal abuse isn't gonna help the situation, and hasn't been his style in years anyway. Storm Shadow's no raw, dumbass recruit who needs whipping into shape.
Well. He looks down at the bowed head, the white-knuckled fists and indrawn posture of misery, and amends that thought. Not green, but definitely still a dumbass.
"That is mighty interesting to hear. But I'm not going to," he says, voice as even and impersonal as he can make it. "I expect you to thank Robicheaux in person, with your words, for buying you your chance this time around."
Then he turns and gets the fuck outta there. Storm Shadow can chew on that by himself for a couple more hours, then he'll have Snake Eyes escort Storm to the infirmary.
A lot of the Joes would call him crazy for giving the guy a third chance. Certainly gonna do fuck-all for morale, and really, Roadblock's mad enough to spit nails himself at Storm for setting back pretty much all the progress they'd all made back to square fuckin' zero. The sole saving grace is how many people saw them when they came in: flight crew, medical staff, anyone hanging around between the hangar and the infirmary.
They'd all seen the way Storm hovered over Goodnight, the distress he'd been too far gone to hide. The obvious conclusion that Goodnight wouldn't've survived long enough for rescue without his intervention. And, Roadblock supposes, nobody would be crying into their powdered eggs over the demise of Bart Bogue. That might just buy Storm enough goodwill he probably won't get shot in the back. Again.
Then there's everything Storm said about Zartan, which, while disturbing as fuck, ain't much of a surprise. Roadblock blows out a sigh as he heads back to his office. Time to go to work.
"They won't kill you."
It's the first thing Snake Eyes signs to Storm Shadow when it's time to take him out of his cell. It's easier to ignore Snake than most; all Storm has to do is look away. He doesn't.
"If Roadblocks turn you away, whoever gets custody won't kill you. They probably won't even imprison you. They'll wring every secret out of you, then break you until you're just a another useful tool."
The Arashikage signs lacks their usual elegance; Snake's motions are clipped, furious.
"You're not stupid; you know all of this. Why did you run?"
Storm slowly pushes himself to his feet, so they're facing each other.
"Say what you mean," he signs. "You don't care that I ran. You care that I didn't come to you."
They face each other for another heartbeat. When Snake signs again, his motions are calmer.
"The Hard Master was your uncle. But he's the only father I remember. You should have come to me."
Anger is first emotion Storm's been able to acknowledge since he left Goodnight's bedside. He allows it to come, slides into it like the second skin it is.
"Your part in this ended when Zartan died. He paid for what he did to you. You know why the Hard Master died. The clan knows what happened to Onihashi. And me? I still have no idea why that bastard took such pains to ensure I would become what I am. What he needed. Don’t pretend your loss gives you any right to my life.”
Snake inclines his head, acknowledging the point, if nothing else. He gestures for Storm to leave the cell.
“Did you learn anything?”
“I need to speak to the demon-bitch.” Storm signs in passing as he walks past. He doesn’t have to guess at where Snake Eyes means him to go. His anger is a paper shield against the sudden barrage of emotion - regret most of all.
He’d told Goodnight not to follow. That he’d be back. That hadn’t been a lie. He could have left behind the rest of this life, this soft-edged servitude, as one more parting among dozens. Perhaps not as easily as some, but he could have done it and never looked back.
He’d known from the start he couldn’t sacrifice Goodnight to this quest. Not forever. He’d have found him again. And Goodnight would have waited for him. He should have waited.
The thought completes itself, unbidden, as he steps into the bright, antiseptic domain of the infirmary. Sees Goodnight lying on his bed, pale and broken, with his leg pinned together and his mind clouded with painkillers.
Goodnight should have waited, because he wasn’t worth this.
Despite the tangle of emotion under his skin, Storm’s pace quickens and he finds himself at Goody’s bedside before he can think better of it.
“How are you doing?”
"Oh, it's been the usual. Waiting on you."
Goodnight's voice is laconic, but the rebuke hits home all the same. Storm Shadow tries to numb himself against the sting, to detach himself from the moment. Everyone turns on him eventually, and Goodnight's already suffered more on his behalf than anyone else in his life. At least his mother died quickly.
But he can't detach himself from Goody, no more than he could in the desert or while awaiting his fate in the vault. And he can't run. Instead, he takes his seat at Goodnight's bedside, trying to decide what needs to be said, now that Goody's more or less lucid.
"Sorry," he manages. "Your captain decided I should cool my heels in a cell."
Now Goodnight's eyes are on Snake Eyes, a dawning suspicion on his drawn, pale face. He knows what the conditions of Storm's continued freedom were.
"It's all right, Goody. He's just making sure I went where I needed to be."
"Where you 'need to be' had damn well better be right here in that chair." While still eyeing one of Arashikage's best with an expression that says any attempt to escort Storm Shadow anywhere else will end in a fight.
The about-face from mulish to protective is too sudden to brace against. Storm is smiling before he can stop himself.
This idiot.
"I'm not going anywhere. They're letting me stay because you were too stubborn to wait for me this time." He slides his fingers into Goodnight's hair, tugs gently. He knows Snake will have left the room by the time Goodnight focuses on him, and he's glad. He's had to deal with too many emotions over the past three days, and just being able to touch Goodnight again makes his throat tighten, his heartbeat race.
"I owe you for saving my ass." His voice is quiet, low, to keep it from cracking. It's fine. He can brush it off as pride if Goodnight thinks to ask.
Storm’s hand sliding into his hair, the gently possessive tug, it’s...even drugged to the gills, Goody’s scalp comes alive under the touch. Even somehow manages to send a few sluggish shivers down his spine. If he weren’t on enough painkillers to fell an elephant, he’d be getting hard just from this. Because he is so far gone for this man it actually is funny.
Or maybe that’s the fentanyl talking. Whatever. Goodnight’s eyes have slid shut of their own accord, whole body relaxing under Storm’s touch without much say-so from Goodnight, to be honest. “Be dead three, four times over without you,” he mumbles, “and I know you know that, but I s’pose you’re welcome.”
This. Just this. He could live on just this for a while.
“Been takin’ stock,” he says after a bit. “All these bruises on me, and not a one of them yours. Occurs to me it’s been a while since that was the case.” He opens his eyes, though it’s a struggle. “Don’t suppose you might have some solutions in mind for that, cher?”
He’s aware he’s being outrageously needy. He does not give a good goddamn.
It's not eerie, that plucking of Storm Shadow's thoughts of three days past from the air and giving it voice. Goodnight belongs with him, to him, and their thoughts are usually aligned with it comes to the treatment of Goodnight's body.
"Some thoughts, for once they let you out of that bed." He keeps his voice to a murmur, and barely that. Just for Goodnight. He slides his hand back through Goody's hair to cradle the back of his skull. "What do you need right now?"
"Grounding. Need remindin' I'm alive when I open my eyes, somewhere I can see."
Storm frowns, but runs the fingertips of his free hand down Goodnight's exposed arms, looking for a patch of unmarked skin to work with. He lifts Goody's hand to his lips, as if for a kiss, but instead closes his teeth over the web between his thumb and forefinger. It leaves a ring of dents that will purple and bruise, distinct from the other marks on his skin.
"You can explain that to Doc," he teases. It's an empty threat, of course. And none of Doc's damn business.
Carl “Doc” Greer is an observant man. It’s part of what makes him a good medic, the ability to assess the moment, to put together clues, to intuit exactly what it is the more stubborn of his patients try to keep themselves.
