Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn't that Gladio hated Scientia, not really. They ran in the same circles, but their paths only began intersecting recently, when Noct began growing up and into his role, and both of them started getting more involved in theirs. Scientia was intelligent, polite, dedicated and generally unobtrusive: in short, there was not a lot to hate.

He also presented the spitting image of a fussy, obsessive bureaucrat, and he spoiled the Princess shamelessly and thought Gladio was being too harsh on him. Gladio couldn't shake the feeling that Scientia was looking down his long nose at him, and to be condescended to by a glorified butler was galling beyond all measure. Gladio’s entire life was predicated on the idea of laying it down for Noct when the time came, and what could Ignis bloody Scientia in his smartly polished good boy shoes know about that?

Still. As long as they were orbiting Noct, Gladio reasoned, they were stuck with each other, probably for life. The need to meet regularly arose, to coordinate the ins-and-outs of Noct’s day-to-day life, discuss his training and appointments, and so on.

They had to adhere to Scientia’s ridiculously overstuffed schedule out of necessity, which meant meetings at the unholy hour of six in the morning. In revenge, Gladio resorted to picking out the dingiest, cheapest, weirdest fast-food joints he could find in town, and took whatever petty pleasure he could find in Scientia choking on his unvoiced horror over the food quality.

Technically, this probably made the kidnapping Gladio’s fault.

They were leaving one of those stilted meetings, full of carefully worded suggestions on Scientia’s side and carefully annoying joviality on Gladio’s, and Gladio had to admit that he might have outplayed himself in choosing the venue. The noodles he had eaten sat on the bottom of his stomach, a greasy, cold ball, and the little sidestreet leading to the restaurant’s door was dark and overflowing with trash.

Scientia’s back ahead of him radiated censure, and for once Gladio was grateful to him for not giving it a voice. His stomach did a slow, unpleasant roll; he swallowed unexpected bile and decided that, cold war or not, he was going to man up and apologize for that one.

He’d almost caught up when Scientia staggered, careening into the wall. Shit, food poisoning couldn’t work so fast, could it?

“Hey,” he began, reaching out, and that’s when it hit him too. The world around him wavered and stretched, distorted by an oily sheen; the strength ran out of his muscles. He fell to his knees, landing into the mess of rotten fruit peels and squished takeout boxes, and caught a glimpse of Scientia’s pale, horrified face.

“Something in the food,” Scientia groaned, “we need to…”, and slid down the wall, eyes slipping shut.

Gladio was still trying to get his phone out, fingers thick and unwieldy, when he saw the shadows at the mouth of the alley. Then the darkness rolled over him like a giant stinking beast and dragged him under.

He woke up slowly, forcing his way up through the thick sludge of headache and nausea, and found himself slumped on his knees, hands cuffed behind his back and tethered to his chained ankles. Not just a hangover then, damn, damn, damn; the memory of the dark alley and approaching shadows presented itself. He gave the handcuffs an experimental yank and discovered the metal to be strong and unyielding, and the whole thing fastened to the floor; he was well and truly stuck.

He breathed through the dizzying wave of adrenaline, made himself focus on his surroundings. The room he was in didn’t give any clues; low ceiling, no windows, floor and walls of bare concrete, the dusty old smell of an abandoned cellar; a thick metal door across the room from him. No furniture. Scientia, face down on the floor inches away from Gladio’s knees, glasses askew and mouth half-open, beginning to stir.

Whoever took them didn’t even bother restraining the guy. Fuck, this was going to go south fast. People in their position did not get the luxury of getting kidnapped for something nice and reasonable, like ransom. And Scientia, however loyal he was, was still a civilian, and this clusterfuck had to be above his pay grade.

Scientia groaned a little and pushed himself up to his knees, raised his hand to righten his glasses in an unconscious gesture. His gaze swept the cellar, hazy and wondering, and then darted back to Gladio, suddenly sharp with clear, focused intent.

Gladio opened his mouth to say something - some platitude, some warning, somebody had to notice they were missing already, somebody was already looking for them - but didn’t get a chance.

Scientia leaned towards him and whispered urgently: “Listen. They’re going to go for me first, don’t react, please, or it’s going to escalate too fast, and I’d rather keep my fingers. Stay quiet, wait.”

Gladio blinked at him; before he could voice his what the fuck, the door banged open.

In the next couple of hours, Gladio reevaluated his entire list of Scientia-related annoyances and pared it down to a single line: he really hated it when Scientia was right. And he was right: their kidnappers - three unchangeable, brutish flunkies and their leader (who looked uncomfortably like Dad, if Dad was stockier, shorter, balder and also ragingly evil) - went straight for Scientia with their questions, and they weren’t nice about it.

