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It was eating him alive that Gideon couldn’t Toy Soldiers this bitch.
The room had only just gotten silent, aside from the sound of the wind outside. The rhyming game had dwindled out, Torbek having gotten the last pair of words. It was dark and smelled of mushrooms and soil, but not so much that it was distracting. There was nothing between Gideon and his thoughts. Hells, Gideon could only just barely feel the wooden shelf under his feet, propped up as he was against the wall.
Because he was a tiny metal man and he couldn’t fucking move. And maybe he’d never move again, according to Frost.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought to fall asleep to. So Gideon stayed wide awake, haunted by it.
Down below, Kremy had gone quiet. Gideon saw him get kicked across the room, saw that awful moment when parts of Kremy were chipped away, but lost track of his partner when he ricocheted just out of sight. From where Gideon stood, he could only see those scattered chunks of broken-off bone, like ash blown out of the fireplace, or the aftermath of a derailed train. While it made him sick to look at it, it was harder to turn away. He needed to see it, to forge those feelings into something he could use to take down the Hourglass Coven.
Kremy wasn’t groaning in pain anymore, at least, but Gideon couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Or, if that wasn’t necessary, if Kremy was some form of alive down there. He wanted to call out to him again, but could he handle a lack of response? The idea of Kremy alive and asleep was the only thing keeping him going right now. Gideon wondered if he could sleep like this: he was trying, but he felt wired in the worst way possible. He felt like he was struck by lightning with how jittery he felt, but he couldn’t move to shake it off because...
Well, for one, he sold his ability to dance away, so he would just look stupid. For two, he couldn’t godsdamn move. Fuck, he hated hags!
He hoped it was just exhaustion. If he was stuck on this stupid shelf while Granny Nightshade gloated upstairs, while Hootsie and a buncha other kids were left alone with an oni, while Kremy was left in pieces on the floor, so far away from Gideon, who was supposed to be protecting him – well, Gideon wouldn’t know what to do. He hated not knowing what to do. His three emergency go-tos – punching something into a manslaughter charge, fixing or tinkering, or deferring to Kremy – were all non-starters right now. Pun intended, because he couldn’t even rely on his default setting, which was setting things on fire. He was just some helpless metal toy, waiting for either morning or the rest of eternity, depending on if he could move after sleeping it off.
He was supposed to be sleeping it off. He needed to calm down.
With a deep, weary sigh (that he didn’t even technically need, but at least he was doing something), he closed his eyes. He forced himself to think of good, calming thoughts. Like...saving Oink. Once they figure out how to stop being toys, they’ll have a cute little piglet with them. He just had to forget that Oink was effectively an accessory right now. Like Twig, who had been silent and lifeless on his back for far too long, a far cry from her usual firecracker personality. When Gideon tried to think about her in the Inn, or with Pigtunia, all he could see was her lifeless wooden eyes and wonder if this was the rest of her eternal life.
He could fix everything, but only if he could move, so he needed to at least try sleeping it off. Better thoughts to soothe him, then. Something safe. Something before all this Feywild bullshit.
Like the rich smoke of a fine cigar, a treat after a job well done and shared in good company. If he was lucky, pilfered from a fancy humidor from that same job well done. The feeling of appreciative eyes as he strut his stuff in a bar, or on the dance floor. The satisfying crunch of some hired muscle’s nose under his fist; nothing personal, just Gid showing off how much he outclassed them, feeling both his own and Kremy’s pride as he did. Raucous laughter with the fellas, the kind that made him roar in delight, gasp and slap his hands against any available flat surface. Happy snickers and giggles, especially those shared for a private joke. The rush that came with Kremy getting them out of a jam scot-free, or cutting an impressive deal because their marks never checked the intimidatingly small fine print. The comforting sound of Kremy rolling around dice to relax. He always claimed he was using it to check his favor with the Baron, but Gideon suspected that it was a tick from way back.
Kremy, whose new silver eyes – another deal that Gideon tried and failed to keep him safe from – were replaced with bone dice. Kremy, whose body was broken, miles and miles below Gideon. Kremy, who brought Gideon on to protect him, and he couldn’t because –
Gideon could still see those minutes, stretched out in his mind. All the calming thoughts in the world didn’t outweigh the stress of not knowing for certain that Kremy was okay. Worse, it couldn’t erase the panic that Gideon felt when Skabatha picked up Kremy like he was some object and threatened to leave with him. Oh yeah, there was rage there. Of course there was: seeing that old hag palm Kremy, turn him over and fiddle with his eyes, sniff him, talk about taking him away and keeping him, it made Gideon’s blood boil. It was lucky – for her! – that he didn’t have his flames, because Skabatha’s home wasn’t nearly as waterlogged as Bavlorna’s, and Gideon felt angry enough to set the whole fucking overturned tinder log shit-hole ablaze.
But he also felt scared, in that moment, and that was unsettling as Hells. He didn’t know what would’ve happened if Kremy was stuffed in that bag at her hip. What if he slipped at some point and revealed that he wasn’t actually a toy? Or if Skabatha was, for whatever reason, bluffing, and was just waiting for him to unveil the ruse first? The idea of Kremy being trapped, unable to escape with or even just be found by Gideon and the guys, it was terrifying. Where rage burned in him, fear froze Gideon to the core. He wasn’t supposed to be afraid; he was supposed to be big and imposing and blazing hot. His modus operandi was to hit first and hit hard enough to get the point across. If he was scared, then he was a weakling, no better than a bard. And if he was weak, then what the fuck was he doing in Carnivale Lecroux?