He discerned early on that Storm’s relationship with Goodnight wasn’t nearly as one-sided as it seemed at first glance. Goodnight wears Storm Shadow’s bruises gladly and makes no effort to hide that the man holds his metaphorical leash (and if that goes deeper than metaphor, that no one’s business but theirs). But he can also count on one hand how often Storm’s outside of Goodnight’s orbit when they’re both on base. He’s seen the man show up at the door of the comms room the literal second Goody’s shift is up, seen him at Goodnight’s side in the rec area when they’re all up and restless and waiting for word on a mission gone sour. He’s seen the eternally-alert ninja honest-to-God relax his guard at Goodnight’s hand on his shoulder.
So no. He doesn’t actually worry about the two of them, at least not in the way some of his colleagues do.
That does not mean he’s inclined to ignore the fact that there’s a ninja in his patient’s hospital bed. The fact that said ninja is glaring at him over Goodnight’s shoulder like a dragon protecting its hoard doesn’t put him in a more charitable mood.
Goodnight, of course, seems perfectly content with the situation and more at-ease than he has in the week since his rescue. He’s asleep sitting up, his head lolling against Storm’s shoulder, likely lulled into his nap by the late-night movie on the wall screen as much as the man sitting at his back.
Storm’s glaring intensifies as Doc draws closer.
“He’s resting. Come back later.”
“Funny. I thought I was the one giving orders around here.” Doc takes a second to weigh his options. He won’t be goaded into an encounter he can’t win. But he also suspects that his notion of a victory is very different from Storm’s. He takes another moment to evaluate the battlefield, notes how much skin Storm’s undershirt leaves bared, and exits the room.
He returns seconds later with his kit.
“You’re overdue for your exam,” he says mildly, retrieving his stethoscope. “And if you’re going to position yourself as a patient, I’m damn well going to treat you like one.”
He has no doubt Storm could escape or even incapacitate him if he wanted to. Either option would, of course, wake Goodnight.
It’s absolutely no surprise to Doc that Storm doesn’t so much as twitch, not even when the ‘scope’s diaphragm presses to his skin.
“When can he get out of here?”
Doc waits until Storm’s gone silent again and he’s gotten a satisfactory listen before he responds. He won’t be able to perform a complete exam with the two of them tangled up like this, but he’ll take what he can get.
“His leg’s mending; the surgery went better than expected. But he’s been through an ordeal on top of that fracture. I’d like to keep him under care for another couple of weeks, at least.”
Storm frowns, glances back at Goodnight. Doc reads the unvoiced concern.
“Was he having a bad night?”
“Nightmare.” Storm says shortly. “I woke him before he could move around too much.”
lazaefair over on Tumblr, archiving here:So there’s the pain. Pain he can deal with. Even excruciating, even with shattered bones and peeled skin and cigarette burns and probably internal bleeding. Always was cursed with high pain tolerance. And he’s pickled himself in enough alcohol it’s got to have had an effect on his poor nerve endings by now. So he’d been coping middlingly well with chronic injuries for years, before…before…well, if this’d been any other mission, he’d’ve survived the night. Even without using the rudimentary healing meditation techniques Storm had been teaching him.
But what would be the goddamn point?
Goodnight Robicheaux closes his eyes, too dehydrated to cry, too hurt for his body to muster the energy for it anyway. If he’s lucky, whatever’s bleeding will kill him inside of a decent timeframe. Or the cold desert night will freeze him before morning. Or he’ll choke to death in the next sandstorm. Either way, his body’ll decay to nothing but dust and ashes, heaped up next to the pile of dead tires they dumped him by, and Lord willing by then he’ll be far away scouring every fuckin’ corner of Hades, Diyu, Chiok, Yomi, or where the hell ever for that white-clad, son of a bitch, bastard of a ninja.
Because Storm Shadow is dead. Has to be. No other reason for them to let him go. Retired, aging, broken ex-Joes are not high value targets, anyone with two brain cells to rub together can deduce that. No, the only thing he’s worth these days is whatever value one particular renegade Arashikage had assigned to him for some unfathomable reason. And if Goody’s been released - means taking him hostage worked, and he’s back to being of zero use to anyone.
Didn’t even merit the honor of a proper execution. Got taken out like a goddamn bag of garbage.
So there will be no healing meditation. No gritting of teeth, no hitching up of bootstraps, no survival at all costs for God and country. It ain’t how he envisioned himself shuffling off this mortal coil - always figured it was either gonna be a grenade or cirrhosis of the liver - but it’s all right. This is about what he deserves.
He’s just gonna sit here with the rest of the trash, and let his life run out into the sand, and hope whichever divine judge rules the next dimension has enough mercy to at least let him be strapped to the rack next to Storm’s.
Goodnight is not dead.
Five English syllables beating out a steady rhythm in his brain in time with his footsteps, wrapped around his heart, held close to his soul with the same implacable, iron-clad faith he’d cultivated for twenty years while biding time for revenge. As holy as the prayers bound up in Outlaw’s rosary, as sacred as the mantras recited daily by his old masters in the mountains.
Goodnight is not dead.
It’s running through his mind now, worn smooth over the course of thirty-six sleepless hours. The trail led him out here to some patch of nowhere, bouncing among the dunes in a stolen truck.
“Ow!”
Storm Shadow ignores the captive bound in the back as a particularly hard bounce clonks his head off the truck bed. The captive is alive solely because he’d finally broken ranks and given up the coordinates for the most likely of the mercenaries’ body-dumping locations. Storm took him along as insurance, and potentially more helpful information. Especially since he’d already slaughtered their boss. In front of them.
(What the Joes don’t witness, they can’t disapprove of.)
The site is a literal dump. Husks of vehicles, metal scrap, piles of junk. The stink of rotting meat is out of place among all the mechanical detritus. Storm reflexively rejects the idea that Goodnight is part of that miasma. Bogue’s mercenaries hadn’t finished him; they’d left him alive, to suffer a slow death. And Storm is going to find him before that happens.
Goodnight is not dead.
The moon is nearly gone, the sun is just a promise. Storm Shadow finds Goodnight anyway, at the very edge of the dump site. He knows the shape of his lover’s body in silhouette, even curled in on itself. Goodnight hides from his nightmares asleep as much as awake, tries to disappear before they possess him completely.
He doesn’t need light to catch the cloying, ferric scent of blood, or to feel how Goodnight’s unnervingly cool flesh sticks to his fingers when he rolls him over. Storm Shadow doesn’t need light to realize he’s the only one breathing.
“Goody…”
Goodnight is not dead!
“I told you not to follow me. I told you…” Storm tamps down the dumb, animal panic rising in the back of his mind as he presses fingers to Goodnight’s neck, willing a pulse to be there. “You stupid soldier! Goodnight, breathe!”
He does. A ragged, shallow swallow of air that gives Storm permission to draw breath again.
Storm slumps as relief washes over him. This idiot. This blockhead yangnom mule. Goodnight doesn’t always listen to him (he wouldn’t be in this shit if he did!), but at least he will obey, given incentive.
He stands, heads back to the truck. He needs to get a proper look at Goodnight.
The brights come on, and Storm Shadow’s breath stops once more at the sight of Goodnight’s body, territory that he’s memorized by touch, now bloodied, burned, torn and trespassed upon to the point of ruin.
He’s on autopilot when he hauls the bound merc out of the truck bed and puts a bullet in his skull. Thinking again a second later, on his knees at Goodnight’s side, assessing.
It doesn’t matter that they have transportation. Goody’s barely breathing. Dehydrated. He’s lost so much blood, it’s a miracle the shock didn’t kill him. Thirty miles of rough terrain in that truck will finish the job. Carrying him wouldn’t be much gentler, and would take far longer.
