Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 0:

“Payment enough was meetin’ you—whatever—somethin’ emotional.” Zolf slams his mug down on the table. “Take that, right?” Before he can stand, the stool wobbles as a crying Hamid throws his arms around Zolf. The salt water soaks into Zolf's shirt, and it's worse than being at sea in a driftwood boat destined to sink as Poseidon drenches them with everything he's got.

Tentatively, Zolf reaches out and pats Hamid on the back. He fights to keep his hand from curling around the suit’s soft fabric. “There, there, Hamid. That’s—it’s okay… Um, we can keep in touch. If you want?”

And then Hamid and Sasha are prattling on about getting food. And he needs to get out. He can’t be here. Never been good at sayin’ goodbye. Hell—ran the day after the funeral. No note. Nothing. Just pain and emptiness in his wake. 

Anxiety washing over him, Zolf doesn’t look up when he rises from the table; he knows it’s because he can’t face her. Not without breaking. Not after he told her she’d be fine as long as she’s with him.

“Cheer—cheers, boss.” Sasha darts forward and hugs him. Short. Sharp. He doesn’t have time to wrap his arms around her before she’s gone—faded back into the shadows.

Gritting his teeth, Zolf forces himself to keep his head high. “Not anymore. See ya later.”

As the door closes behind him, he’s followed with a too loud shout,“bye!”

Day 31:

The dolphin talisman of Poseidon makes a satisfying splash as it hits the water. Spinning the ring on his finger, Zolf turns away on weakening water-legs without a backward glance. Trades in Poseidon for Harlequins—trades a failed attempt at faith for Feryn . 

(And maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but he throws his trident away for Sasha. Every time he has thrown his trident away, it has been for Sasha.)

Day 65:

Zolf first truly realizes that the world is ending when he follows Oscar Wilde out of Curie’s office. And Oscar Wilde is telling him to keep up, because Einstein is going to teleport them to Japan. Because Oscar Wilde now works for the Harlequins. Apparently.

“Wai—hang on, Wilde—how long have you been working with Curie?” Zolf asks, struggling to keep up (still trying to adjust to the new prosthetics).

Wilde raises an eyebrow as he looks down at Zolf. Then he crosses his arms and taps his foot against the floor as he waits for Zolf to catch up. And he does it all insufferably, because he’s Wilde. “Since I stopped being able to trust the Meritocrats.” Spinning on his heel, Wilde checks his pocket-watch and sets an even faster pace, like Einstein is going to zap off without them if they don’t reach him in the next ten seconds. 

(Which is a fair worry, but Zolf won’t admit that because it’s Wilde).

“I—where are the others?” he asks, because the one good thing that comes with working for this pretentious dandy of a bard is seeing Sasha and Hamid. “Are we meetin’ them in Japan?”

When Wilde freezes, Zolf knows he’s made a mistake. Knows he doesn’t want to know.

Wilde, for his part, just stands there, emotionless and tense and refusing to face Zolf. “Unsanctioned mission. They went to Rome. It’s been over a month since last contact.” He pauses, his voice cracking as he squeezes his eyes shut with what Zolf recognizes as equal parts guilt and single-minded determination to not cry in front of someone else. “I didn’t know until I was too useless to do anything to stop them. Or anything to help them.”

Zolf almost reaches out to Wilde, unsure if he means to hold his hand or rub circles into Wilde’s back—the gods know he’s too short to put a hand on Wilde’s shoulder. He could hug Wilde.

He doesn’t.

Day 78:

The earth shakes beneath his feet. Bits of mine crash down around him as Feryn calls his name. Then it’s Sasha and Hamid as the Paris catacombs crumble. They're reaching out to him—falling away. 

Zolf wakes. Gasping for breath. He thrashes. Trying to escape the sheets clinging to him. Suffocating him. Can't escape.

The melody surrounding him doesn't stop, but the weight at the end of his bed shifts and the sheets are lifted for him. It takes another minute for Zolf to regain his bearings enough to recognize Wilde sitting at the foot of his bed. Lullabies on his lips, Wilde doesn’t look up at Zolf; he just keeps singing in a language Zolf doesn’t understand, but there’s something in Wilde’s voice (and the way he nervously wraps the blanket around his hand) that makes the song sound like home. 

“Here,” Wilde whispers, handing Zolf a glass. His hands are still fiddling with the blanket as he continues to look anywhere but Zolf. The lullabies begin again (just light hums, but it’s still enough to keep Zolf grounded).

“Thanks.” His voice scratches in his throat, but the water helps. (That was the one thing the Poseidon lot got right: water always helps).

