A/N: For my lovely Amberita, who requested these two forever ago.

Also, guys, I am so close to finishing this boot camp that I can damn near taste it. Half-tempted to stay up and write the last few drabbles.

Pairing: Barty/Rabastan

Prompt: 45. Chair

"Baby, don't fret," you say, and no one's ever called me baby before – no one's ever cared. "Baby, don't worry, it'll all be over soon."

And my hands are shaking, my eyes burning, my bones rattling; the clanking of chains echoes in our ears. This courtroom smells of distrust and disgust and I hate it.

"Baby, don't cry," you say, and I'm shaking against you, my father's voice hanging in the air, heavy and broken, and I wonder if it's him I hate, and not this place. I think you understand me a little too well sometimes. "You've got me, baby. You've got me."

"I know," I say, "I know," but I'm still shaking, my stomach still rolling itself into knots and my spine straight and sharp and strangely icy. You whisper in my ear, voiceless reassurances, empty promises, and I can't even hear you anymore over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my head, but I feel safer knowing you're there.

You told me once that I was fearless and you loved me for it. Fearless. There's something almost comical about that now that my knees are weak, now that the backs of my legs are damp and sticking to the metal of this chair.

There is no fearless when your life hangs in the balance, Rab. I know that know.

(You're the worst off of us all. You're caught in a family who wouldn't understand. You are always so unafraid. So fearless.")

My father's shame is a palpable thing, screaming loudly and filling the room with hate. Hate. It is a strong word, but we have been known to throw it around far too much, haven't we?

And if I truly hated him, would I feel this way? This guilty? Like I have failed him?

("And I love you for it, Barty. You're the strongest man among us, no matter what they say.")

He looks at me, the man that wears my face, but aged and lined and too fucking cold to really be mine. He says, "You are no son of mine." And I know then; I am not ashamed. I am not afraid. I am disappointed.

I have failed you, failed Him, failed us all – and I do not want my master to suffer without me. Without us.

"I have no son."

And he looks at me, waiting for the moment where I realise I am bound to rot in a prison cell, clawing at the walls and desperately fighting my own insanity.

I do not give him the satisfaction of my horror.

And maybe you were right, Rab; maybe I am fearless. Because, right now, I've never been so unafraid.

I will get out of this cell somehow. I know it.

("I'll be waiting for you, baby.")

It is lonely here. These stone walls remind me too much of the castle we found each other in. I want you to press me against them again, if only to make me forget.

(The only thing I fear is that I will never see you again.)