Written for QLFC Round 6
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Beater 2
Prompt: A dark character showing the virtue of humility
Additional Prompts: 1. (object) "swear jar", 10. (quote) 'I have always known who you really are, and that's why I love you.' - Belle, Once Upon A Time
Words: 1202
(Warning: swearing and mentions of torture)
"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs
for their religion—
I have shuddered at it,
I shudder no more.
I could be martyred for my religion.
Love is my religion
and I could die for that.
I could die for you.
My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet."
~ John Keats
"I cannot believe you just did that! Barty, what the hell were you thinking? You absolute, pig-headed, mindless fool! You—did you have any idea what you . . . you prat! I swear, if I didn't love you—if I didn't love you to the end of the fucking world—and I do, I do love you to the end of the fucking world, and that is the only reason I am holding you upright right now—I would . . . Bartemius Crouch, Jr., are you even fucking listening to me right now?"
"S-shh, shh, sh-shush, just sh-shush," Barty slurred from where he was slung over Regulus's shoulder, "please, Reg, j-ust shu-ush right now."
"You can't even bleedin' talk, Barty," Regulus adjusted his grip on an almost unconscious Barty's waist and hoisted him up another three stairs. "You . . . you're such an idiot. You can't even talk right now, why'd you—"
"'Cause it would'a been you."
It would have been him. Barty was right in that respect but in no other. It would have been Regulus (it should have been Regulus) because Barty had never been hit with a Crucio before. The boy was still shaking, could barely string a sentence together, and—damn it—Regulus had just almost dropped him down the stairs.
"Hold onto me, would you?" Regulus growled, again tightening his grip. "After all the trouble you went to, the least you can do is stay awake."
"'M tryin', Reg," and he was, he really, really was. Trying was not enough, however. "Think 'm fallin' sleep, though."
"Well, don't. You're a heavy son of a bitch. You're the heavy son of a bitch who decided that our flat should be on the fourth—fifth—floor of a building with no lift. Barty?" Regulus looked down at him. "Barty? Barty? For fuck's fucking sake. Barty!"
"Hmm—wha'd'you wan'?" Barty's head lolled against Regulus's shoulder.
"A boyfriend that's less of a mindless prat."
Said mindless prat of a boyfriend proceeded to lose consciousness and almost send them both tumbling down the stairs.
"Barty . . ." Regulus sighed once he'd regained his footing. "I really hate you sometimes."
Barty was the same size as Regulus, so carrying him up the stairs was no easy task. After another flight of stairs, he slung Barty over his shoulder. It was slow going, but Regulus couldn't simply apparate into the flat, for fear of worsening the curse's effect on Barty.
Barty, in the meantime, was breathing onto the middle of Regulus's back. He was doing so in a steady pattern—in, out, in, out—as if he was asleep, which was a small comfort to Regulus.
Barty was not his keeper, Regulus fumed. It was not Barty's job to throw himself in front of danger for him, and certainly not his job to intercept a stray Cruciatus. It hurt—of course it bloody hurt, it was a torture curse—but Regulus couldn't even know how much it hurt Barty; the effect was different on everyone.
"How are you doing?" Regulus asked, not surprised to receive no answer.
Still, it was better to ask.
Regulus reached into his pocket to get his wand and unlock the door. They had several wards up—blood wards that required the wand to pass through—but the door itself was protected by several simple locks. Inside was a small sitting room that opened into a kitchen. A door led into the bedroom.
Regulus deposited Barty onto the couch and covered him with a patched quilt that they'd gotten from a second-hand store. Barty still showed no signs of waking, so Regulus turned on the kettle and got two mugs from the cupboard. Tea was a quick remedy for most things, Barty had taught him, and he hoped that it worked for the mental and emotional trauma of curses as well.
Regulus put the mugs onto the floor and sat down next to them, legs crossed. He toyed with a thread poking out of the quilt, rubbing it between his fingers and tugging at it until it tore away. "It's fine if you want to wake up now."
It would be more than fine if Barty woke up because Regulus was really starting to get sick of the self-sacrificing crap. He repeated himself, on the off chance that Barty would hear him this time. Barty didn't respond and the tea was starting to cool. Regulus chose to remind him, "You don't like cold tea."
Barty also didn't like going to Death Eater meetings without disguises, and for the first time, Regulus fully agreed. They'd been ambushed right outside the building as they had been returning. Four Ministry officials, one of whom was Crouch, Sr., had noticed their masks—Barty's mask was still in the pocket of Regulus's robes, shoved there in a hurry—and attacked. In the skirmish, minor hexes had been thrown, but only when Regulus slammed one of the Aurors against a wall did Crouch definitively act.
"Mourning for me, Reg?"
Regulus sat up straighter and shook his head. "You wish. That was the stupidest thing you've ever done, Barty! If you ever—and I mean ever—do that again, I—"
"You what?"
"I'll kill you, you prat!" Regulus handed Barty one of the mugs (the tea was lukewarm now, but Barty would have to live with that). "I had to carry you up here, if you don't remember, and you're heavy, and I can't . . . I can't . . ."
"I'm not that bad," Barty smiled, lifting the mug to his lips. But his coordination was off, and if it wasn't for Regulus's reflexes, the tea would have ended up all over the quilt.
"You can't lift your arm properly!" Regulus screwed up his face because not only was Barty unable to coordinate his arm, but he wasn't sitting up or speaking above a whisper. "You're a great, big, absolute—I'm not worth that, you—"
"You're mad I saved you, Reg," Barty pointed out. He reached off the couch and covered one of Regulus's hands, "I think you're the one with the problem, not me."
"You're—"
"Reg," Barty cut him off, "You've sworn enough to fill the swear jar and you're squeezing my hand like you think I'm going to disappear. I'm not. I'm not going to leave you, but if it meant saving you, then I'd take a Crucio any day."
"I'm not worth it," Regulus repeated. He wasn't, he knew that, so why couldn't Barty understand?
"I think you are. And I may not be able to get off this couch, but you can get up here with me. And you know what I'm going to tell you? Do you?"
"No."
"I have always known who you really are, and that's why I love you," Barty smiled. "You're kind, and beautiful, and brave, and loyal, and—I'd give up everything to make you happy, Reg."
"You're a selfless bastard, that's who you really are," Regulus brushed a hair—a hair, not a tear—out of his eyes. "And don't worry, I'll fill the swear jar; we'll be able to take a holiday. Now budge up."
To my beta, short-and-satanic (thank you)! And thank you for reading!