Gladio’s wrists ached; he kept flexing them almost despite himself, testing the handcuffs over and over. Two of the flunkies held Scientia up, wrenching his elbows back and up, and the third was whaling at him while the leader barked questions that Scientia didn’t answer. Gladio watched, kept count of the hits, matched the damage to what his field training was telling him (bruises, bruises, bruises, black eye, a cracked rib, a bruised kidney - make it a broken rib - bruises, bruises…), and fought to keep his face impassive. He was dying to shout at them, to make them focus his attention on him instead, to take the hits as he was trained to; he’s opened his mouth a couple of times to do just that, but.

Scientia was right, Six damn him. The questions asked - Citadel protocols, Noct’s schedule, Regis’s schedule, Crystal security details (who the fuck were those people, why hadn’t the Glaives dealt with them yet?) - they couldn’t afford to answer them, Gladio couldn’t afford to answer them even if they started dismembering Scientia in front of his eyes.

And that was what they’d begin doing, without a question, if Gladio let it slip just how much that brutal interrogation was bothering him. Using the prisoners against each other was a true and tried method, and the only reason they didn’t yet was because of how irresistible a target Scientia had presented, with his posh librarian getup and his bulky glasses. Of course they thought he would crack quickly.

Gladio kinda thought so too, or would’ve thought so, but the scene before him, ugly as it was, didn’t quite fit right. Scientia shuddered and gasped and cried out at the hits, looking frightened and overwhelmed and dwarfed by the flunkies’ grasp, but he wasn’t talking, and Gladio couldn’t help but notice the way he’s forcibly relaxed into the blows and moved with them instead of tensing up or flinching away.

He kept hearing Scientia’s wait in his head - focused, intent, without a shade of fear - and grit his teeth, and seethed, and waited.

It didn’t take long for the leader of the interrogation to lose his patience with Scientia’s brand of passive resistance. Gladio felt it before he even made his move, a sharp spike in the tension in the stuffy air of the room. The leader waved the punch-friendly flunky aside and stepped forward, unclipping a short baton from his hip. Gladio winced at the crunch of Scientia’s fallen glasses under his foot.

“Are we,” he said conversationally, “boring you, Mr. Scientia? You’re a smart young man, or so they say, and surely you understand the situation you’re in.”

Gladio was expecting it and still missed the moment when he struck; Scientia’s head snapped back, and Gladio could swear that he could hear the sharp short crack of his cheekbone breaking.

The leader smiled, almost gently. “We can, of course, always increase our efforts on your behalf,” he said. “Would you like to find out how?”

Scientia, hanging in the henchmen’s grasp, dragged his head up with an effort. His left eye was rapidly swelling shut; his right was dazed, clouded.

He opened his mouth and choked on whatever he was going to say, coughed for several long, agonizing minutes, splattering droplets of blood.

“I,” Scientia groaned, “I can’t…”

“Of course you can,” the leader said, coaxing. “It’s not like anybody would blame you.”

Scientia darted a quick, fearful glance at Gladio at that, a glance that the leader had saw as well, and Gladio stiffened, unable to say if it was for real or a part of the incomprehensible plan Scientia had hinted at, or both.

“I’m sorry,” Scientia said, voice dropping into an exhausted whisper, and Gladio barked a sharp no, halfway for verisimilitude and halfway in earnest, alarmed.

Nobody paid him any heed; the leader stepped closer to Scientia, leaning in to hear him better. And then Scientia uncoiled from his half-conscious slump, fast and vicious, leaned all his weight on the men holding him, jackknifed his legs up and gave the leader a perfectly executed kick in the balls.

The man flew away and crashed into the door; for a moment everybody else in the room stood still.

Gladio had to bit his lip to stop himself from bursting into dangerous and unproductive laughter. Shiva’s tits, if they made it out, he was dragging Scientia to the training hall first chance he got, if just to find out where Noct’s prim nanny learned to kick like an enraged garula.

He sobered up pretty quickly: the leader unfroze first, uncurling from the ground with a pained groan (Gladio couldn’t help wincing in an involuntary sympathy), and the look on his face promised murder.

Scientia gave him a slow, mocking smile, and the man snapped. He charged at Scientia with an incoherent bellow of rage; the guards scattered, allowing him to grab Scientia’s throat and slam him into the wall.

