Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kim startled awake, gasping a huge breath, his shoulders twitching. His face was wet—his chest, too; water?

Yes, someone had thrown a cup of water at him. Presumably the man who was currently holding an empty cup and staring at him balefully.

“Finally,” the man said, and Kim pieced the puzzle together until the man’s name appeared: Dunstan, Cyril Dunstan. The son of Lord Reginald Dunstan, of His Majesty’s Treasury, recently deceased. Dunstan the younger was not accused of both killing his father and stealing all of his papers because it had happened only a few hours ago.

Kim coughed; it went on longer than he wanted, his lungs spasming, his head throbbing with every jerk of his body. After he got some semblance of control, he spoke, his voice a little strangled but clear: “Let me go.”

Dunstan backhanded him, and from the feel of the hit, it wasn’t for the first time. Had Dunstan hit him while he was out? His entire cheekbone was a bruise, the new hit a lick of fire. “Don’t speak, you mewling worm.”

Pressing his lips together, Kim kept the vitriol behind his teeth and took stock of his situation. He was tied to a chair, his arms and ankles lashed tightly. Around him was a warehouse, near the river by the smell, and hopefully not far from where he’d been. It was dark out, the room lit by a bulb not sufficient for the space, much as it had been dark when Kim and Will had broken into Dunstan’s room at the terrible little building he’d been staying in. Dunstan had stepped outside to pretend to the Private Bureau operatives, disguised as Met detectives, that he had no idea how his father had ended up dead. However, the operatives hadn’t delayed him long enough; he’d come back early, and they’d been in the room. Kim had yelled to Will to jump; Will had, and that was all he remembered.

Will—Kim’s heart sped up a tick. Where was he? In the warehouse, unconscious as Kim had been? Somewhere outside? And what had happened to their Bureau colleagues?

Dunstan hit him again, a forehand slap this time, and Kim discovered that his other cheek was bruised as well. His head gave a great thump, his jaw aching, but he thought his vision was clear. Then he gave up on trying to assess his injuries or speculate on what had happened after he’d blacked out, because Dunstan picked up a knife, grabbed Kim’s chin, and jabbed the blade under it. “Who was the man who jumped out the window?”

The window? Will had gotten away! Kim kept his mouth shut; he’d played this game before.

“I know you’re working with someone, you pathetic milksop. Speak, or it’s your life.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he bit out. If he opened his mouth too much, the blade would press into the flesh under his jaw. A part of him wanted to, wanted to feel the focus that the sharp pain would bring him, but the rest of him knew it wouldn’t work.

“You lying little wretch.” Dunstan pressed the tip of the knife in enough to break the skin, but only barely. “Tell me who you’re working with.”

Dark-haired and square-shouldered, Dunstan wasn’t a tall man, shorter than Kim by several inches, but he had a presence. It showed up even in the one photograph of him they had, a group picture from several years ago, at a wedding of one of his friends. The friend, Sir Finlay Booker, had been the one to tip off the Private Bureau as to his plans, and he had turned the picture over to DS to aid them.

Kim remembered Finlay, or more properly Finlay’s younger brother, Westley; they’d overlapped at Eton by a couple years. Finlay was closer to Chingford’s age, but they hadn’t been in the same set, or Kim wouldn’t have advised DS to pay any attention to him at all.

Alas, Dunstan demanded his attention currently, cruelly pinching the skin inside his elbow. When had he lost his shirt? He had on his undershirt, but it provided little protection from either the cold or Dunstan’s ministrations. “Talk, you worm.”

Repeating himself already? How inane. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not working with anyone.”

“Then who was in my room?” Dunstan roared. He went to pinch Kim’s elbow again, but his thumb rubbed against the skin just below. “What’s this?”

The way Kim was tied forced his palms to face downward, and his scars were not visible, aside from a couple stray ones above the elbow. He expected Dunstan to undo the ropes and turn his wrists; the glimmer of a plan to punch him or steal the knife appeared in his mind, but his captor didn’t do that at all. Instead, Dunstan took his wrist, catching his eye with a cruel curl of a lip, and forced his arm to turn. There was a tiny amount of slack in the rope, but nowhere near enough for it to be comfortable. His bones and flesh compressed, and Kim bit back a scream as the fibers burned his wrist, the back of his hand, and across his thumb. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to force the awareness of the pain down a level or two, and then Dunstan, the bastard, did it to the other wrist.

The scream almost escaped, but Kim bit his lip so hard that it bled, a small pain to distract from the larger one. Would that he had another coping method, but he did not. Instead, the thrum from his wrists beat in time with his heart and his lip, and the coppery taste spread in his mouth.