And more than that – he could face down physical threats no problem when he was six foot seven and built like a brick shithouse. Hags presented some trouble, because they were tricky with words and magic as shit, but he was sure that, with the right leverage, he could put one in the ground if need be. Hells, he’ll go another round with the Jabberwock, and this time, he’ll fucking win instead of dropping in the first couple minutes. The thing just caught him unawares the first time, is all.
In any case, when he was at his best, he was no force to be trifled with.
But when Kremy started sounded all...defeated down there, getting all morbid, not shutting up about that badger... Gideon felt like there was nothing he could do. He suspected that, even with his chains, his muscles, and all the gear shifts in the world, he would still feel fucking helpless. Did turning into a toy make Kremy forget that Gideon was supposed to keep him alive? The fuck is he talking about running to the Baron for? They’re not done here, not by a long shot. They still had to help Hootsie, Twig, and those kids. They had to wake Zybilna.
They had to pay...someone, right?
Yeah. They owed a huge debt to someone, and even if Gideon couldn’t remember specifics (in his defense, they screwed over a lot of people), he had the vague sense that he shouldn’t skip out on that debt in particular.
Sighing again, he tried to struggle irritably against the books he was leaned up against; to no avail, he was still too tired or too inanimate to shift. Figures.
“You’re not inanimate,” Frost said from the other side of the books sandwiched between them. “By definition, you’re thinking and feeling, so you’re animate. You just have to try resting, so we can rule out exhaustion.”
“Stay out of my mind, Frosty!”
“I can’t enter your mind, Gideon. I don’t have my powers anymore. You’re just muttering. Loudly. Just try to sleep. There’s nothing else we can do right now.”
“Easy for you to say, I’m a side sleeper,” Gideon groused. “Fuck this! I’m fed up with this hag bullshit, is what I am!”
“Gideon–”
“‘Animated’ by being fed up! Man, I can’t even light my flames like this! I can’t even char this fucking shelf!”
“If you could, please don’t,” came Gricko’s voice from a shelf down. “I’m a little flame-able right now, and while these shelves are quaint, they are not particularly fire proof.”
“Don’t worry, Little Green, I don’t burn friends.”
“I mean, you do punch them, though. Sometimes of your own volition,” Gricko countered, followed by Frost’s musing, “And there was that fire elemental fight...”
From across the room, Torbek piped up, “Hey guys, is Torbek Little Brown again, because Torbek is dooooollll-siiiiized now? Torbek is trying to look at the positives, but honestly, Torbek has been reduced in size too many times today for Torbek’s comfort.”
“You’re telling me!” Gricko moaned, “I wish I managed to keep my clothes. I mean, these ones are fairly stylish, if you’re into that sorta thing, but they're so constricting. It’s like I can’t even move!”
“None of us can move, Gricko,” Frost said tiredly.
“Though, thankfully, no shoes! I think that would send me right over the edge – no offense, Kremy.”
“Hmnnnghn, more than can be said for Torbek. Torbek might like a stylish new outfit, considering the circumstances. Torbek hasn’t looked in a mirror yet, but Torbek suspects not much has changed on the appeeeeeeearance-front.”
“Would it even make a difference?” Gideon asked Gricko, because he didn't really get a good look at Torbek, either, and couldn't confirm either way. “Not like you have toes right now to cramp up, or to walk around with in that ‘communin’ with nature’ way, and to gross us out with, and – ugh, now I’m all riled up again! And I can’t even steam it off! What the fuck, guys, we don’t even have toes!–”
“Gid,” comes Kremy’s voice, finally, from the floor, and Gideon can feel a weight slip off his chest at the sound, “would you kindly shut up and sleep this off? I can’t have the fellas dragging you around tomorrow.”
Maybe the Baron’s abandoned Kremy, or maybe his heart isn’t into it, because aside from a Pavlovian desire to close his eyes and get some shut-eye, just ’cause Kremy asked him to, Gideon can’t feel any magic compelling his body to sleep. It sparks that worry right up again, and another flash of anger at Skabatha. If he couldn’t do anything to fix this right now, at least he can be pissed at that hag for Kremy’s sake.
“Kremy, you okay, man?” He asked one more time. At least he was talking about tomorrow as if it was coming; then again, sometimes with Kremy, when is isn’t saying something is when you should be worried. He had the strangest sensation of reaching into the shadows for his partner in crime, his husband, his best friend; needing to pull him back from that void calling out to him.
Kremy’s voice was a little too hollow when he answered: “Nothing for it, Gid: get some rest.”
Gideon swallowed down the fear again. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning – actually see you, not just from a certain point of view and whatnot.” He promised, easy as breathing, “I’ll be there, Krem.”
He doesn’t get an answer, but he hopes that Kremy, somewhere down there and bathed in shadows, can take any sort of comfort in the words. He hopes it’s enough to get everyone to tomorrow.