Chapter Text
"Where is it? Where is it!?"
Chuck scrambled to his feet. He spun on the spot, his chest heaving like he'd sprinted across the garage in one breath as he reviewed the aftermath of his frantic search. His room was a mess. A disaster of clothing, extra sheets and everything that had once been lost, pulled out and littering the carpet. He scanned the chaos, hoping his sights would somehow find what he needed with one more hectic look.
It did no good. Between the limited light and the wreckage of his own making, it was useless. His time dwindled, and now, there was almost none left.
The call had come suddenly.
It shocked Chuck from his dream. When Thurman the Magnificent's name popped up on his screen, he didn't question it too much. Chuck's thoughts were fuzzy, still tinged with sleep. Judging by the hour flashing in the corner, he assumed they had been enjoying another long night. It would not have been the first occasion his party lost track of time playing D&D on a weeknight and called him obscenely early to join them.
At that, Chuck had always been tempted but hesitant.
Nights in Motorcity came with several truths. You regularly had to stuff your door frame and window cracks for silence from the cars. The roads never died, and even far off, the rumbling of engines filtered through. Despite no actual sunrise and sunset, the mutant rats always seemed to know when most were asleep and scuttled out from the depths to salvage through the trashcans. Then, of course, there was Kane. A man who didn't give a shit what hour it was. Unless he was sleeping, bots could come at any time and Chuck already worried about daytime attacks; thank you very much.
But instead of being greeted by a friendly face, perhaps a little flushed from the Oracle's homemade mead, Chuck faced something else entirely.
His party was on the run. The camera shook with their every step, and the lot of them yelled at him over the sound of familiar battle screams. Then, Chuck was wrenched further from sleep when a pre-recorded roar exploded off-screen. Loud enough that even through the call, Chuck covered his ears. It was the last bit he needed to put the entire picture together.
An ambush. A highly illegal one at that.
Weekdays were for planning. They were for their lives outside the game, jobs and everything in between. Battles were a weekend event – except that didn't seem to matter to Lord Mad Dog or his (if Chuck heard correctly) newly undead dragon.
Chuck flushed with courage. A tiny spark in his ribs, which only came from the call of Raymanthia and filled him to the brim. Weekday or not, he was King of the Realm, and he had some guidelines to enforce.
He was ready. He could be strong. Chuck would not waiver on this battlefield.
And that was a feeling that lingered but not for long. Chuck's confidence shattered in a matter of minutes because, for the life of him, for the glory of Raymanthia, his cloak was nowhere to be found.
Which led him back to where he was. Surrounded by each piece of clothing he owned like he was stuck in the eye of a storm. He'd turned over every inch and ripped the drawers from his dresser. Tore apart his closet and dug under his bed. It was all to no avail. His cloak (and the royal seal! Fuck, how could he command any respect without that!?) couldn't be found, and time was ticking with the intensity of an oncoming detonation.
Chuck debated going without them and blaming speed and circumstance, but he knew it was a non-solution. Being thrown into a rescue mission was one thing. Something that he also remembered clearly revolving around his own party who would never question him in the first place, crest or no crest. Tracking down, Sam and Philip had come with an understanding that everything was far more than the game until they were found. Deescalating a breach of code was another matter altogether.
Jeans would embarrass him alone, and he couldn't go in his pyjamas. He glanced down at his flannel sleep pants. The little yellow duckies printed across them were cute in the context of a holiday gift from Jacob, but he'd be a laughingstock if he showed up in them.
Chuck ran an anxious hand through his hair. He looked at the clock and the number staring back at him only made him nauseous in return. He placed a firm fist on his stomach. One deep breath in, one out. The Oracle was expected any minute now in his van, and there wasn't time for any more aimless bustling. Never mind a break to grab some anti-nausea medication from the bathroom. Hopefully, there would be some stashed away in the glove box.
He needed a new approach.
"Alright, think, think, think," Chuck muttered. He pressed his fists against his temples. His gaze travelled the room as he spoke his thoughts through; a visual to remind his still sleep-addled mind of the task at hand, "it wasn't on the hook, or in the closet, or under the bed..."