“If you want to talk about—”

“I don’t think I can.”

Wilde shifts his weight like he’s going to hug Zolf, but he thinks better of it at the bed's creak. “I can leave if you want, or…” He pauses, hands now fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. When he looks up, there’s a vulnerability Zolf’s never seen in Wilde. “Or I can stay. If you want.”

Zolf’s never been good at words, so he just nods. He won’t remember his dreams that night, but with Wilde (tall and lanky and too long limbs, curled up like a cat at the end of Zolf’s bed) humming another lullaby—well, there’s no way his dreams aren’t the most peaceful he’s had in years.

Day 95:

Zolf doesn’t remember what it feels like to hug someone. 

He can remember that last day with Hamid and Sasha. Remembers the way his stool wobbled. Remembers the taste of ale on his breath.

He doesn’t remember the way his hands must have brushed over the soft fabric of Hamid’s suit or Sasha’s sturdy jacket. Doesn’t remember what it feels like to be squeezed by arms holding on like they are never going to get that chance again. (He supposes they were right. They never got another chance.)

He doesn’t remember what it feels like to be hugged by someone.

Day 122:

Zolf stares at Wilde through adamantine bars that were never meant to hold the bard. They'd been reckless and cocky and trusting —and now Wilde is paying the price, locked alone in the cell with a bloody cloth held to his face.

“At least drink that healing potion,” Zolf grumbles, trying to keep the panic of what-if-Wilde-turns from rising up like a wave in his chest and drowning him. “Or else tha’s gonna scar.”

“Maybe I want it to,” Wilde whispers, voice sharper and colder than the dagger that shattered their world. “Maybe I want to remember every day that my mistakes have consequences.”

Day 124:

Wilde breaks. Falls apart in a ball of sobs and screams (and Zolf hates the hint of joy he feels, because if Wilde can fall apart this much then he's probably still Wilde—which means Zolf won't have to kill the only friend he's got left). 

It's ugly. 

Shoulders shaking, Wilde hugs the sheet from his makeshift cot to his chest; the way he curls in on himself, it almost looks like he’s been stabbed in the stomach and is trying to keep from bleeding out. 

It hurts, seeing Wilde like this. Hurts even more because he knows Wilde would give anything to hide this moment; it feels like an invasion of privacy. Hurts because he wants to reach out and pull Wilde into a hug—but he can’t. 

            "They say life has its ups and downs—
            that really is now quite profound;
            I’d like to push the capstan round,
            but it’s “pump me boys” before we drown."

Zolf sits on the cold stone floor and leans his back against the wall. He doesn’t have a voice like Wilde’s, made for lullabies and concert halls. But he knows his fair share of sea shanties. It will have to do.

            "Pump me boys, pump her dry,
            down to hell and up to the sky;
            bend your backs and break your bones—
            we’re just a thousand miles from home.

            "I long to lie atop my bed,
            with pleasant dreams inside my head,
            but pumping's all I get, instead;
            I’ll only sleep among the dead."

Zolf cringes on the last line, phantom pains pulling him back to Paris as he remembers searching his brain for any sea shanty to keep Hamid from going into shock—and rejecting most of them for being about death. Finger tracing his ring, he tries to ignore the voice in his head whispering that he will never get another chance to cheer Hamid up with a sea shanty. 

            "Pump me boys, pump her dry,
            down to hell and up to the sky;
            bend your backs and break your bones—
            we’re just a thousand miles from home."

Wilde’s gasps are sounding less like he just got stabbed and is bleeding out, so Zolf counts that as a win.

            "The ocean we all do adore—
            so, come on lads, let's pump some more;
            don’t worry if you’re stiff and sore—
            I believe we’ve pumped this bit before."

Irish lullabies still dancing in his mind, they’ve done this before. It’s not him breaking—it’s Wilde. This time, the wound is fresh, not buried under years of rocks and regret. But they’ve done this bit before. 

(And, somehow, Zolf knows they’ll do it again).

            "Pump me boys, pump her dry,
            down to hell and up to the sky;
            bend your backs and break your bones—
            we’re just a thousand miles from home."

Wiping his tears, Wilde’s voice is empty and scratched to hell as he whispers, “feels like we’re more than just a thousand miles from home.”

Chapter Text

Day 129 Day 0:

Zolf unlocks the door and clings to Wilde tighter than he held onto that piece of driftwood carrying him, Sasha, and Hamid from Dover. 

