For the beautiful Sophy (The Crownless Queen) for GGE 2014, who requested, among other things, AlScore. While this came out more preslash/gen than slashy, I hope you still enjoy, darling.
Thanks to my one true love Sam for the last minute beta job.
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At first, they don't have any idea who he is. They only know what he can do.
They find him slipping out the back of a burning building, just before it collapses in on itself, the cracking sounds ringing in his ears. Al may be inhumanly fast, but it doesn't make him unobservant. He can see the trip wires strung up around them — fine white strands that would shred his ankles if he hit them at high speeds. There are six men and too many trip wires to count. He puts his hands up, lets them take him in. He curses himself for not realizing the fire was a trap.
It takes him a while to realize that they don't have a clue who he is. After all, everyone always says he looks just like his father. But Al, Al has stayed out of his father's spotlight. It's James who loves having the attention of being the son of the superhero who saved the free world, James who flaunts his strength in front of people. Al melts into the background, and he prefers it that way.
Because Al is a runner. That's what he does: he runs. James is the fight and Al is the flight. (Lily, Lily is something else entirely, something Al has never been able to quantify, because Lily, Lily flies.)
So, Al figures, maybe it's for the best that it's him that has been caught.
.
He says his name is Scorpius. He's so goddamn beautiful it hurts.
Albus should hate him.
Al's wrists and ankles are clamped together with cold iron chains. He tried to stand and wound up on his face, eating the carpet.
Part of him is surprised there is carpet at all. Not just carpet, but a decent bed, too, even if it is bolted to the floor. It isn't a dungeon, just a room.
Somehow, this unnerves him more than damp stone would.
They bind him in chains and leave him there for a while. Then Scorpius comes.
Scorpius smiles too easily, like it doesn't mean anything. His hands are pale, fingers slim — all of him is slim, like he could turn sideways and disappear. Al could wrap his stubby fingers all the way around Scorpius' wrists. He shouldn't want to, but he does.
The pads of Scorpius' fingers are soft as he removes the cuffs, smiling gently.
"Sorry about these," he says. His voice is as soft as his skin. "My father is... Well, let's just say we disagree on methods."
Al wants to bolt the moment his cuffs come off, but he doesn't know enough. He doesn't even know where he is.
"What would you like to be called?" Scorpius asks. The phrasing is peculiar enough to make Al stop, think about it.
"You," he says, "don't have the right to call me anything."
Scorpius laughs. The sound is hollow. "Very well, Nothing. Would you like something to eat?"
"Why are you being so nice to me? Shouldn't you be torturing me or something?" Al is completely perplexed by the entire situation so far. If he's right, he's been captured by the Malfoy Syndicate, the largest ring of Super Villains since his father's defeat of the so-called "Dark Lord" decades earlier. This... kindness, is not what he had expected from the Malfoy Syndicate.
"And why would we do that?"
"I don't know! If you don't want to torture me, what do you want from me?"
Scorpius' smile sends a chill down his spine. "Don't you see, dear Nothing? We want you to help us." The chill turns to a block of ice that settles in his stomach.
"You're wasting your time," Al says. His voice doesn't waver, and he is more pleased by this than he should be.
"You say that now."
"I say that always." Al's voice is cold — winter to Scorpius' mild spring.
That stupid, meaningless smile is back. "I can leave-"
"Please do."
Scorpius continues talking as though Al hadn't said anything. "But if I do, the cuffs go back on. I'm sure you understand." This smile is saccharine. It makes Al burn.
Al hesitates only a moment. "Leave," he says.
When Scorpius puts the cuffs back on, his hands are still gentle.
.
It's disorienting, the first time Al tries to run. It feels like wading through thick mud, the substance sucking at his heels and making it impossible to forge ahead. At first, he doesn't understand — then, he does.
Scorpius saps powers from people in his vicinity. Near him, Al is normal. Everyone is normal.
He hadn't realized... God, he hadn't realized how much he took his speed for granted until it wasn't there anymore.
It isn't until he figures out Scorpius' ability that he understands the game they're playing with him, understands why there has been so much kindness. This is why Scorpius can risk removing Al's cuffs. It's why Scorpius can be their outreach, their liaison. Because no one can hurt him, not really. And to use someone like Scorpius as a weapon, out in the field, well, it risks handicapping yourself as much as the other guy.
Al can't flee. And he isn't a fighter. The realization is terrifying. He knows it must show on his face when Scorpius takes an aborted step toward him. He recoils, and Scorpius jerks back.