There’s a radio in the truck. Putting out a general call for help will get them killed. But… Storm knows codes he shouldn’t. Channels exclusive to Joes. They’re obsolete now. Compromised. But he knows Breaker and Goodnight still monitor them, even two years after Zartan’s kill order against all GI Joe units. They still hope against hope that more survivors will turn up.
It’s the only chance Goody has. All Storm can do is put out the call, and hope that COBRA gave up on those channels when they started hunting down straggler Joes the hard way.
Storm can’t move Goodnight very much without worsening his injuries. He can move the truck, and some of the junk piles. That at least gives them shade as the sun comes up. And cover, in case someone is stupid enough to come after them.
Storm almost hopes hostiles find them. He would dearly love to kill someone - anyone - right now.
He doesn’t know if he managed to get through to help. There’s only waiting now, sitting in the shade with Goodnight’s head cradled in his lap. Relief and adrenaline both ebb away, replaced by an unfamiliar helplessness.
There was a gallon jug of water and a sports drink the truck. Storm moistens Goodnight’s lips, feeds him liquids drop by drop. Eventually, Goodnight swallows.
Goodnight is not dead.
Storm Shadow slides his hand beneath the bloody rag of Goodnight’s shirt, finding reassurance where he can. Breath. Heartbeat. A stomach that’s soft, not rigid and distended by internal bleeding.
It’s not much. Not when he can count half a dozen injuries for every slim proof of life.
There’s only the harsh desert sun, the stench of death and the painful drag of Goodnight’s breath over his cracked lips to fill Storm Shadow’s senses. He takes stock of Goodnight’s injuries between bouts of hydration; the more Doc knows, the faster he can start treating Goody.
It should be easy, this meditation on pain. He’s intimately familiar with it, receiving and inflicting. He notes where the cords cut deep into Goodnight’s wrists, where fingernails were torn away, strips of missing skin, and the small red pits of cigarette burns.
But he can’t focus on the injuries. His mind dwells on Goodnight’s suffering. On how his lover lay here for day and most of a night, discarded like so much garbage, in agony but alive. That knowledge alone shifts uneasily within Storm, a fresh anger burning like poison in his blood. But there’s something else.
Goodnight hadn’t fought for his life, not at the last. He hadn’t tried to find help, or even crawl to shade, and Storm can’t understand it. Robicheaux is damaged, but he’s also too damn stubborn for his own good. Just lying down to die isn’t in the man’s character. Especially not if he came all this way looking for… him.
The truth strikes like the sharpest blades.
Goodnight thought he was dead, the same as those idiot mercenaries with their half-assed ambush. And that loss was enough that Goodnight was willing to let himself die by inches under the desert sun. Nausea and panic writhe in Storm Shadow’s guts. No one should care about him that much. No one should care enough that they’d torture themselves for the chance to chase him into death.
Goodnight Robicheaux is a blind fool, but that does nothing to account for the sudden tightness in his own chest. No. He can’t afford to be weak, especially not now. He reaches for the water jug and looks back down to Goodnight for distraction.
Shadowed blue eyes lock with his. There’s too much red in that blue, and they’re not quite focused, but Goodnight is looking up at him. Blood encrusted fingers wrap desperately around Storm’s, spasming weakly, spurring painful memories a lifetime gone.
Storm tries to tell Goodnight to rest. He needs to conserve his strength.
Instead, he sobs a rough, ragged, “I told you not to follow me.”
Blinding white light. Freedom from pain. Ambrosia on his tongue. And...Storm Shadow, here, with him, over and under and around him. Hand resting on Goody's heart.
He's saying something, beautiful lips moving, but relief pounds too loudly in Goody's ears for the words to come through. Easier to cling to his hand, warm and solid and here, and look up at him. Drink his face in while a drugging bliss settles into his bones.
Something glitters on Storm's cheek. They're tears, Goody realizes, which only confirms his conclusion that they're definitely dead. This is his moment of grace, then. The briefly granted reunion meant to sustain him through the rest of eternity alone in the hell he deserves. He can even feel the black hole hovering somewhere nearby, yawning wide and slowly drawing him out of Storm's presence, but this is already so much more than he expected.
He'll content himself with this, come what may.
Storm's hand is heavier than he remembers, but he manages to lift it to his lips with the last of his strength. His lover deserves at least that much.
"Mon amour," Goody sighs, or thinks he does, and then the darkness swarms up over him again.
The airlift arrives just as twilight settles in.
Storm Shadow doesn’t move as the medics swarm their small fortress. It doesn’t matter if they see him sheltering Goodnight. Goodnight is still breathing. That’s all he cares about.
Storm inwardly flinches when they pull Goodnight’s hand free of his, but he keeps it off his face. Doesn't reach for him.
Somehow, he doesn’t notice Snake Eyes until a fresh grip closes on his hand, and he’s pulled to his feet.
Snake signs to him. We need to go. Are you coming?
He should be annoyed that his sword brother laid a hand on him. But he doesn’t feel anything.
“If I don’t,” Storm mumbles, “he’ll come looking for me.”
Feeling has crept back into his chest by the time they let him into the sickbay. He sets up vigil by Goodnight’s bed, swords strapped to his back, throwing stars at his belt, SIG holstered at his side. He probably won’t need them. But it’s better to have them nearby.
Doc doesn’t protest. Maybe he thinks Storm will finally allow medics within arm’s reach of him if he can watch over Goodnight while they examine him. That’s not going to happen. He’s fine.
Goodnight looks worse. Every injury stands out against the sterile white of his sheets and pillow. But he’s healing. Intravenous fluids. Sedatives. Pain killers. Goodnight’s not feeling anything, at least. He’s not in pain.
“You would have done better to bring a book.”
Storm knows Bounty Hunter’s voice. He doesn’t look up. Goodnight shifts ever so slightly. An unconscious twitch, Storm tells himself. Not nightmares.
“I know you’re not much for talk,” the Joe goes on, “but reading’s easy enough. It would let him know you’re staying with him.”
Storm’s fingers itch for his swords. He knows Goodnight’s friends don’t approve of their arrangement. Considering that said disapproval has already earned him a bullet in the back, he thinks he’s entitled to be on his guard around them.
But Bounty Hunter isn’t Flint. He’s not Outlaw. Some days, Storm’s guard slips and he even thinks of him as “Sam”. He doesn’t usually put Storm on edge like this.
“Doc says he won’t wake up any time soon,” Storm says finally. “If that’s why you’re here.”
“More curious as to why you’re here, if Goody’s supposed to be down for a while. You could be anywhere else.”
Storm Shadow remembers dry lips scratching across the back of his hand in a farewell kiss.
“No. I couldn’t be.”
Sam nods, slowly, as Storm visibly loses interest in him and goes back to watching Goody. He's not used to seeing that expression on the faces of ex-COBRA ninjas with more blood on their hands than some small armies, but the expression itself's familiar enough.
Fearful and hopeful and exhausted to the bone, all at once. He's seen it in the faces of countless military spouses, of the loved ones of fighters and warriors the world over. Felt it a time or two on his own face, first keeping vigil over his mother and sisters, and then over too many men under his command. Knows it's tightening the corners of his mouth now, even if he does have a little more experience hiding it than Storm does.
Sam sits in the other chair in the room. Rifles through his mental catalog and settles into Position Number Three for coping with hard plastic infirmary chairs for longer than five minutes at a time.