After flinching at first contact, Wilde quickly melts into the hug like that is the only thing keeping him alive. Then Wilde’s knees are giving out, and he’s crumpling to the floor, and burying his head into Zolf's shirt, and Zolf isn’t letting go. Because he doesn’t have to let go. Because Wilde isn’t infected, and doesn’t have to die, and Zolf doesn’t have to swing the axe.

And the two of them are crying because they are not alone.

Day 15: 

Wilde hasn’t felt anything since being released. He’s barely leaving his study, and Zolf’s pretty sure the only reason Wilde sleeps is because Zolf threatens to drown him in a bucket every night if he doesn’t. (Wilde doesn’t take the bait—doesn’t joke that Zolf doesn’t do that anymore; that scares Zolf more than anything).

Day 25 Day 0:

“I killed him. He was my friend and I killed him.”

Wrapping his arms around Wilde, Zolf squeezes as tight as he can (as if that can hold Wilde together). “He wasn’t your friend anymore.”

Wilde huffs, tying to keep the shuddering tears from overtaking him. Again. “Try telling that to my nightmares.”

And Zolf gets it. He understands in the way he spent the first month after his brother’s death too depressed and empty to mourn—the second month sobbing himself to sleep and screaming awake. Understands the way the world might not blame you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t know better.

He doesn’t tell Wilde any of this, but he knows that Wilde understands, too.

They sit on Wilde’s bed for hours, until both sun and sobs break; the light of a new day peers through the window.

Day 26:

Wilde stares at Barnes through the adamantine bars—cold, calculating, and like he’s already formulated the first ten steps of his plan on how to dispose of the body. 

He probably has, Zolf supposes. Not that he blames Wilde after what happened last time. (But that doesn't mean Zolf can't hate seeing Wilde like this).

Day 28:

“Jennifer, no,” Barnes whispers into his book, aloofness tossed aside like his ridiculous hat (seriously, the feather is old-Wilde levels of frippery—and if it wasn’t for the fact that Barnes has already agreed to help force Wilde into their Cambell Book Club, Zolf would be dreading Barnes’s addition to the team).

Shifting in the uncomfortable seat, Zolf smiles and flips another page. "Y'know I was introduced to these books when I was bein' court marshalled."

Barnes nods satisfactorily. "Knew being court marshalled would do you good."

"Oi, shut it," Zolf snaps, unable to keep the smile from his face, "or you're not gettin' the next book."

Making a show of shutting up and regaining his usual dour expression, Barnes leans against the cell wall. Then he turns the page and groans. “Richard is not the right one for her.”

“I know!”

Day 54:

It’s a bad depressive episode. Zolf has barely left his room in the past week—only to eat (and even then, not as often as he should).

His stomach gave up on grumbling this morning, so he just lies in his bed. At least the storm raging outside feels fitting. Feels tempestuous and dark and volatile and—

The door clicks open and Zolf throws the blanket over his head. He waits for whoever it is to put the food on his bedside table and leave.

There’s a sound of a plate being set down, but the door doesn’t click shut again. Instead, his bed shakes slightly. Throwing the sheet off, Zolf turns over and glares at Wilde, who has now spread his paperwork across the floor in neat stacks and is sitting with his back against Zolf’s bed.

“What are you doing?”

Wilde just continues to hum as he scribbles something down on a sheet of paper. “Work.”

Rolling his eyes and grumbling, Zolf flops over in hopes that Wilde will leave. 

Wilde doesn’t. 

After an hour passes in what Zolf would begrudgingly consider comfortable silence, he sits up and wraps the blanket around his shoulders. One of Wilde’s stacks is considerably shorter—but that doesn’t say much considering the gargantuan amount of papers still fueling it. Slowly, Zolf lowers himself onto the floor. 

Wilde puts up a good pretense of not noticing, but the small upward twitch of his lips says otherwise (Zolf appreciates the pretense).

A couple minutes pass as the storm decrescendos to a drizzle, and even the scribble of pen against paper seems to exist just to accompany Wilde’s humming.

Cautious, Zolf leans against Wilde and closes his eyes (he doesn’t see Wilde’s smile, but he hears it in the way his humming becomes a little more content). They don’t hug, but it's nice. Grounding. 

They spend the next few hours sitting together on Zolf’s floor—feeling a little less lonely.

Day 93:

Howard Carter is a handful. (But at least he’s better than Bertie).

Day 119 Day 0:

It’s one of those days when the shackles work but Wilde’s state is unequivocally the result of torture—because self-destruction comes easy at the end of the world. With blood-shot eyes, he pours another mug; it's only breakfast, yet Zolf can’t keep track of how many cups of coffee Wilde’s had today (it’s enough that “today” is an abstract concept bleeding through sunrises like they’re open wounds). 