Scientia's head hit the wall with an audible thud; he was wheezing, grasping at the man’s arms and torso with unsteady, weak hands. Gladio began yanking at the handcuffs in earnest, not caring who saw him, because whatever Scientia’s plan was, if he’s ever had one beyond enraging their captor into homicide, it was surely out of question right now. The steel refused to give.

Scientia’s eyes were bulging out, his face going a horrible mottled red; his hands scrabbled uselessly at the cloth of the leader’s jacket. He was going limp in the man’s grasp; shit, shit, Gladio shouted something at the tableau and couldn’t hear his own voice; a moment more and…

...a moment more, and the leader had suddenly let go, letting Scientia slump down the wall onto his knees, gasping and coughing, desperately panting for air.

“Ah,” the leader said, visibly leashing his rage; Gladio’s skin broke up in goosebumps at his tone. “Very clever, but no. Points for trying.”

He motioned to the guards, and they’ve moved back in, grabbing Scientia’s arms once again. They began to drag him up, but changed direction at the leader’s command. Instead they flipped him so he was sitting down, one guard holding his arms tightly behind him and the other stretching his legs flat in front of him and holding his ankles tight to the floor.

“We’ll continue our conversation later, and there will be no more games,” the leader said with a slow, satisfied malice. “But let me give you something to think about in the meantime.”

Gladio got it before Scientia did, this time; he strained again, the skin of his wrists finally breaking in earnest, dripping blood down his fingertips, but it was useless. He could only watch as the leader’s heavy combat boot stomped sharply and forcefully on Scientia’s left shin.

The bone broke with a short, dry sound; Scientia tried to surge up from the ground, away from the pain, but the guards held fast; his shout came out mangled and raw. Gladio saw completely unfeigned agony in his remaining good eye, and bit his lip until it bled.

And then, of course, the other leg, this time without the benefit of being unprepared. Scientia tried to fight, twisting and buckling in the guards’ grasp, to no avail. Watching it happen was godsdamn unbearable: to hell with that, Gladio thought, two can play that game, and opened his mouth again - if he could pretend to break, give them some lies for now, at least delay - and Scientia threw a sharp, covert glance at him, undeniably lucid and commanding underneath the pain, and Gladio, although he could barely believe himself, clicked his teeth shut.

The guards let Scientia go after the leader snapped his other shin; he curled around himself, sobbing for air, and the leader leaned down, dragging his head up by the hair.

“I’m going to come back soon,” he said into Scientia’s face, “and I’m going to really enjoy what will happen then. Think about it.”

Then he limped out of the room, the flunkies on his heels; the door clanged shut, and the room was empty save for the sound of Scientia’s agonized panting.

Gladio waited for one, three, five, nine heartbeats, and then finally erupted into an enraged whisper. “Scientia, what the fuck? What about not escalating shit?”

Instead of answering Scientia dragged himself up against the wall, inch by tortured inch, the skin of his neck already beginning to bruise darkly blue. He stretched his arm out to Gladio, as if in supplication, and he looked Gladio in the eye and - and winked.

In the palm of his hand, Gladio saw the silver glint of the handcuffs keys.

“You asshole,” Gladio hissed in unwilling admiration. “But how?”

Scientia shrugged - fair enough, with the way his throat looked talking couldn’t be fun - and eyed the distance between them with grim resignation. He coughed once again, wiped his mouth, and busied himself with taking his leather belt out of the belt loops. Before Gladio could ask, he doubled it up and bit on it, and Gladio tamped down on nearly instinctive urge to forbid him to do what he was planning to do next. It’s not like they had a lot of choice.

The space between them couldn’t have been more than five yards at most, but watching Scientia drag himself across on his elbows, making muffled, broken up sounds into the makeshift gag, made it seem that practically endless. Gladio caught himself straining to lean towards Scientia, as if it could help. Until he got this key, he was about as useful as a piece of lawn decoration.

Finally Scientia made it; he leaned against Gladio, gathering himself, and Gladio propped him up the best he could and didn’t say anything. Scientia’s shuddering back against his shoulder was soaked with sweat.

They couldn’t afford more than several moments of respite, and so Scientia, still panting, gingerly worked the belt, deeply imprinted with teeth marks, out of his mouth, twisted around awkwardly and went to work on Gladio’s chains.

It took everything Gladio had to keep still while one lock clicked open, then the other, and he was free. He lurched to his feet, clenched his teeth to keep silent as the feeling rushed back into his legs and shoulders, and made himself do several slow, careful stretches, roll his shoulders, massage his torn wrists until he could be sure they worked properly.

Finally he turned to Scientia, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes half-closed, legs awkwardly splayed in front of him. “Thank you,” he said, with feeling, “that was some great goddamn work. What now?”