He lets the silence stretch and make itself at home for a while before he says quietly, "Heard you put an end to Bart Bogue, when you went lookin' for Goody."
Storm stops meditating on the rhythm of Goodnight’s breathing just long enough to spare Sam a glance. Talking about his kills is far easier than talking about Goodnight, but he doubts the change of subject is for his benefit.
“I’ll be watching my back again when your Sergeant Cullen finds out. She wanted his head.” Storm is in no way a confidant of Scarlett’s, regardless of her relationship to Snake Eyes, but he doesn’t have to be to know she loathed the man. When the intel on who was supplying mercenaries for some of COBRA’s smaller operations had landed, her reaction had been just short of murderous.
He supposes it might pose problems for the Joes down the line, if anyone ever ties Bogue’s kidnapping and murder to him. Until then, it will simply have to be a mystery as to how a Fortune 500 corporate shark turned up in pieces in an Arizona desert. Assuming anyone ever finds Bogue and his men.
He turns back to Goodnight. He wants to suck a bruise to Goodnight’s neck, if only to put some mark among all of those wounds that belongs to him. It’s something Goody would take comfort in. But he doubts Doc would appreciate the significance.
“What’s your interest in Bogue?”
Sam sucks on his teeth for a second, decides fuck it. Storm would even appreciate this kinda thing.
"Brutalized my mother and sisters," he says. "Lynched me and left me for dead, but I was a hair too light for it to take. He was just hirin' neo-nazi thugs then. Hadn't graduated to professionals yet."
"Your family got in his way," Storm says.
Sam almost smiles. Of course, they're all familiar with the type. "Another fine, historically black neighborhood razed to the ground for urban renewal. It's an old story. Even common."
Storm regards him with cool eyes, as if Sam can't read the hair-trigger tension radiating off of him loud and clear. "And will you be coming after me as well? For taking your revenge away?"
"How'd that work out for you, after you killed Zartan?" Sam asks instead of answering. "Found your inner peace? Achieved nirvana? Got all," he swirls a hand in the universal sign for woo, "self-actualized? Yeah, didn't think so."
Anger heats Storm Shadow’s blood at that dismissal, but he can be honest enough with himself to acknowledge the relief beneath it. If Bounty Hunter can make that comparison between them so easily, he doesn’t know the full account of how completely Zartan decieved him or how utterly the sick bastard threaded himself into every aspect of Storm’s life for decades without him ever guessing.
It means Goodnight has been keeping his secrets.
He wants Goodnight awake so badly that it takes his breath for a moment. Bounty Hunter doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except being the first thing Goody sees when he opens his eyes.
If he ever does…
He’s been awake too long, almost three days now. That’s why he can’t discipline his mind to keep these wayward thoughts from intruding. It’s stupid. The doctor said Goodnight was going to pull through. He just needs to rest.
Except that Doc wasn’t there in the desert. He doesn’t know that Goody meant to let himself die. But Goodnight had opened his eyes, he’d seen that Storm was alive…
He’d told Storm Shadow that he loved him. Storm doesn’t speak French very well, but he knows those words. And he and Goodnight don’t talk that way to each other. Even Goody’s most tender affections - his “cher”, his “darlin’” - are wrapped in teasing. Their intimacies are in touch, in action, not words.
Words of love are for when you’re dying. When there will never be a chance to say them again.
Storm Shadow pulls himself out of those thoughts when the bedrail creaks under his white-knuckled grip.
He focuses himself, turns to Bounty Hunter again.
“Good. I have too many enemies here as it is.” Let him take the loss of control for anger. For ego. It doesn’t matter.
You've been awake too long, Sam has the sense not to say, because he knows good and well from personal experience that pride is just about the only emotional defense Storm has left right now. Still, it doesn't stop Sam from wincing internally at just how long the ninja had zoned out there. Sure sign of exhaustion. It'll take him down eventually, no matter what kind of mind-over-matter tricks he has up his sleeve.
Least the man had showered and changed at some point, probably in the one brief snatch of time he'd allowed Goody out of his sight, which was when they'd rolled Goody into surgery. (Even the toughest Joes know that neither God nor man dares cross Doc when he's operating on a patient.) But it'll do Storm a little bit of psychological good, being clean and comfortable while he holds vigil.
The opening of the door announces the arrival of yet another interested party. The sight of Outlaw has Storm Shadow’s gaze going cold and steely, but he holds his tongue. The fastest way to get rid of Outlaw would result in Storm being ejected from the room, probably right into the brig. So he decides to just keep quiet until Outlaw is done hovering over Goodnight. Odds are, he’ll leave before long, and it will just be him and Bounty Hunter sitting vigil again.
“You know my problem with you?”
Of course the son of a bitch would have to open his mouth at Storm across Goodnight’s sickbed.
“It’s not just that you’re a murderer,” Outlaw grinds out between his teeth. “Or that you turn on anyone stupid enough to trust you…”
“Vasquez.”
Ignoring Bounty Hunter isn’t something done lightly. Outlaw pushes ahead anyway.
“It’s that this...” Outlaw gestures at Goodnight, at the walls around them. “...is all you can ever offer him. Nothing but pain. You think we’re ever going to cut you free, pandejo? After what you did? Not a chance.
“You’re going to be paying penance until something kills you, or you run away again. You have no future.” Outlaw all but spat the words. “And you don’t care what that means for Goodnight. Eres venenso. You’ll just drag him along until you break him or get him killed.”
Storm rises to his feet, is across the room and three inches from Outlaw in a breath. He leaves his weapons; he doesn’t need them.
“How many times did you contact Goodnight after he left your unit? Do you even remember?” His voice is deceptively cool; all he wants to do is break Outlaws neck. “Three times. In four years. While he was holding on by threads. You’re no friend to Goody. Don’t act like you give a damn now.”
He’s already moving when Outlaw takes a swing. Dodging. It’s Sam who blocks, stepping smoothly between them. Storm doesn’t linger, just heads back to his seat as the first orderly rushes in to demand Outlaw leave.
Storm fixes his attention on Goodnight again, ignoring the insult Outlaw hurls in passing. He tells himself that bastard doesn’t matter; all that matters is being here when Goodnight opens his eyes. But he can’t release the tension coiling down his shoulders and spine, no matter how he tries.
Sam watches as Goody shifts a little in his sleep, fingers twitching. Watches Storm zero in on him like a falcon pinpointing its prey - no. Like a man worrying over his lover, and something in Sam relaxes a little more at the sight. Because those ninjas might pride themselves on their control, but it don't take a psychic to read the hope written into the intense focus of Storm's gaze.
"He'll be okay," Sam says, finally. "Seen worse, survived worse. You should still read to him, though. He'll follow your voice."
Storm doesn't respond. Doesn't so much as glance his way as he makes his way to the door. That's all right. He's got classes to teach and missions to run, but he'll be back. Probably with a book.
If he's in hell, hell sounds an awful lot like angry shouting. And not even shouting at him - dozy as he is, Goody can recognize a good old-fashioned flaming row when he hears one. Funny; he'd expected more shrill screams of tortured pain. Crack of whips, maybe. Sulfur, not - antiseptic?
He wakes up a little more, still floating dreamy on a bed of cotton, but all the cotton in the world can't disguise the unmistakable discomfort of a catheter inserted where the sun don't shine. Fuck. He'd hoped to never experience that particular unpleasantness ever again, but apparently the devil'd had other plans.
The devil, who...has...black hair...
...dressed in white...golden skin...