In what will probably be a vain attempt to get Wilde to consume something that isn’t coffee, Zolf grabs another plate and sets it on the—

Crash.

The mug shatters against the kitchen floor, and Wilde is a split second behind.

It's silent tears and hands covering his mouth until no sound escapes; no one in a different room would ever be able to hear something's wrong—hell, even Zolf can't hear Wilde's cries as he kneels down and pulls the man into a hug (even before the magic, Wilde has always been a master illusionist). 

They sit in a puddle of coffee, because Zolf has too much practice waiting for storms to break. With Wilde crying into his shoulder and clinging to his shirt, Zolf begins to hum, melancholy and hopeful. Because that's what they do—it's their thing. Probably the one thing that has kept them both standing this past year. "For the voyage is long, and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave her." 

It takes a couple minutes, but Wilde's sobs become sniffles, become hiccups, become—

“Looks like I hit my breaking point," Wilde says, gesturing to the shattered mug as he uses his sleeve to dry his tears. 

Zolf just gives him a look as coffee continues to soak through both their pants. If he's being honest, the pun makes him feel happier than he has in days, because apparently puns are how he gauges Wilde's emotional state and stability. But, obviously he can't let Wilde know he appreciates them—can't let Wilde know he cares . (Wilde already knows).

With a huff that blows the loose strands of hair from his face, Widle crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child. “That was a perfectly satisfiable pun,” he mutters.

“It was worth a drownin’ and you know it.” 

“I thought you didn’t do that anymore?" Wilde asks wryly. 

Rolling his eyes, Zolf stands up and offers Wilde a hand. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Day 28 Day 0:

Zolf heads for the coast once Wilde relieves him of watch duty (because if Carter is still Carter, he will pick the lock and escape the second he isn’t under supervision).

Lightning dancing with waves and wind, he finds Barnes staring out over the water. If Zolf notices the tears—well, there’s no harm in letting Barnes pretend it’s just rain. But he does wrap his arms around Barnes, because the world is ending and even unshakable commanders need to fall apart sometimes. They stand there until Zolf’s beard sticks to his neck and Barnes begins to shiver. 

Day 39:

Zolf and Barnes share a look, knowing there's nothing behind Carter's statements besides a restless itch to do something. (Even after the world has collapsed, boredom will still be there. Apparently.)

Shrugging, Carter continues his twelfth game of solitaire at the kitchen table that morning. "I’m just saying, if Wilde was going to sleep with any of us, it would be me."

"Only because Barnes and I don't do that," Zolf says as he and Barnes continue chopping vegetables. 

"I think Mr. Smith aced the question." 

They all look up to find Wilde leaning against the kitchen door, turning the next page in his—technically Zolf’s—book. (They’re treading water, waiting for any information, so Wilde finally agreed to join the Harrison Cambell Book Club; it's Zolf's greatest accomplishment).

Carter winks at Wilde. "When we first met, you did say I was quite the package."

Without looking up from the book, Wilde snaps his fingers and gestures to Carter's head as he walks by. "Mr Smith, if you would be so kind as to do the honors?"

With a snap of his fingers , a bucket's worth of water crashes down onto Carter—who splutters before flipping Zolf off.

Wilde places a hand on Carter's shoulder and leans in close. "I’d let the flirting go, or you might end up in some deep water." 

The sound of Zolf’s and Barnes’s laughter follows Wilde out of the kitchen.

Day 93 Day 0:

Zolf grins as Carter drunkenly pulls him into a hug (and if he tears up a little at that contact, well, everyone else is probably too tipsy or drunk to notice—and if they do, he'll just blame it on the whiskey). “I’m so glad we finally got you two to loosen up,” Carter says with a slur as he raises his empty glass to Barnes and Wilde.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; I’m always a delight.” Wilde goes for his winning smile, and his eyes darken as he realizes the scarred part of his face doesn’t move like that anymore. He covers it quickly with another swig of whiskey, but Zolf still notices.

“Never pegged you as one for drinking songs,” Barnes says to Wilde, leaning against the table to keep from swaying. “Always seemed too bardy and posh for it.”

Over-dramatically placing a hand over his heart Wilde gives the most fake-offended face Zolf’s ever seen. With Carter cheering him on, Wilde spends the next minute hurling Irish curses at Barnes until they’re both laughing.

Zolf just sits back and watches with one of Carter’s arms still around him. It’s nice. It’s a dumb, peaceful moment surrounded by friends—and Zolf will spend the next few weeks clinging to this memory like a liferaft.

