A/N: Hello from TW! I'm posting for Sythar since she is currently out of town at her brother's wedding. :) Thanks for the good wishes on my thesis, dears - it's a lot of work, but really has been ever so much fun (and helpful in writing this arc!) thanks to my choice of topic. And now, without further ado...Dominic thoroughly earns us our 'T' rating.
Dominic had had some fairly nasty things happen to him in his time, but nothing that had ever hurt so much as that bastard grabbing at his leg. His whole hip…on fire. By Satan's putain ever-damned ever-fiery twice-damned son-of-a-bitching manhood, it hurt. "P'tain scum," he hissed between clenched teeth as he saw the spy coming at him from above.
Duval grabbed him by the arm and started hauling him out of the cell before he could conquer the pain well enough to move on his own – or hell, even breathe right around the searing pain radiating up from his leg. "Save your breath, Harlequin. You're going to need it to convince Scaramouche here to tell what he knows – unless you'd rather tell me first…"
Harle- ? Oh yeah. Yeah…Harlequin. As in the person who isn't here, but you can't know that. Dominic gritted his teeth further, damn you, you'll never find out anything about them from me, and spat at that sneering face. "Never."
"Suit yourself." He found himself locked out of the cell and suddenly the mask was ripped from his face. There he was, face exposed. Naked. But at least you don't know my name, eh? Or Gra – or Scaramouche's, either. Scaramouche. Harlequin. Right. Agreed. Scaramouche and Harlequin… It felt wrong somehow to take the name away from its rightful bearer, but god knows, you can have it back once I'm done taking the beating for it, and maybe – yeah – maybe that beating would make up a bit for being so wrong before. He turned to look at Scaramouche's panic-twisted face and got pushed back into place with a growl of "Don't move when I'm looking at you".
Harlequin scowled up. "Why not?"
Fingers closed down hard on his shoulder. "Because then I do this." He was up on his feet and pinned on the wall before he could struggle, and – nom d'un putain chienne – god – his arm was twisted around all the wrong way in between and – and – Harlequin. Scaramouche. Got to make this up to them. Got to do right by them. He would have thrown off his attacker if he could, but – he could barely move his right leg at all, and Duval had him at such an angle – damn it. Son of a whore. When did you learn physics, you damned wall of meat?
"Don't," Scaramouche begged, out of sight.
If I can't get away, got to just take this. Stand up and stay up and take it like a man. Got to keep my mouth shut, got to –
SHHNNAACK
Do you know what a bone splintering sounds like, gentlemen? Not breaking off cleanly, no, that's SNAP loud and clear. Splintering, like a man with a rope-harness ripping a limb from a tree.
Perhaps more to the point, do you know what a bone splintering feels like? Because - let me tell you. Let me tell you, ami. If you're the praying type, light your candles and chant your chants and pay off the priest – just pray God that you never find out. And if you're not, just – just stay away from walls of meat with grudges against your friends. Don't try to be a stupid hero, like me, Bahorel here. I mean Harlequin. Trust me. It'll knock you flat out.
When Harlequin could breathe and see and hear again, he was on the floor and still in more pain than he felt any one homme should be made to stand, and the tower above him was crowing, "If you're not ready to tell me the truth yet, there's plenty more where that came from…"
I'm sorry, maybe I'm not fully conscious again yet, because it sounds like somebody's knocking on the door. No? No, not the door. The cell. Somebody's banging on the…Scaramouche was throwing himself against the bars. Scaramouche, why in God's own hell are you…but then Scaramouche fell to the floor unconscious and Duval kicked Harlequin in frustration and ow ow ow good putain god don't do that. It wasn't until the spy had dragged Harlequin back into the cell and slammed the door that his battered, pain-washed brain connected the dots.
He's hurting me, to get to you, so if he can't get to you, he won't hurt me.
Clever, that. Nicely done.
But we'd better both hope that help gets here soon…and that it brings a doctor with it.