It was almost a relief when his hands were flat again, the thin vulnerable skin inside of his wrists and forearms displayed. His scars were barely visible in the faint light, but the raised lines stood out when Dunstan dragged his nails over them. The wounds were long healed; there was nothing to tear open, but it burned like fire, blue-flamed and searing, and Kim whited out.

It would be easier to survive the torture if he could stay where he was, away from his body, but he couldn’t. The burning in his wrists from the compression and the chafing pulled him back, as little as he wanted it to. His vision cleared, and he saw that Dunstan was smirking again. “If you talk, I might let you go.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about! I am telling you the truth!” Will must have managed to get away with the papers they’d been looking for while Kim was being accosted by Dunstan. How Dunstan had gotten out of the building and not been caught by Will or the other operatives was a mystery to him. Maybe the man had more subtlety than anyone had expected. It was unfortunate that they’d switched their typical roles at the moment, but imagining Will in his place—unthinkable.

Another backhand; they were starting to hurt less. Was it solely because his wrists were on fire? Most likely. He inhaled as deeply as he could—not very deeply at all. His chest felt as if the ropes surrounded it as well, constricting around him.

A flash of silver, and the knife was back. “Tell me.” The tip started at the inside of Kim’s elbow and between two heartbeats, it disappeared towards his wrist. A line followed it, red and cold. Until the blood welled up, Kim didn’t realize that he’d been cut.

Oh. Oh, no. Most of his mind went white again; that tiny portion of him that had some sense of self-preservation, small but growing under Will’s tender care, noted that the cut wasn’t deep enough to bleed much. It might not even scar, if he cared for it properly.

If he made it out.

No, he couldn’t think like that. Will would be unhappy. What would Will be doing if he’d been the one to be caught? He’d probably have sworn at Dunstan and used his forehead to deck the man, if he got close enough. He might even have simply tensed his muscles and burst the ropes.

(If he’d done that, Kim would have been disappointed not to see it.)

Will might have been happy that he was in the chair and Kim wasn’t, but Kim found it difficult to believe in the reverse.

Dunstan put his hands on the rope at Kim’s wrists, painful enough as it was, and leaned in until his breath, sour with alcohol and meat, blew straight in Kim’s nose. “Who—do—you—work for.”

He should lean his head forward and hit Dunstan. He should, but he couldn’t. His head felt like an egg perched on a wooden dowel, and not a sturdy one. Instead, he bit his tongue, got a great mouthful of saliva and blood, and spat directly in Dunstan’s face. “I don’t fucking know.”

Dunstan reared back and brandished his knife again, but before he could slice into Kim’s other arm, there was a thunk, and he jerked to one side and fell to the ground. Something had hit him in the head. A rock, maybe? Kim turned his head as far as he could, searching the darkness frantically. Could it be Will, or had he slipped from consciousness into a dream?

A white blur appeared in front of him, resolving into a man in shirtsleeves. Kim gasped out Will’s name, and Will glanced at him, face unreadable in the low light. He took a step towards Kim and halted, turning his head to the side. Kim twisted to look—Dunstan had regained his feet. Immediately Will leapt at him, knocking him backwards.

Dunstan lost his balance, and they tumbled to the ground, the air rushing out of two sets of lungs with an audible unison “oof.” Then they were wrestling, thrashing on the ground, feet scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. Will was bigger by half a head and two stone, but Dunstan fought for his life.

Kim bit his lip again, harder, heedless of the blood, as slowly, Will gained the upper hand, his body pressing Dunstan’s into the ground. And then it wasn’t slow at all. Will had found the rock he’d thrown earlier, and he coshed Dunstan over the head.

The other man dropped, hopefully merely unconscious, and Will tied him up, wrists to ankles. He whistled, and someone else came into the room, another PB agent, Stirling, he thought.

“Is Secretan okay?” Stirling asked.

“Not for you to worry about.” Will and Stirling dragged Dunstan out of the room, and Will came back alone, not even thirty seconds later. “He’s gone. Fuck, Kim, what did he do to you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Kim’s throat was dry, his voice ragged. When had that happened? “You’re here.”

“Course I’m here. I’m your angel, right?”

“Indeed. My angel Darling.” Was he woozy? Yes, he decided. Good thing Will was here. He’d take care of everything.

Kim woke up to full daylight, sun slanting in through the window, his head aching. It was his room, he realized with relief, and he was wearing his own pyjama trousers. His upper half was bare, save for white bandages at his wrists and his left forearm, and his skull throbbed so badly that nothing else was a patch on it.

Where was Will? Had he even gotten the papers? Kim struggled to sit up, to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but his head gave a great thump and he fell back against the pillows, panting.