Scientia opened his good eye with a clear effort. “Now,” he rasped, “you punch the next person to enter in the head, make it out of here and get backup. And I’ll rest here until it arrives.”

Gladio stared at him. “Are you crazy? If Bald-and-Evil comes in here, you’re not going to live to see that backup.”

Scientia shrugged and made a half-abandoned gesture towards his legs. “As you can see, I’m a bit indisposed.”

“I can bench press you on a bad day, you dumbass. We’re getting out together.”

“It’ll slow you down too much. The risk…”

Gladio found his newfound goodwill rapidly evaporating. He lowered himself down to Scientia’s level, grunting when his abused knees protested the motion, and touched Scientia’s face, made the man meet his eyes, frowned at how cold the skin was.

“Scientia,” he said. Ahh, to hell with that. “Ignis. You have to trust me. I trusted you, didn’t I? I sat quietly through the world’s shittiest peep show because you told me to and you were right. Just relax and let me do my job now.”

Ignis stared at him; Gladio could almost see the energy seeping out of him with each labored breath. Gladio looked back, projecting as much surety as he could, and finally Ignis closed his eyes, nodded, and sagged back against the wall.

“Thank you,” Gladio said, and went to check the door.

Chapter Text

Gladio expected to find the door closed, and planned on lying in wait for their captors to return, hoping that the element of surprise would be enough for him to overpower them. Risky, but it wasn't like they had a lot of choice.

He checked the door anyway, just in case, because Dad had always told him not to underestimate his opponents, but also never to discount the unbelievable stupidity of his fellow man. He touched the handle gently and quietly, exerted the tiniest amount of pressure - and felt it give.

He threw a disbelieving glance back at Ignis, showing him, and Ignis mouthed an appalled amateurs back at him, looking like the incompetence of their kidnappers pained him on some deep and personal level.

Their chances just went up. Gladio returned to the door, pressed the handle down as soundlessly as possible, took a gamble on where the guard would be, and said a quick prayer to Six that there would be only one, since the open door hinted at the people holding them not taking them to be to too much of a risk, and slammed it open, bursting out into the hallway. He had just a moment to register the guard's astonished face before he was on him, slamming the heel of his palm under the guard's chin and driving his head into the wall.

The guard crumpled; Gladio caught him before he could hit the floor and dragged him back into their cell.

He dropped the man unceremoniously, let out an explosive breath and grinned at Ignis, who was looking at him with exhausted appreciation.

"Good job," Ignis said, and by now he didn't sound condescending to Gladio's ear. "Any chance he might have a phone on him?"

Gladio took his time tying the guard up with his own belt: even though the quality of the guy's breathing hinted that he would not wake up any time soon, if ever, it paid to be thorough. He rifled through his pockets, but there was no phone. He took the guard's gun and gave it to Ignis, even though the chances of any of them making good use of an unfamiliar ranged weapon in a hurry were not good. He wished that the guard had carried a baton instead so they could use it as a splint for at least one of Ignis' legs, but it seemed that their luck did not stretch so far.

He went back to Ignis and tried to assess him. Ignis was leaning against the wall, and looking a few shades paler than Gladio was comfortable with; the pain was evident in the tension in his face, the lines around his mouth and eyes, but the shock hasn't settled in yet.

This was going to change soon; the next part of Gladio's plan, where it came to Ignis, wasn't pleasant, but there was no use in fretting about the inevitable.

"Hey," he said, and watched Ignis blink himself back to full awareness. "Ready to blow that joint?"

"Beyond ready," Ignis said, "although I still think you should..."

"Save it, okay? Let's do it."

He took Ignis's discarded belt and tucked it into his front pocket, turned so his back would be to Ignis and crouched down between Ignis’ splayed legs.

"Can you scoot over and try to get on my back? It’s going to hurt, but I don't think there's any other way. Just hold onto my shoulders the best you can, I'll do most of the work. "

Ignis shifted behind him instead of answering; he heard his pained, stuttery breathing, not quite a moan but getting close to it, the rasp of his clothes against the floor. Ignis hands clutched at his shoulders, and Gladio reached back, hooked his hands under Ignis' thighs and got up as smoothly as he could, bringing Ignis up with him, his legs around Gladio's waist.

Ignis dropped his forehead onto Gladio's back and buried his ragged groan in Gladio's skin.

"Sorry," Gladio said uselessly, "sorry, I know. Can you hold on with your knees for just a bit? I'll need my hands free."