"Storm?" Goody croaks out through a throat full of fucking fire, before he can think better of it. Could be a trick. Got to be a goddamned trick…
Storm isn’t quite sure how he winds up on his knees next to Goodnight’s bed, but he doesn’t care. It puts him on Goody’s level as his eyes flutter open, as he struggles to wake and orient himself. There’s still too much red in his eyes, enough to stir fresh rage in the depths of Storm Shadow’s soul, but still… this is better than last time they were face to face. Goodnight isn’t fading now. He’s trying to make sense of things. It’s up to Storm to let him know he’s been rescued. He’s safe.
Except now Goodnight’s looking at him. Actually seeing him. Breathing his name. And it’s like there’s a hot knife twisting in his heart, an iron band constricting around his throat. It’s the most confusing, welcome pain he’s ever felt.
“Hey,” he manages. “I killed the men who did this to you.” Too late he thinks that was, perhaps, not the most reassuring thing he could have said, heartfelt as it is. Storm tries again.
“You’re safe. We’re back at The Pit.” And Doc will be there in a few more seconds. Storm leans in as best he can, until he and Goodnight are sharing breath across Goodnight’s pillow. Like it’s their own bed.
“You’re an idiot, so I’ll say this so you remember next time - I’ll always find you, Goodnight. Always.” One more breath. “And if you ever tell anyone I shed tears over you, they’ll never believe it.”
He pushes himself onto his feet as Doc and another medic enter the room. Doc is a hair taller than Bounty Hunter, though built leaner and sharper, not nearly so broad in the shoulders. Younger, but with more grey in his black hair. But he and Bounty Hunter have that same air of absolute authority, and Storm gives way before it, moving aside, eyes still on Goodnight.
OK then.
Seems...seems Goody’s not dead after all.
Seems Storm’s not dead either.
Unless Hell’s chosen to torture him with visions of being rescued and alive and with Storm before they snatch it all away and destroy all hope. Goody still ain’t ruling that out.
Mighty odd choice to make the vision so vivid they’ve gone and perfectly simulated every ticking second of the boredom of a hospital stay, though. Hours of it, Christ. And if they’re trying to build up his hope, then why the fuck hasn’t he seen Storm in two days? He’s seen Sam. He’s been debriefed by Roadblock and Scarlett. He’s seen every last man of his old squad and half the Pit, feels like. Even seen Jinx and Snake Eyes and Billy. But apart from the one brief, dizzying conversation Goody still half-thinks he dreamed up when he first woke up in sickbay, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his lover, and that. That hurts.
“Goody?”
“This,” Goody says distractedly, “this ain’t some mystical afterlife hallucination, is it? You’re not some demon or some pagan oracle wearin’ my best friend’s skin to lull me into a false sense of security before you fuck with my head?”
Sam pauses. “If I were, you think I’d tell you?” he finally says, looking at Goody with that achingly familiar mix of fondness and exasperation, and that weirdly makes him relax a lot more about it.
Even if Storm’s still stubbornly missing. Where the hell is he?
“Do you know why you’re still here?”
Storm Shadow barely looks up as Roadblock speaks. And that does absolutely nothing to alleviate Roadblock’s concerns, if he's being honest with himself.
After 48 hours in a vault cell, he’d expected Storm Shadow would be so agitated about being separated from Goodnight, he’d be about ready to tear his way out of his own skin. Hell, he’d half-expected to be attacked the moment he’d stepped inside be to conduct his first debriefing. But Storm had answered every question fully, without emotion or any attempt at justification --
(And of course he’d taken off after a possible lead on Zartan. Even dead, that man was a point of obsession with Storm Shadow.)
-- and once left alone, drawn himself into a corner of his bunk and stayed there. No pacing. No training. He’d eaten, at least, and probably taken some form of sleep. But nothing more.
Roadblock frowns.
“Hey. Do you remember what I told you when Goodnight brought you and Billy back to The Pit?”
“I’d used up my one chance,” Storm says, his voice a dull monotone, his gaze fixed forward. “If I went off-leash again, you’d turn me over to the courts.”
He’d said it, and he’d meant it. But then he’d lowered his guard. He’d seen Storm Shadow’s devotion to Goodnight. Seen the respect he got from the greenshirts. Seen him form bonds with Billy that went beyond teaching the boy how to hone his training and temper his killing instincts. Witnessed the slow, awkward progress as he and Snake Eyes had started to see each other in a new context. And he’d assumed that all translated to some kind of trust on Storm’s part.
But then, what was it Coach Steve used to say about “assume”?
“That’s right. And have you got any good reason for me to go back on my word?”
Storm’s hands clench into fists on his knees.
“No.”
Roadblock slams his fist into the wall beside Storm’s head. Not a twitch. But that, at least, he’d have expected of Storm any day.
“What did you think was going to happen with the unit if you got yourself killed or sent off? Or to Goodnight? Did any of that cross your mind? Why the hell was it worth losing all of that to chase after a dead man?”
“I don’t know why he wanted me. Why it was worth infiltrating the Arashikage clan just to cut me out from the others.” Monotone. Matter-of-fact. No self-pity. No anything. “Zartan had a contingency for everything. Even as a corpse, he has plans in motion. Until I know what they are, he’s not truly dead. And I can’t plan for what might follow me here.”
Finally, he looks at Roadblock.
“Even aside from the accolades it would buy you, I can think of more good reasons for you to turn me in than I can for you keep me here.”
Coward. Roadblock manages to catch the word in his teeth before it comes out; verbal abuse isn't gonna help the situation, and hasn't been his style in years anyway. Storm Shadow's no raw, dumbass recruit who needs whipping into shape.
Well. He looks down at the bowed head, the white-knuckled fists and indrawn posture of misery, and amends that thought. Not green, but definitely still a dumbass.
"That is mighty interesting to hear. But I'm not going to," he says, voice as even and impersonal as he can make it. "I expect you to thank Robicheaux in person, with your words, for buying you your chance this time around."
Then he turns and gets the fuck outta there. Storm Shadow can chew on that by himself for a couple more hours, then he'll have Snake Eyes escort Storm to the infirmary.
A lot of the Joes would call him crazy for giving the guy a third chance. Certainly gonna do fuck-all for morale, and really, Roadblock's mad enough to spit nails himself at Storm for setting back pretty much all the progress they'd all made back to square fuckin' zero. The sole saving grace is how many people saw them when they came in: flight crew, medical staff, anyone hanging around between the hangar and the infirmary.
They'd all seen the way Storm hovered over Goodnight, the distress he'd been too far gone to hide. The obvious conclusion that Goodnight wouldn't've survived long enough for rescue without his intervention. And, Roadblock supposes, nobody would be crying into their powdered eggs over the demise of Bart Bogue. That might just buy Storm enough goodwill he probably won't get shot in the back. Again.
Then there's everything Storm said about Zartan, which, while disturbing as fuck, ain't much of a surprise. Roadblock blows out a sigh as he heads back to his office. Time to go to work.
"They won't kill you."
It's the first thing Snake Eyes signs to Storm Shadow when it's time to take him out of his cell. It's easier to ignore Snake than most; all Storm has to do is look away. He doesn't.
"If Roadblocks turn you away, whoever gets custody won't kill you. They probably won't even imprison you. They'll wring every secret out of you, then break you until you're just a another useful tool."
The Arashikage signs lacks their usual elegance; Snake's motions are clipped, furious.
"You're not stupid; you know all of this. Why did you run?"
Storm slowly pushes himself to his feet, so they're facing each other.
"Say what you mean," he signs. "You don't care that I ran. You care that I didn't come to you."