His sights caught on his laundry bin. He'd ripped through it already, one of the first casualties of his tornado hands. Freshly clean clothes Chuck had been too tired to put away the day off – now all of it was strewn around with the rest of his things.
"But..."
His next thought came upon him with the intensity of a car crash.
Laundry day was always a messy affair. There was only one washer and dryer set to share between the six of them – both only held together with duct tape and Dutch's care. Every week, it was a vicious cycle of fighting for your turn and hoping that Jacob's organic detergent would manage to scrub away the grease and oil stains. You ran in and moved quickly so the next person could do the same. There was only one person who always went last, and that was-
"Mike!"
Chuck scrambled to change out of his pyjamas. There was no time to check everything as he picked it up. His socks were mismatched (something that usually irked him), and the jeans were from a pile he couldn't confirm was clean. Still, it didn't matter. Raymanthia needed him – they needed Lord Vanquisher – and this was his last shot.
If his cloak wasn't mixed in with Mike's clothes, he was screwed.
"Please, please, please, please... please!"
Desperate pleas dripped from Chuck with every breath. His pace was fast, long legs skidding through the garage to Mike's room. Closest to the primary alarm system, Mike's door was the farthest to reach. Chuck felt like a frightened gazelle from one of Jacob's old pre-Deluxe era movies. All knees and jerkier moves, frantic to get where he needed to go.
He slid to a stop in front of Mike's bedroom. Chuck hesitated for a moment, his knuckles primed to knock against the scuffed-up wood. Doubts whispered – Mike barely slept as it was. This was stupid; what were the odds? What if he was wrong?
But they were fleeting. In the distance, a muffler backfired, and it sounded so close to the Oracle's van that the flush of nerves overtook him and spurred him into action.
Chuck pounded his fist against the door, quick as the mutant rabbits in the Mama's Boys territory. He kept the rhythm going. Unable to stay still until he caught the telltale rattle of the doorknob.
He stepped back just in time for Mike to open his door. Chuck winced with guilt. Mike's eyes were bright. The soldier's habits which never left him able to wake on any notice, but his stance belayed his exhaustion.
Mike leaned against the door frame. One hand slung up for support, and the other gripped the knob. His sleep pants were wrinkled, and his bare chest still held impressions of his less than fine sheets. He squinted his eyes at him, confused.
"Chuck, what? Bro, what time is it?" Mike asked. His voice was scratchy and groggy, but then he recognized the anxiety sweating down Chuck's face. He reached forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, "What's wrong?"
Panicked, Chuck's filter vanished, and he blurted, "There's an emergency!"
Mike's eyes blew open. He ducked past Chuck's frame to peer up at the alarm lights. They were dark.
"Is it a bot attack? Are our systems broken?"
Then Mike's face took on a different form of worry. His mouth dropped. His head swivelled back to gaze into his room. Quick, barely a flick, Chuck hardly noticed the odd shift in demeanour. His own nerves tamped down every other thought.
"My cloak is missing!" Chuck yelped. With the statement, he lost control of his voice. The babbling only spurred his anxiety further on. A vicious cycle encouraged the word vomit, "Thurman called – well, they all called – and there's an attack! Lord Mad Dog resurrected his dragon. Undead! On a Wednesday! There are rules, Mikey! And the Oracle's going to be here any minute and-
"Woah! Wait, hold up, Chuckles," Mike interrupted, "Are you talking about your LARPing thing?"
Chuck nodded like a bobblehead, and Mike's shoulder fell in relief. He ran a hand through sleep-mussed hair and shook his head.
"Thank goodness," Mike sighed, "You scared me there, buddy."
"I'm sorry, but I really need my cloak-"
"I'm sure you'll find it."
The same muffler popped outside again. Closer and well-known, Chuck was now positive it came from the Oracle's fantasy van.
"Mikey, you don't understand! I can't!"
"Did you check your room?"
"Yes," Chuck said frantically, "It's not there! I think it got mixed up in your laundry."