"I'm sorry," Scorpius says, and it's the first thing he's said in three weeks that sounds genuine. "I know it's... I'm the freak. I take away what makes you special. If it wasn't so useful... Well, no. People still hate me for it, regardless."
And Al can only see how goddamned lonely he looks before Scorpius turns away.
Scorpius puts Al's cuffs on without looking at him and walks away without another word.
.
Scorpius doesn't come back for a while. When he does, he has a black eye that's just starting to yellow. Al hasn't eaten in several days, because no one else has brought food. They won't risk untying his hands.
Scorpius unlocks Al's hands and reaches down toward his ankles. As he bends on one knee in front of where Al sits on the bed, Al reaches out. His fingertips brush the yellowing mark, no pressure, just touch. Scorpius stills.
"What happened?" Al asks. Even his quiet words sound deafening in the stillness.
Scorpius shakes his head. "Not important."
"Who hit you?" Al persists.
Scorpius finally looks up at him. His grey eyes are softer than they've ever been, and strangely vulnerable, for all that Scorpius is the captor and Al the captive.
"My cousin." His tone says it doesn't matter. His eyes say it does.
"Why?" As he asks the question, Al realizes that his fingertips are still brushing against the bruise. He drops them, flushing.
"You know why." For all that Scorpius looks like he wants to mumble, he doesn't let himself. His voice is clear.
And Albus does. I'm the freak. I take away what makes you special.
"I'm sorry," Al says, for all that the words feel pathetic and not enough. But Scorpius jerks like Al has hit him.
"You're sorry? Why are you sorry?"
"You shouldn't have to... They're your family!" Al says. And he doesn't know how to explain that family doesn't do this; family doesn't isolate you for something you can't control; family doesn't hit you hard enough to bruise. At least, not Al's family. And he's not sorry, exactly, because sorry implies apologetic and he isn't, but he doesn't have a better word to express his recognition of Scorpius' misfortune and his wish that it didn't have to be this way.
"Yes, well," Scorpius says stiffly, and Al understands that he means the subject is closed. Scorpius unlocks Al's ankles.
Scorpius clearly isn't expecting Al to fling himself at him — understandable, because Al isn't really expecting it either.
In the moment Al is in the air, Scorpius braces for attack. He doesn't know how to brace for the hug he gets instead.
"I'm sorry you have to deal with this," Al says. Scorpius doesn't move, just kneels there, statuesque. For this, for his hug, Al does not apologize. He is not sorry. Not for this.
After an infinite moment, he pulls away and sits cross-legged on the bed. Scorpius stares at him for another moment before grabbing the tray that he'd set near the door. Al takes it, balancing it easily on his knees. Scorpius' eyes flicker around the room, never settling on Al as he eats slowly. For a while, there is only the scrape of a metal fork and a plastic knife. When Al finishes, he sets the tray aside.
"Thank you, Scorpius," he says.
Scorpius smirks back. "No problem, Nothing."
A beat, and then, "Al."
Scorpius tilts his head.
"Al," he repeats. "You can call me Al."
.
Albus has been inside this 3 meter square box for over a month. Scorpius has known his nickname for a week.
It surprises Al how long it takes Scorpius to figure it out, actually. But one day, Scorpius walks in, looking contemplative.
"Al," he says. Then he stops.
"Yesssss?" Al asks.
"Short for Albus." It isn't a question.
Al sighs. "Yes," he admits.
"Full name: Albus Potter."
"Yes."
Scorpius is completely, utterly still. His eyelids close. If not for his breathing, he could be carved of marble.
Albus has the insane thought that he wants to touch him, feel that warm skin cave as proof that this man is not made of stone.
But he is in chains and Scorpius knows who he is and he isn't saying anything.
Scorpius' exhale is audible. "My father taught me to hate you. But it is much easier to hate an idea than it is to hate you, here."
That… does not sound like the beginning of an angry tirade.
"And you," Scorpius continues. "You have every reason to hate me, but you are the only one who does not move away when I enter the room." He runs pale fingers through white-blonde hair. "I don't understand," he says eventually. "Why don't you hate me?"
"I hate the situation," Al says carefully. "I hate this room, and that stupid bolted bed, and that crack in the ceiling that I stared at for three days once. I hate feeling trapped and useless. I hate not being able to help people, because I don't know what else I'm supposed to do with these powers if not that. But, Scorpius, you have been nothing but kind. Sometimes, it's even genuine." He huffs out a laugh with no substance. "I see you, Scorpius. Not what you do, you. And I can't hate what I see."
.
Less than a week later, Scorpius and Albus walk out of the building, hands clasped tightly together. Neither one of them looks back.