They face each other for another heartbeat. When Snake signs again, his motions are calmer.
"The Hard Master was your uncle. But he's the only father I remember. You should have come to me."
Anger is first emotion Storm's been able to acknowledge since he left Goodnight's bedside. He allows it to come, slides into it like the second skin it is.
"Your part in this ended when Zartan died. He paid for what he did to you. You know why the Hard Master died. The clan knows what happened to Onihashi. And me? I still have no idea why that bastard took such pains to ensure I would become what I am. What he needed. Don’t pretend your loss gives you any right to my life.”
Snake inclines his head, acknowledging the point, if nothing else. He gestures for Storm to leave the cell.
“Did you learn anything?”
“I need to speak to the demon-bitch.” Storm signs in passing as he walks past. He doesn’t have to guess at where Snake Eyes means him to go. His anger is a paper shield against the sudden barrage of emotion - regret most of all.
He’d told Goodnight not to follow. That he’d be back. That hadn’t been a lie. He could have left behind the rest of this life, this soft-edged servitude, as one more parting among dozens. Perhaps not as easily as some, but he could have done it and never looked back.
He’d known from the start he couldn’t sacrifice Goodnight to this quest. Not forever. He’d have found him again. And Goodnight would have waited for him. He should have waited.
The thought completes itself, unbidden, as he steps into the bright, antiseptic domain of the infirmary. Sees Goodnight lying on his bed, pale and broken, with his leg pinned together and his mind clouded with painkillers.
Goodnight should have waited, because he wasn’t worth this.
Despite the tangle of emotion under his skin, Storm’s pace quickens and he finds himself at Goody’s bedside before he can think better of it.
“How are you doing?”
"Oh, it's been the usual. Waiting on you."
Goodnight's voice is laconic, but the rebuke hits home all the same. Storm Shadow tries to numb himself against the sting, to detach himself from the moment. Everyone turns on him eventually, and Goodnight's already suffered more on his behalf than anyone else in his life. At least his mother died quickly.
But he can't detach himself from Goody, no more than he could in the desert or while awaiting his fate in the vault. And he can't run. Instead, he takes his seat at Goodnight's bedside, trying to decide what needs to be said, now that Goody's more or less lucid.
"Sorry," he manages. "Your captain decided I should cool my heels in a cell."
Now Goodnight's eyes are on Snake Eyes, a dawning suspicion on his drawn, pale face. He knows what the conditions of Storm's continued freedom were.
"It's all right, Goody. He's just making sure I went where I needed to be."
"Where you 'need to be' had damn well better be right here in that chair." While still eyeing one of Arashikage's best with an expression that says any attempt to escort Storm Shadow anywhere else will end in a fight.
The about-face from mulish to protective is too sudden to brace against. Storm is smiling before he can stop himself.
This idiot.
"I'm not going anywhere. They're letting me stay because you were too stubborn to wait for me this time." He slides his fingers into Goodnight's hair, tugs gently. He knows Snake will have left the room by the time Goodnight focuses on him, and he's glad. He's had to deal with too many emotions over the past three days, and just being able to touch Goodnight again makes his throat tighten, his heartbeat race.
"I owe you for saving my ass." His voice is quiet, low, to keep it from cracking. It's fine. He can brush it off as pride if Goodnight thinks to ask.
Storm’s hand sliding into his hair, the gently possessive tug, it’s...even drugged to the gills, Goody’s scalp comes alive under the touch. Even somehow manages to send a few sluggish shivers down his spine. If he weren’t on enough painkillers to fell an elephant, he’d be getting hard just from this. Because he is so far gone for this man it actually is funny.
Or maybe that’s the fentanyl talking. Whatever. Goodnight’s eyes have slid shut of their own accord, whole body relaxing under Storm’s touch without much say-so from Goodnight, to be honest. “Be dead three, four times over without you,” he mumbles, “and I know you know that, but I s’pose you’re welcome.”
This. Just this. He could live on just this for a while.
“Been takin’ stock,” he says after a bit. “All these bruises on me, and not a one of them yours. Occurs to me it’s been a while since that was the case.” He opens his eyes, though it’s a struggle. “Don’t suppose you might have some solutions in mind for that, cher?”
He’s aware he’s being outrageously needy. He does not give a good goddamn.
It's not eerie, that plucking of Storm Shadow's thoughts of three days past from the air and giving it voice. Goodnight belongs with him, to him, and their thoughts are usually aligned with it comes to the treatment of Goodnight's body.
"Some thoughts, for once they let you out of that bed." He keeps his voice to a murmur, and barely that. Just for Goodnight. He slides his hand back through Goody's hair to cradle the back of his skull. "What do you need right now?"
"Grounding. Need remindin' I'm alive when I open my eyes, somewhere I can see."
Storm frowns, but runs the fingertips of his free hand down Goodnight's exposed arms, looking for a patch of unmarked skin to work with. He lifts Goody's hand to his lips, as if for a kiss, but instead closes his teeth over the web between his thumb and forefinger. It leaves a ring of dents that will purple and bruise, distinct from the other marks on his skin.
"You can explain that to Doc," he teases. It's an empty threat, of course. And none of Doc's damn business.
Carl “Doc” Greer is an observant man. It’s part of what makes him a good medic, the ability to assess the moment, to put together clues, to intuit exactly what it is the more stubborn of his patients try to keep themselves.
He discerned early on that Storm’s relationship with Goodnight wasn’t nearly as one-sided as it seemed at first glance. Goodnight wears Storm Shadow’s bruises gladly and makes no effort to hide that the man holds his metaphorical leash (and if that goes deeper than metaphor, that no one’s business but theirs). But he can also count on one hand how often Storm’s outside of Goodnight’s orbit when they’re both on base. He’s seen the man show up at the door of the comms room the literal second Goody’s shift is up, seen him at Goodnight’s side in the rec area when they’re all up and restless and waiting for word on a mission gone sour. He’s seen the eternally-alert ninja honest-to-God relax his guard at Goodnight’s hand on his shoulder.
So no. He doesn’t actually worry about the two of them, at least not in the way some of his colleagues do.
That does not mean he’s inclined to ignore the fact that there’s a ninja in his patient’s hospital bed. The fact that said ninja is glaring at him over Goodnight’s shoulder like a dragon protecting its hoard doesn’t put him in a more charitable mood.
Goodnight, of course, seems perfectly content with the situation and more at-ease than he has in the week since his rescue. He’s asleep sitting up, his head lolling against Storm’s shoulder, likely lulled into his nap by the late-night movie on the wall screen as much as the man sitting at his back.
Storm’s glaring intensifies as Doc draws closer.
“He’s resting. Come back later.”
“Funny. I thought I was the one giving orders around here.” Doc takes a second to weigh his options. He won’t be goaded into an encounter he can’t win. But he also suspects that his notion of a victory is very different from Storm’s. He takes another moment to evaluate the battlefield, notes how much skin Storm’s undershirt leaves bared, and exits the room.
He returns seconds later with his kit.
“You’re overdue for your exam,” he says mildly, retrieving his stethoscope. “And if you’re going to position yourself as a patient, I’m damn well going to treat you like one.”
He has no doubt Storm could escape or even incapacitate him if he wanted to. Either option would, of course, wake Goodnight.
It’s absolutely no surprise to Doc that Storm doesn’t so much as twitch, not even when the ‘scope’s diaphragm presses to his skin.
“When can he get out of here?”
Doc waits until Storm’s gone silent again and he’s gotten a satisfactory listen before he responds. He won’t be able to perform a complete exam with the two of them tangled up like this, but he’ll take what he can get.