"Do it," Ignis said, curtly, and it still took him several moments to work his way up to it; Gladio waited until he felt the pressure of Ignis' knees, let go and took out Ignis' belt.

He tried to be as quick and decisive as possible - looping the belt around both of Ignis' knees, tying his legs together, cinching the buckle - and if there was a wet spot on the back of Gladio's shirt collar after Ignis had to press his face into it to stay silent, neither of them mentioned it.

He counted backwards from ten, giving Ignis what adjustment time he could, shifted him a bit to distribute the weight - heavy but bearable - and went out of the door.

The hallway was a tiny, cramped space, with a stairway leading upstairs just a few steps from the door. Gladio hoped they were held somewhere within Insomnia still: would their kidnappers risk smuggling them outside the Wall for the interrogation? He didn't even want to think about dragging them through unknown territory to get back home.

He decided to cross that bridge when they came to it. He talked a good game for Ignis' sake, but the truth was, there was an unknown amount of people with guns in the house, and Gladio was dizzy from hunger and the residual headache from the drugs he was given, his limbs cramped and ached from being restrained for so long, and Ignis was essentially a dead weight on his back.

Focus, Amicitia, he told himself sternly, in Dad’s voice, and creeped up the stairs. Ignis' hands clutched at his shoulders spasmodically, and he didn't even want to imagine how the jolts of the movement felt in the broken bones of his legs.

The stairway, as a small mercy, was made of stone, and didn't creak. Gladio strained for any sounds ahead and hoped that, Bahamut willing, their captors were cocky and confident, imagining them to be restrained and helpless down below.

The stairs ended up in another door, thankfully just as unlocked. Gladio breathed another inward prayer and eased it open, ready for another fight.

He found himself in somebody's empty kitchen instead, looking like it could belong to his own own manor: spacious, bright, with wooden floors and wide counters. Several dirty plates were piled in the sink, and there was somebody's half-empty cup of tea on the table.

The contrast with the blood-splattered basement down below made this cozy place seem so sharply unreal that its clean lines wavered before Gladio's eyes; for a staggering moment he thought that Jared would walk through the door, bearing a tray with freshly-baked pastries.

"Looks like we're still in Insomnia," Ignis breathed into his ear, bringing Gladio back to his senses, and Gladio nodded; somewhere upscale, even. Whoever those people were, they were either well-connected or well-employed.

If their luck held, the kitchen would be somewhere close to the entrance; and if it held especially well, the leader and the flunkies would be upstairs, nursing Ignis-inflicted injuries and getting some shut-eye, respectively.

He stared at the tap with longing but didn't dare turn it on; his tongue felt thick and unwieldy in his mouth. He picked the mug with remains of the tea instead, and offered it to Ignis over his shoulder.

"No," Ignis said, "I’ll just throw it up. Drink it, you’re doing all the work."

They couldn't afford an argument, or wasting the liquid; Gladio drained the cup in one long swallow, and the tepid tang of it tasted heavenly, clearing his head.

He put it back on the counter, soundlessly, and went to check the kitchen door. There was no noise or movement beyond it, no matter how hard he listened. he still opened the door with excruciating slowness, feeling like there was a neon target blinking on his chest.

But the foyer was empty. Gladio scanned it quickly; the grand staircase sweeping upstairs, the hallways leading further into the house, wooden floors, sparse but elegant furniture - and the main entrance, unguarded.

He made himself inch towards it, hugging the wall, all the while wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. The staircase yawned behind them, full of menace; Gladio’s ears strained to hear the guards' heavy thread, the click of the gun ready to fire.

They reached the door; nothing happened. He took a deep breath, felt Ignis quietly exhale into the back of his neck, turned the handle and stepped out into the sunlight.

The empty driveway stretched before him, a huge swept expanse of gravel surrounded by well-tended trees; the manor they left stood in the middle of a rather large estate. At least six hundred yards before the bend in the road would take him out of the sight of manor's windows, and no cover. He debated circling the house instead, hugging the walls, but sooner or later their empty cell would be discovered, trapping them on the estate in no better position than before.

They had to risk it. "Hey," he said to Ignis, "ready?"

Ignis nodded against his neck; he could feel his chest expand as he took a deep, shuddery breath. Gladio took one of his own and made himself take the first step from the relative safety of the door.

His entire body was thrumming with the need to run, but he made his steps smooth and soundless instead, sliding silently over the gravel. Just six hundred yards, and he would be able to speed up, get out before the assholes in the house even notice they're gone, call the backup, turn this mess over to somebody else. One hundred yards: all was quiet. Two hundred yards: the cicadas sang, drowning out the beating of his heart. Three: he could feel the sweat pooling in his armpits, sliding down his neck, feel each of Ignis' determinedly silent exhales and inhales. Four: he could see the road after the bend now, the sunlight dappled by the shadow of the leaves. Five: almost there...