"Oh," Mike muttered.
This time, when he glanced over his shoulder, Chuck raised a brow. He shook his head and refocused on the task at hand.
"I know it's late, but I really need it. Can we just look quickly?"
Mike stiffened. He popped up straight as a rod but caught himself and adjusted his stance against the doorframe once more. A faux confident pose so obvious that it didn't take a genius to see through. Chuck's nose crinkled in confusion.
"I don't think it's in here," Mike said, "Maybe try your closet?"
"I already checked there! Mikey, please!"
Chuck shifted to peer over Mike's shoulder, hopeful to catch a glimpse, anything, of blue velvet and gold painted clasps. The room was pitch black, dark enough to block out everything except for the filtering of hallway light dusting a few inches of the floor. He squeaked when Mike shoved himself in front of him.
"Why don't you just go without it?" he asked.
"I can't – the seal is on it. I can't show up without that!"
"You've been king for nearly two years now, right?" Mike continued to block Chuck's attempts to peek past him, "I'm sure people can look past that for the night."
"You know how it is. You've worn it before."
Mike bit his lip and agreed with a grimace, "You have a point there."
"I'll be quick," Chuck promised.
He threw up his hands together like in prayer and pleaded. Mike's body grew more awkward with every move Chuck tried to make, and he kept putting himself in his path. Mike was tight, visibly so, with shoulders tense to his ears.
Chuck continued, begging, "Just two minutes. I'll be in and out, and you can get back to bed before you even know it."
Chuck made to duck under Mike's arm, but Mike again blocked his way.
"No!" Mike blurted out, "You can't come in."
Chuck wondered if it was possible to melt from stress. If it were, he was moments away. He stared up at Mike incredulously, "Why not?"
"Uhh... my room's a total mess. Yep, just a really bad, big ol' mess."
"It can't be worse than mine right now," Chuck scoffed, "Just thirty seconds -"
"I'll see if I can find it, just wait here!"
"I'll help-"
"Not now, bud-"
"But I-"
Suddenly, before Mike could rebut again, a tired groan emitted behind him in the dark. Mike flinched. Chuck found it impossible to ignore this time as Mike's eyes flit over his shoulder before righting themselves. He paused. Breath held tightly as another sound broke through the silence between them.
It was quiet. Barely a whisper, but loud with nothing else to distract. It was a voice, distinctively female. So familiar, it tickled Chuck's ears confusingly. Behind Mike, sheets rustled, and Chuck's brain caught up with the rest of him. His jaw dropped, and his cheeks flushed.
"Do you..." he gawked, "Do you have someone in there!?"
"No, no, of course not! That's just-"
Mike was cut off, words fizzling out with static, as his bedside lamp flicked on. Warm, dull light brightened the room. It haloed Mike. His stiff shoulders illuminated and the backlight belaying every nervous twitch.
Beyond him, Chuck failed to glimpse anyone. Mike's sheets were pushed, the blanket crumpled from both sides and forced into the centre of the mattress. On the floor, a haphazard pile of clothes lay. Chuck's face reddened further with realization.
The garments were all shades of green and too small for Mike's stature. Definitely not his – and naggingly familiar.
Out of sight, the mystery person ruffled through the room. Clothing hit the ground, tossed around without a care. Mike's old dresser squeaked as they wrenched drawers open. The girl was muttering under her breath. It wasn't clear enough for Chuck to understand them, but the tone dripped with annoyance.
And fuck, he knew that voice. He'd heard it before. It ran circles between his ears, back and forth. Taunting his only just awake mind until-
Holy shit!
Chuck's stomach flipped in embarrassment. His expression narrated everything while it flitted through his brain, too surprised to hide it. Mike caught it all, and his face blanched as he watched Chuck put the pieces together. He rocked his jaw. His eyes darted back and forth on the floor in desperate thought.
"Is that-"
Chuck had no chance to ask his question before it was answered in the flesh.