“His leg’s mending; the surgery went better than expected. But he’s been through an ordeal on top of that fracture. I’d like to keep him under care for another couple of weeks, at least.”
Storm frowns, glances back at Goodnight. Doc reads the unvoiced concern.
“Was he having a bad night?”
“Nightmare.” Storm says shortly. “I woke him before he could move around too much.”
no subject
Date: 2019-02-26 02:11 pm (UTC)Storm Shadow hadn’t said a word when Outlaw entered the room. The cold steel in his eyes spoke volumes, but he’d held his peace. The fastest way to get rid of Outlaw would result in Storm being ejected from the room, probably right into the brig. So he’d decided to just keep quiet until Outlaw was done looking over Goodnight. Odds were, he’d leave before long, and it would just be him and Bounty Hunter sitting vigil again.
Then the son of a bitch had to open his mouth at him across Goodnight’s sickbed.
“It’s not just that you’re a murderer,” Outlaw grinds out between his teeth. “Or that you turn on anyone stupid enough to trust you…”
“Vasquez.”
Ignoring Bounty Hunter isn’t something done lightly. Outlaw pushes ahead anyway.
“It’s that this...” Outlaw gestures at Goodnight, at the walls around them. “...is all you can ever offer him. Nothing but pain. You think we’re ever going to cut you free, pandejo? After what you did? Not a chance.
“You’re going to be paying penance until something kills you, or you run away again. You have no future.” Outlaw all but spits the words. “And you don’t care what that means for Goodnight. Eres venenso. You’ll just drag him along until you break him or get him killed.”
Storm rises to his feet, is across the room and three inches from Outlaw in a breath. He leaves his weapons; he doesn’t need them.
“How many times did you contact Goodnight after he left your unit? Do you even remember?” His voice is deceptively cool; all he wants to do is break Outlaws neck. “Three times. In four years. While he was holding on by threads. You’re no friend to Goody. Don’t act like you give a damn now.”
He’s already moving when Outlaw takes a swing. Dodging. It’s Sam who blocks, stepping smoothly between them. Storm doesn’t linger, just heads back to his seat as the first orderly rushes in to demand Outlaw leave.
Storm fixes his attention on Goodnight again, ignoring the insult Outlaw hurls in passing. He tells himself that bastard doesn’t matter; all that matters is being here when Goodnight opens his eyes. But he can’t release the tension coiling down his shoulders and spine, no matter how he tries.
no subject
Date: 2019-03-05 04:51 am (UTC)He wakes up a little more, still floating dreamy on a bed of cotton, but all the cotton in the world can't disguise the unmistakable discomfort of a catheter inserted where the sun don't shine. Fuck. He'd hoped to never experience that particular unpleasantness ever again, but apparently the devil'd had other plans.
The devil, who...has...black hair...
...dressed in white...golden skin...
"Storm?" Goody croaks out through a throat full of fucking fire, before he can think better of it. Could be a trick. Got to be a goddamned trick...
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Date: 2019-03-05 04:12 pm (UTC)Except now Goodnight’s looking at him. Actually seeing him. Breathing his name. And it’s like there’s a hot knife twisting in his heart, an iron band constricting around his throat. It’s the sweetest pain he’s ever felt.
“Hey,” he manages. “I killed the men who did this to you.” Too late he thinks that was, perhaps, not the most reassuring thing he could have said, but it’s heartfelt, at least. Storm tries again.
“You’re safe. We’re back at The Pit.” And Doc will be there in a few more seconds. Storm leans in as best he can, until he and Goodnight are sharing breath across Goodnight’s pillow. Like it’s their own bed.
“You’re an idiot, so I’ll say this so you remember next time - I’ll always find you, Goodnight. Always.” One more breath. “And if you ever tell anyone I shed tears over you, they’ll never believe you.”
He pushes himself onto his feet as Doc and another medic enter the room. Doc is a hair taller than Bounty Hunter, though built leaner and sharper, not nearly so broad in the shoulders. Younger, but with more grey in his black hair. But he and Bounty Hunter have that same air of absolute authority, and Storm gives way before it, moving aside, eyes still on Goodnight.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-12 01:58 pm (UTC)Seems...seems Goody’s not dead after all.
Seems Storm’s not dead either.
Unless Hell’s chosen to torture him with visions of being rescued and alive and with Storm before they snatch it all away and destroy all hope. Goody still ain’t ruling that out.
Mighty odd choice to make the vision so vivid they’ve gone and perfectly simulated every ticking second of the boredom of a hospital stay, though. Hours of it, Christ. And if they’re trying to build up his hope, then why the fuck hasn’t he seen Storm in two days? He’s seen Sam. He’s been debriefed by Roadblock and Scarlett. He’s seen every last man of his old squad and half the Pit, feels like. Even seen Jinx and Snake Eyes and Billy. But apart from the one brief, dizzying conversation Goody still half-thinks he dreamed up when he first woke up in sickbay, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his lover, and that. That hurts.
“Goody?”
“This,” Goody says distractedly, “this ain’t some mystical afterlife hallucination, is it? You’re not some demon or some pagan oracle wearin’ my best friend’s skin to lull me into a false sense of security before you fuck with my head?”
Sam pauses. “If I were, you think I’d tell you?” he finally says, looking at Goody with that achingly familiar mix of fondness and exasperation, and that weirdly makes him relax a lot more about it.
Even if Storm’s still stubbornly missing. Where the hell is he?
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 12:17 am (UTC)Storm Shadow barely looks up as Roadblock speaks. And that does absolutely nothing to alleviate Roadblock’s concerns, if he's being honest with himself.
After 48 hours in a vault cell, he’d expected Storm Shadow would so agitated about being separated from Goodnight, he’d be about ready to tear his way out of his own skin. Hell, he’d half-expected to be attacked the moment he’d stepped inside to conduct his first debriefing. But Storm had answered every question fully, without emotion or any attempt at justification --
(And of course he’d taken off after a possible lead on Zartan. Even dead, that man was a point of obsession with Storm Shadow.)
-- and once left alone, drawn himself into a corner of his bunk and stayed there. No pacing. No training. He’d eaten, at least, and probably taken some form of sleep. But nothing more.
Roadblock frowns.
“Hey. Do you remember what I told you when Goodnight brought you and Billy back to The Pit?”
“I’d used up my one chance,” Storm says, his voice a dull monotone, his gaze fixed forward. “If I went off-leash again, you’d turn me over to the courts.”
He’d said it, and he’d meant it. But then he’d lowered his guard. He’d seen Storm Shadow’s devotion to Goodnight. Seen the respect he got from the greenshirts. Seen him form bonds with Billy that went beyond teaching the boy how to hone his training and temper his killing instincts. Witnessed the slow, awkward progress as he and Snake Eyes had started to see each other in a new context. And he’d assumed that all translated to some kind of trust on Storm’s part.
But then, what was it Coach Pern used to say about “assume”?
“That’s right. And have you got any good reason for me to go back on my word?”
Storm’s hands clench into fists on his knees.
“No.”
Roadblock slams his fist into the wall beside Storm’s head. Not a twitch. But that, at least, he’d have expected of Storm any day.
“What did you think was going to happen with the unit if you got yourself killed or sent off? Or to Goodnight? Did any of that cross your mind? Why the hell was it worth losing all of that to chase after a dead man?”