Bang! A bullet whizzed past his cheek, so close he felt the sharp hot wind of its passage, and there was shouting from the house, the sound of heavy boots trampling on the gravel. He hooked his hands under Ignis' thighs, hitching him firmer to himself, and ran, veering off the road and crashing into the woods.

Six bless Cor and his sadistic obstacle courses: he ran blindly, zigzagging on random, and let his body deal with the stones and roots and low-hanging branches by itself, the way it was taught to. Left, right, left, left; bullets flew around them with little explosions of sound, buzzing like angry bees. Ignis hung onto him, leaving bruises on his shoulders, sobbing for breath.

Gladio’s heart tried to beat its way out of his chest, and his muscles burned almost unbearably, but he felt incredible, in that stretched moment, the green and brown and blue and golden of the forest and the sky around them crisp and clear and gorgeous, the air hitting the back of his throat sweeter than any wine. Incredible, and alive, and the sounds of pursuit behindthem were fading away.

Then the path under him sloped down, and his left foot skidded on the patch of wet clay; he started falling backward, and threw his weight forward as much as he could instead, falling down and sliding down the slope on his hands and knees, roots and sharp little stones tearing the skin of his palms open. He ended up slumped on the bottom of a ditch, all the adrenaline and excitement and strength sliding out of him in the space between two heartbeats.

Ignis made a sharp, tearing sound that sounded like it was stomped out of him, and his hands went lax, sliding off Gladio's shoulders; he slumped against Gladio's back in a dead faint.

Gladio swore and scrambled deeper into the ditch on his hands and knees, wedging them both under the small overhang, into the mess of damp earth and rotten leaves. He fumbled with the buckle of Ignis' belt, untying his legs, and lowered him off his back. Ignis fell limply, legs twisted at an awkward angle, and looked - well. Gladio pushed his fingers against his throat and got a pulse, stuttery and much fainter that he'd prefer, but there. He closed his eyes and breathed out in relief; then in, trying to catch his own breath.

He looked Ignis over, making sure that he hasn't been hit with a stray bullet. It still left Ignis with a whole array of possible reasons for fainting, from shock to hunger and fatigue to internal bleeding to, Astrals forbid, that broken rib deciding to poke through his lung, and if there was any justice, the cavalry would've swept in just at that moment, to tidy everything up and carry them away into the waiting arms of the hospital staff. Six, he'd settle for a potion and his greatsword, except he wasn't due to be bonded with Noct's magic for another year.

Instead, here they both were, huddled up in a dirty ditch on some asshole's estate, and they really needed to get a move on, and he couldn't carry unconscious Ignis, run and fight at the same time. Gladio set Ignis to lean against the wall of the ditch, swallowing the stray impulse to apologize for the way the dirt finished ruining Ignis' dress trousers well beyond repair. He shook Ignis' shoulder and called his name, to no response. Again; his shoulder blades prickled, waiting for the burst of noise, the impact of the bullet. Again; Ignis moved under his hands, flopping like a rag doll, and didn't wake up.

Gladio growled in frustration, and then, in a burst of divine inspiration, leaned in and said into Ignis’ ear, "Ignis, Noct's in trouble. He needs you. Ignis?"

Ignis groaned - and opened his eyes. "N'ct?"

"Unbelievable," Gladio said, and grinned despite himself. "Noct is fine, Ignis, stay with me. No going back to sleep. Ignis!"

For a moment it looked like Ignis was checking out again, but then he jolted upright - or tried to, folding in on himself and crying out instead. Gladio had to smother the noise with his palm over Ignis’ mouth, trying not to touch the broken cheekbone.

"Steady," he said, "steady. I know it sucks, but I need you to stay awake, we got to go."

Ignis licked his lips, and went from half-dead to half-dead and obstinate. "Told you... too much risk. You should leave now, I can't..."

"Are you kidding me? Kid will have my head if I make it without you. Come on, Scientia, you can hold on for just a bit longer, you stubborn asshole."

He saw Ignis realize he wasn't getting his way in this argument, and steel himself to rise; then saw his eye widen in alarm, looking at something behind Gladio.

"How touching," said the cold voice from beyond him. "Perhaps you should've listened to your friend, young man. Turn around and put your arms up, please."