By Mike's ribs, a pale arm shot out. The small hand clutched his missing cloak, but Chuck could barely mind his lost treasure found. Instead, he gulped as he trailed his gaze up the limb and came face to face with the person at the other end of it.
Julie.
Not in a way he'd ever seen her, but unmistakably her.
Her face was clear of make-up, and her long hair unbrushed. Without her boots, she was shorter than Chuck realized. Her petite frame was swamped in one of Mike's t-shirts. Her legs were bare, and at that, Chuck ripped his sights away. He'd seen plenty at that point to live awkwardly in his brain.
Julie's gaze may have been only half-aware – still cloudy with sleep, unlike Mike, who grew more mortified by the second – but her glare was potent. Her eyes narrowed, and she shook his cloak at him. Chuck reached forward and took it cautiously. He held it close to his chest, his feet frozen with indecision.
After a moment, Julie nodded to herself and turned on her heels. Mike and Chuck both watched her go. Her gate was slow, sleepy, and all too comfortable stepping around the squeaking floorboards with practised steps. Mike's mouth parted, crackles of words leaving him like white noise.
Then, a second from falling face-first into the bed, Julie stalled. Chuck pinched his lips together. Frozen on the spot, Mike joined him in turning still as stone. Julie turned slowly, a hand raised over her mouth. She blinked, eyes wide. Her pupils darted back and forth, and when she looked at Chuck again, it came without drowsy fog. She floundered, fingers curling into an anxious fist.
The silence was painful. Chuck shifted on his feet and clutched his cloak like a shield. Mike's head swung between the two of them. He scratched anxiously at his neck and leaned back into the doorframe.
It was Julie who broke the silence. Mortified, she pointed sharply at Chuck.
"You're dreaming," she said, "Okay?"
Chuck nodded. Julie mirrored the gesture and smiled stiffly, the turn of her lips not from anything else but disbelief. She kept her sights trained on him, wary and unwavering, as she shuffled backwards. Her thighs knocked into the bed, and she reached blindly for the lamp string.
Then her attention swayed, and her gaze shifted to Mike. He tilted his head sympathetically. Round eyes were warm as he looked back at her. He grinned softly, and Julie melted under it. The tenseness in her dissipated like it had never existed at all.
"I'll be there in a minute," Mike jutted his chin towards the bed.
Julie ducked to hide the affection as it passed over her, but the flash of rouge on her cheeks said everything for her. She didn't give Chuck another look, something he was thankful for with how much was becoming more apparent with each second. Instead, the tender smile stayed, and it only left their sight as she flicked the lamp off, and the room fell dark again.
Mike kept his head turned towards his bed. The gentlest crinkle to his eyes, dimples on display as he listened to Julie crawl back into the sheets - it all read of one thing. Mike's soft expression, the honey-sweet smirk across Julie's lips. She wore his shirt and knew his bedroom; she enraptured him even though he couldn't see her. Chuck watched the dreamy haze on Mike's face - something he hadn't realized until then wasn't new. Subtle, but strong, and the same as every time Mike looked her way.
When the noises stopped, ending with a sigh that had a chuckle leaving Mike from deep in his chest, Mike finally turned back to Chuck. His expression dropped, and his brow furrowed.
"Um.. so," he said. He rocked his jaw and carefully thought through his next words, "We're sort of – uh... Julie and I-"
"I'm dreaming," Chuck interrupted. He smiled at Mike reassuringly as he threw his cloak over his shoulders, "Remember?"
Mike softened and released a long, thankful air stream from his lungs. He clapped a hand on Chuck's shoulder and grinned.
"Thanks, buddy," he said.
With a final tip of his head, Mike retreated into his room. His door closed with a quiet click. Behind it, Chuck heard as Mike returned to bed. There was a gentle chortle and a tiny feminine whine. Mike murmured things Chuck couldn't pick up beyond the wood, but the obvious ardour in his voice brought a proud warmth through Chuck's chest.
Chuck adjusted his cloak just as he caught Oracle's van pulling up in front of the garage. He glanced at the door, snorting and shaking his head in disbelief.
"How the heck did I miss that?"