Before he’d mustered the courage to try again, the door opened. “Kim! You’ve—were you trying to get out of bed?” Will rushed to his side, a hand to Kim’s forehead. “You need to stay. Your head—”

“It’s fine,” lied Kim through his teeth. “Did you get the papers?”

“The papers?” Will’s eyebrows furrowed, and he looked more murderous than usual.

“From—” What was his name? It took a moment of effort to recall. “Dunstan.”

“Oh.” Will’s face smoothed. “Yes, of course, and DS has them. No need to worry. What did he do to you?”

“Got me good with a couple of backhands.”

“Your wrists, Kim.” His voice was gentle.

“Oh.” Kim demonstrated, his left hand facing down, twisting it up with the right.

Will sucked in a breath. His hand went to his side; the Messer wasn’t there, but the instinct was.

“It’s fine,” Kim said. “My wrists will heal. And my arm.” The cut would heal long before his wrists would, and what was one more scar on his arms? He’d put so many there himself that other than the direction, this one was unremarkable.

Will’s face said otherwise, and his fingers tightened into a fist.

Kim suppressed a sigh. “Dunstan’s still alive, isn’t he? The son.”

“I’d’ve preferred not, but yes. For now. The police have him in gaol, accused of his father’s murder. No one seems inclined to let him out on bail.”

Will’s hand hovered over Kim’s, and Kim snatched it before Will could pull away. It hurt, but every movement would have hurt, either jarring his head or his arms, and he wanted the comfort of Will’s hand more than he wanted to be in less pain.

He couldn’t hide his wince, though, and Will’s brow clouded again. “Do you want morphine? Doctor left a scrip for you.”

“Aspirin, perhaps?” He’d had morphine before and would prefer not to have it again.

“That I can get you.” Will brought him a glass of water and a couple of white tablets. Kim wanted to wash it down with gin, but he knew Will wouldn’t allow it. Pesky, that: having someone who cared for you enough to make sure you didn’t drink yourself into oblivion with a head injury.

The water likely helped more than the aspirin, at least in the short term, and Kim thought about food, but it sounded like a poor idea. Will would know what to feed him, and when.

He held out his hand again, and Will took it gingerly. No—that wasn’t enough. Kim struggled to move to the side. His bed was large enough for the two of them, they’d proven that often enough, and he wanted Will on his good side.

“What—for the love of Christ, Kim—” Despite the swearing, Will gave Kim a hand, helping him move his upper body with only minimal pain. His legs followed, weak but functional. The mattress bounced, and he grit his teeth against the flash of pain behind his eyes. Still, it would be worth it. Kim patted the bed beside him.

Will shook his head no. “You’re injured.”

“Oh, and so I don’t deserve comfort?” Kim snapped. “Get in here, Will. I—” His voice cracked. “I want you here, with me.”

Swearing again, Will stripped off his shoes and jacket and climbed gingerly onto the bed. Kim was having none of that, though, and he yanked the front of Will’s shirt. Even when they were close enough for a proper cuddle, he didn’t stop pulling, quick tugs on Will’s sleeves and collar, until Will was curved around him, an arm on his midsection.

It was pleasant. No, it was perfect, really, and to think, he could have lost this, if Will had been taken instead—no, he couldn’t think of that. Will would have saved himself, unlike Kim, useless except in the amount of pain he could handle—

A finger came up to his cheek and, feather-light, brushed against his skin, coming away wet. “Kim,” Will breathed against his ear, and Kim gasped. He was safe, in Will’s arms in his own home, and it undid him.

More tears followed, though even as he cried, Kim hoped that Will would do him the courtesy of forgetting such an embarrassing thing had ever happened. It wasn’t the first time he’d been tied up and tortured, not by a long shot, nor was it even the first time he’d been injured since he and Will had started working for the Private Bureau in tandem. He shouldn’t be crying, and yet, here he was, melting into liquid.

When he was done, Will was not only still there, but not at all chuffed about the tearstains on his shirt. He brushed off Kim’s apologies and kissed him lightly on the cheek, avoiding the worst of the bruising. “Get some more sleep.”

“Only if you stay with me.” For longer than the nap, he meant, but he didn’t say it, fearing to be turned down.

No, they’d had that discussion already. Will had chosen him, he had chosen Will, and there was no reason to think Will would go anywhere, not because of something as inconsequential as tears.

“Course I will.”

“I love you, you know.” Those words were easier to say. He’d said them before, even when he hadn’t almost gotten killed, and every time, he meant them more.

“I know. Of course I know. I love you too.” Will’s voice was a rumble against Kim’s arm, and Kim smiled, letting the rumble soothe him to sleep.