Godsdamn hell, weren't they due a break? Gladio pivoted on his knees, as slowly as he dared, trying to keep his body between Ignis and the leader, who stood about fifteen paces away from them, the gun in his head steady, it's barrel staring Gladio right between the eyes.

"No sudden movements," the leader said, "and put your hands on your head."

Gladio considered the distance between them, the angle of the gun. People always thought he moved slower than he actually could, because of his bulk, and if he lunged, maybe...

"I wouldn't recommend it," the man said. "Much as it would pain me to waste our efforts, we only need one of you, and I won't hesitate to shoot. Hands on your head, please."

The gun was steady; the black circle of the barrell seemed to grew in Gladio's vision, sucking in the light. He swallowed and put his hands up, slowly. He could hear Ignis breathe behind him, rasping and wet and loud against the oblivious song of cicadas.

The leader smiled at him, cold and satisfied. "Seems that I've underestimated the both of you. Nothing but the best people for the Prince, of course. Pity it wasn't sufficient."

Gladio gritted his teeth. The flunkies didn't catch up yet, and the leader had them trapped - well, had him trapped, Ignis wasn't going anywhere under his own steam regardless - but until his people came, they were at impasse. He could play for time, but time for what? They were on their own.

"You can't hope to get away with it," he said anyway, and made his eyes shift from the gun to the leader's face, with an effort. "Everybody must already be on high alert, so you're trapped in here, aren't you?"

"If you're hoping for a villain monologue, I'll have to disappoint," the leader said. "Don't you worry about us."

There were sounds behind him, shifting, rustling, a bitten off moan; Gladio made himself pay no attention to them, and rolled his shoulders slowly, deliberately, willing the leader to keep looking at him, keep pointing the gun over here.

"Who are you people anyway? What the fuck do you want?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? But there's no sense in talking; you'll keep quiet until..."

"Down," Ignis said harshly behind him, and Gladio dropped his hands, shifting into the runner's crouch; a gun went off behind his back, shockingly loud. The bullet flew harmlessly wide, but the leader, startled, lowered his own weapon just for a moment, and Gladio lunged.

The leader recovered fast, and something burned a line of fire through the meat of Gladio’s left bicep, but the clean bright pain of it only served to make the world sharper. Gladio moved through the air between them like a diver through still waters, and plowed into the man before he had a chance to bring his gun up a second time.

He brought them both down, grappling for the man's gun hand; a short, vicious punch to his temple made him reel, but he paid it no mind. He hit the leader's wrist with the side of his palm once, twice, and swept the gun away when the fingers holding it fell open.

He was bleeding, exhausted, hungry, probably concussed, and his opponent was heavier, older, more experienced. But Gladio's training held, hours and days and weeks and months and years of it, hits and forms and bleeding hands, and this was - this was their last chance. He let the rage of it settle over him, clean and dark and golden, let it carry him through, and when it crested over and left him, empty and gasping, he was crouched over the leader's unconscious body, the man's face beaten into an unrecognizable pulp.

He got up; every muscle in his body cried out, and he ignored that. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat; his insides felt greasy and sticky, unsteady. Something hot and wet was running down his left hand; it took him several confused moments to realize it was blood. He shook his head, dismissing it from his attention, and it felt vaguely wrong, but the worry slid out of his head.

He grasped the leader's collar and dragged him across the ditch, back to where - there was something important - oh, Ignis. Ignis was sprawled against the wall of the ditch, skin grey and eyes closed, his breathing whistling thin and arrhythmical out of his mouth, and the gun was on the ground next to his lax fingers.

Gladio dropped on his knees next to him, and fought the urge to close his eyes. He just needed a minute, just one godsdamned minute, but it wasn't over, was it? There was something he could...

He searched for that elusive thought like it was a silver fish in a creek - he'd have to take Noct fishing when it was over - and then he had it, and almost sobbed in relief. Gladio dragged the body of the leader closer to him, and went through the man’s pockets, biting his lip in terror and anticipation, because if it didn't work - if he had to get up again and get them out -

- his fingers closed on the phone in the breast pocket of the man's coat. A phone, unbroken and charged and turned on, and Gladio swore he would make a huge donation to each of the Six in turn in the nearest future.

He settled next to Ignis, picked up the gun in his right hand and aimed it at the leader's head, and with his left dialed the only number he could remember.

The call got picked up on a second ring. There were sounds on the other side of the line, loud and insistent, but the words slid off him without making an impact.

He pushed his shoulder against Ignis' cold one, exhaled, inhaled. "Dad," he said, feeling small and exhausted and done. "Please come pick us up."