Day 37 Day 0:

Howard Carter is a nosy thief and a pain in the ass and—

And has nightmares just like the rest of them.

Carter is still screaming as Zolf barges into his room and pulls him into a hug. It takes a couple more seconds for Carter to stop thrashing and relax into it. Sobbing, he buries his head into Zolf’s shoulder and shudders. They won't mention it in the morning, but Zolf spends the next hour rubbing Carter's back until they've both fallen asleep again.

Day 59:

Scrunching his nose in concentration, Zolf’s hands follow Wilde’s; it’s almost like tying a sailor's knot (although, Wilde’s hair feels softer than rope as he holds it in his fingers). Barnes turns another page in his book as Wilde makes quick work of pulling Barnes’s hair into a tight fishtail braid.

Carter walks into Wilde’s study and shakes his head as he surveys the three of them—Barnes sitting cross-legged on the floor reading, Wilde kneeling behind him, and Zolf sitting in the desk chair so he’s tall enough to reach Wilde’s hair without having to stand on his prosthetics any longer than is necessary today. “So, what’s going on here?”

“I’m teaching Zolf how to fishtail braid,” Wilde says, going for his classic winning smile (and for the first time ever, he doesn’t seem to mind that it’s a little lopsided). “I must say that it’s going rather swimmingly—mmm.” 

He can almost feel Wilde squint his eyes and glare as Zolf yanks a piece of hair (completely accidentally, of course). “Oops. Did I interrupt your pun?”

Laughing, Carter sits down opposite their weird braid train and starts dealing out a game of solitaire. There’s a comfortable silence, broken by Wilde’s occasional quips—and Zolf doesn’t yank Wilde’s hair to stop them as often as he would have a year ago; funny, how friendships at the end of the world work like that.

Day 120:

Walking into the study with a plate full of food and a threat to eat on his lips, Zolf finds Wilde ripping a letter apart until the pieces litter his desk like the year's first snowfall. "Any reason we're shredding our messages from Curie now?"

Wilde's face is cold and decidedly emotionless, like he's already planning the funeral of one—actually, make that all—of his friends. He stands and paces, footsteps landing in tempo more precise than a metronome. "Either they made it out of Rome, or something that used to be them did. They'll be joining us tomorrow." 

His chest constricts; he doesn't have to ask who "they" are. Hamid and Sasha and their friends made it out, and they'll be arriving tomorrow, and Zolf will get to see them, and maybe it isn't them , but there's a chance that it could be, and there is a chance that Zolf will remember what it feels like to wrap his arms around those two, and there is a chance—

Wilde breaks through Zolf's spiraling thoughts as he sits down and fixes him with a scrutinizing look. "Don't get your hopes up," he whispers, stroking his scar.

Zolf reaches out and grabs Wilde's hand, gently pulling it away from the scar. Giving it a squeeze, he pulses a bit of healing energy into Wilde (enough so he looks a little less gaunt and the bags under his eyes soften). "In case you haven't noticed, hope is kind of the only reason I've still got magic." 

Hope. Brutal and painful and a means to keep fighting. Just hope.

Wilde glances towards the bookshelf, but Zolf can see the tears he's fighting back. "Well, do you think you could hold on to my hope for me?" he whispers, thumb tracing the back of Zolf's hand. "I can't handle losing more people I love."

Smiling, Zolf nods. "That's what I'm here for." He pauses, giving a show of thinking carefully. "Well, that and threatening to drown you in a bucket." 

There's a satisfying warmth that spreads through his chest as Wilde smiles. 

"Mmhm. And nothing to do with the weather? Or some metallic fins?" Wilde asks, raising his eyebrow.

Stroking his beard, fingers tracing the fishtail braid, Zolf shakes his head. "Doesn't sound familiar."

Wilde grins and squeezes Zolf's hand. "Keep it safe for me." Then he let's go and puts up his walls, with no hope left behind them.

Tomorrow we get to see Hamid and Sasha. And we hope, after seven days, we will look and still see them .

"Of course, Oscar."

Day 121:

Zolf doesn’t remember what it felt like to hug Sasha. 

He never will.

Day 122:

There are so many things he wants to say. There are so many things he needs to say. 

Zolf focuses on the book in his hands and says none of them.

Just hopes that, one day, he'll get to.

Day 129 Day 0:

One the seventh day, Zolf turns the key, throws open the door, and pulls Hamid into a desperate hug. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for so long to do that.” He closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of fabric beneath his fingers. 

The world is changing, with nothing sturdy to hold on to, but there are still soft things—moments and people and suits to press palms into. 

“It’s good to see you again.”