“I don’t know why he wanted me. Why it was worth infiltrating the Arashikage clan just to cut me out from the others.” Monotone. Matter-of-fact. No self-pity. No anything. “Zartan had a contingency for everything. Even as a corpse, he has plans in motion. Until I know what they are, he’s not truly dead. And I can’t plan for what might follow me here.”
Finally, he looks at Roadblock.
“Even aside from the accolades it would buy you, I can think of more good reasons for you to turn me in than I can for you keep me here.”
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 02:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 02:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 04:40 pm (UTC)Coward. Roadblock manages to catch the word in his teeth before it comes out; verbal abuse isn't gonna help the situation, and hasn't been his style in years anyway. Storm Shadow's no raw, dumbass recruit who needs whipping into shape.
Well. He looks down at the bowed head, the white-knuckled fists and indrawn posture of misery, and amends that thought. Not green, but definitely still a dumbass.
"That is mighty interesting to hear. But I'm not going to," he says, voice as even and impersonal as he can make it. "I expect you to thank Robicheaux in person, with your words, for buying you your chance this time around."
Then he turns and gets the fuck outta there. Storm Shadow can chew on that by himself for a couple more hours, then he'll have Snake Eyes escort Storm to the infirmary.
A lot of the Joes would call him crazy for giving the guy a third chance. Certainly gonna do fuck-all for morale, and really, Roadblock's mad enough to spit nails himself at Storm for setting back pretty much all the progress they'd all made back to square fuckin' zero. The sole saving grace is how many people saw them when they came in: flight crew, medical staff, anyone hanging around between the hangar and the infirmary.
They'd all seen the way Storm hovered over Goodnight, the distress he'd been too far gone to hide. The obvious conclusion that Goodnight wouldn't've survived long enough for rescue without his intervention. And, Roadblock supposes, nobody would be crying into their powdered eggs over the demise of Bart Bogue. That might just buy Storm enough goodwill he probably won't get shot in the back. Again.
Then there's everything Storm said about Zartan, which, while disturbing as fuck, ain't much of a surprise. Roadblock blows out a sigh as he heads back to his office. Time to go to work.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 10:25 pm (UTC)It's the first thing Snake Eyes signs to Storm Shadow when it's time to take him out of his cell. It's easier to ignore Snake than most; all Storm has to do is look away. He doesn't.
"If Roadblocks turn you away, whoever gets custody won't kill you. They probably won't even imprison you. They'll wring every secret out of you, then break you until you're just a another useful tool."
The Arashikage signs lacks their usual elegance; Snake's motions are clipped, furious.
"You're not stupid; you know all of this. Why did you run?"
Storm slowly pushes himself to his feet, so they're facing each other.
"Say what you mean," he signs. "You don't care that I ran. You care that I didn't come to you."
They face each other for another heartbeat. When Snake signs again, his motions are calmer.
"The Hard Master was your uncle. But he's the only father I remember. You should have come to me."
Anger is first emotion Storm's been able to acknowledge since he left Goodnight's bedside. He allows it to come, slides into it like the second skin it is.
"Your part in this ended when Zartan died. He paid for what he did to you. You know why the Hard Master died. The clan knows what happened to Onihashi. And me? I still have no idea why that bastard took such pains to ensure I would become what I am. What he needed. Don’t pretend your loss gives you any right to my life.”
Snake inclines his head, acknowledging the point, if nothing else. He gestures for Storm to leave the cell.
“Did you learn anything?”
“I need to speak to the demon-bitch.” Storm signs in passing as he walks past. He doesn’t have to guess at where Snake Eyes means him to go. His anger is a paper shield against the sudden barrage of emotion - regret most of all.
He’d told Goodnight not to follow. That he’d be back. That hadn’t been a lie. He could have left behind the rest of this life, this soft-edged servitude, as one more parting among dozens. Perhaps not as easily as some, but he could have done it and not looked back.
He’d known from the start he couldn’t sacrifice Goodnight to this quest. Not forever. He’d have found him again. And Goodnight would have waited for him. He should have waited.
The thought completes itself, unbidden, as he steps into the bright, antiseptic domain of the infirmary. Sees Goodnight lying on his bed, pale and broken, with his leg pinned together and his mind clouded with painkillers.
Goodnight should have waited, because he wasn’t worth this.
Despite the tangle of emotion under his skin, Storm’s pace quickens and he finds himself at Goody’s bedside before he can think better of it.
“How are you doing?”
no subject
Date: 2019-10-03 04:21 am (UTC)Goodnight's voice is laconic, but the rebuke hits home all the same. Storm Shadow tries to numb himself against the sting, to detach himself from the moment. Everyone turns on him eventually, and Goodnight's already suffered more on his behalf than anyone else in his life. At least his mother died quickly.
But he can't detach himself from Goody, no more than he could in the desert or while awaiting his fate in the vault. And he can't run. Instead, he takes his seat at Goodnight's bedside, trying to decide what needs to be said, now that Goody's more or less lucid.
"Sorry," he manages. "Your captain decided I should cool my heels in a cell."
Now Goodnight's eyes are on Snake Eyes, a dawning suspicion on his drawn, pale face. He knows what the conditions of Storm's continued freedom were.
"It's all right, Goody. He's just making sure I went where I needed to be."
"Where you 'need to be' had damn well better be right here in that chair." While still eyeing one of Arashikage's best with an expression that says any attempt to escort Storm Shadow anywhere else will end in a fight.
The about-face from mulish to protective is too sudden to brace against. Storm is smiling before he can stop himself.
This idiot.
"I'm not going anywhere. They're letting me stay because you were too stubborn to wait for me this time." He slides his fingers into Goodnight's hair, tugs gently. He knows Snake will have left the room by the time Goodnight focuses on him, and he's glad. He's had to deal with too many emotions over the past three days, and just being able to touch Goodnight again makes his throat tighten, his heart race.
"I owe you for saving my ass." His voice is quiet, low, to keep it from cracking. It's fine. He can brush it off as pride if Goodnight thinks to ask.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-03 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-03 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-05 06:31 pm (UTC)Or maybe that’s the fentanyl talking. Whatever. Goodnight’s eyes have slid shut of their own accord, whole body relaxing under Storm’s touch without much say-so from Goodnight, to be honest. “Be dead three, four times over without you,” he mumbles, “and I know you know that, but I s’pose you’re welcome.”
This. Just this. He could live on just this for a while.
“Been takin’ stock,” he says after a bit. “All these bruises on me, and not a one of them yours. Occurs to me it’s been a while since that was the case.” He opens his eyes, though it’s a struggle. “Don’t suppose you might have some solutions in mind for that, cher?”
He’s aware he’s being outrageously needy. He does not give a good goddamn.
((Goodnight, you dramatic, thirsty, loopy bitch.))
no subject
Date: 2019-10-05 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-10-05 10:26 pm (UTC)"Some thoughts, for once they let you out of that bed." He keeps his voice to a murmur, and barely that. Just for Goodnight. He slides his hand back through Goody's hair to cradle the back of his skull. "What do you need right now?"
"Grounding. Need remindin' I'm alive when I open my eyes, somewhere I can see."
Storm frowns, but runs the fingertips of his free hand down Goodnight's exposed arms, looking for a patch of unmarked skin to work with. He lifts Goody's hand to his lips, as if for a kiss, but instead closes his teeth over the web between his thumb and forefinger. It leaves a ring of dents that will purple and bruise, distinct from the other marks on his skin.
"You can explain that to Doc," he teases. It's an empty threat, of course. And none of Doc's damn business.
no subject
Date: 2019-03-05 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-05 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-05 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-06 07:30 pm (UTC)