Chapter Text

In the quiet boredom of the hospital room Gladio had made a bet with himself, and won it when Ignis woke up with a strangled gasp of Noct on his lips.

"He's fine, His Majesty took him home for the night. You've missed out on some quality bedside weeping."

Ignis squinted up at him - his face still had no more color than the pillow he was resting on, but at least the bruises had faded under the onslaught of potions - and Gladio grinned at him and handed him his glasses from the nightstand.

"Now that we've established that a person who was well-guarded in the Citadel all that time and wasn't kidnapped and tortured is fine, want to know how you're doing?"

"Sarcasm is unbecoming of you, Gladio," Ignis said severely, and began coughing.

Gladio went to pour him a glass of water, talking over his shoulder. "Look who's talking. Anyway, you're fine. They got a good surgeon to put your legs and your face back together, and then practically gave you a potion bath. Another day under observation and you're home free. Oh, and your uncle was by, but everybody was kicked out for the night."

"Except you? I'm touched."

"Now who's being sarcastic? Nah, I'm an inmate here too, they're keeping an eye on the concussion I got. But I wouldn't mind company, if you're game."

"Isn’t it too late for us to stand on ceremony?"

Gladio caught Ignis when he tried to rise on his elbows and went several degrees whiter than his pillow, steadied him and leaned down to raise the head of his bed.

"Easy there, easy. The potions fixed you up, but there's been internal bleeding and shit, you cut it pretty fine. Your body needs some time. Anybody ever tell you your plans are really batshit insane?"

Ignis smiled at him, a sharp flash of teeth, and leaned back into the pillows. "Worked, didn't it?"

"Like a charm. But where would you have been if that asshole didn't stop strangling you?"

He knew the answer even before he asked the question, and Ignis confirmed his guess, looking at him and then away. "You know that one can only resist interrogation for so long. I do apologize..."

"No," Gladio said, "it was your plan B, I get it. I don't know if I would've gone there so quickly, but I get it. Pretty fucked up, isn't it?"

"It would've left you there alone with them, and I'm sorry about that. But it was still an acceptable outcome, on the whole. And I don't think 'healthy and sane' was a priority consideration in our training."

It was weird, hearing things like this outside of his own head. Gladio suppressed the urge to look over his shoulder and check if Dad was in the room, listening. Ignis was looking at him, calm and steady, intent, the same way he did in that basement, in the very beginning.

Talking shop. They could've been doing it for months already, instead of all that petty bickering in shitty fast-food joints. "You really don't mind it, do you? Being made into who we are. Because I'm doing it, okay, until the very end, but sometimes I just..."

Ignis shrugged his shoulders; color was raising to the surface of his pale skin, but his face was still serene, full of conviction. "Nobody could make me choose to serve him. I could have not loved him, and I did. Isn't that enough?"

"I don't know," Gladio said, slowly. "I mean, I will kill and die for him, obviously, and I'm fond of the squirt, but - I don't think it's the same way for me."

"And yet we worked together so well," Ignis said, and Gladio grinned at him, felt his back shed the tension that lingered there for longer than he knew.

"We were pretty damn awesome.”

He was content to just sit there afterwards, soaking up the bland hospital safety, but Ignis began fiddling with his thin hospital blanket, lowering his eyes, working himself up to something.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said finally, “for working with me, in the beginning. I must admit, I expected you to be more - stupidly chivalrous, if you pardon me.”

“Hey,” Gladio said, mildly offended, “they don’t breed us just for the size. You read the situation right, I could see that.”

“Well. The size came in handy too,” Ignis said, and Gladio’s shoulders twinged with the phantom pain of the healed bruises that Ignis’ fingers dug into them during their flight.

Ignis still wouldn’t look up. “I also wanted - it was, you know, it was a relief to know that I could do it, when the time came, that I was ready to do it. But I really didn’t want to die there, and you - I’m grateful that you didn’t let me.”

Oh, Gladio thought. “Hey, no, that would’ve been a real fucking waste. And the kid would’ve been heartbroken, you know that, right? I wasn’t kidding about the crying.”

He reached out and made Ignis raise his chin, looked straight at him. “He needs you, he needs - he’ll be better off with both of us, together. Maybe think about that next time you want to go straight to plan B.”

“Maybe now I’ll start relying of you to think about that for me,” Ignis said, and took his glasses off, settled down into the pillows. “So next time, since we’re a team now, do I get to choose the venue? With better food?”

You sly fox, Gladio thought, you knew all along. Aloud he said, “It’s a date,” and solemnly shook Ignis’s hand.