Chapter Text
A tall, bruised man sits tied in a chair, broken blue and white armor resting in pieces around the room. He struggles to breathe, exhausted from the beating he’s already taken. Two other men stand across the room, conversing in low voices. He can’t make it out. Blood drips sluggishly from his nose, and Lance Mcclain feels a twinge of irritation, already knowing what his face is going to look like in the morning.
One of the men wipes his hands with an already bloodied rag, and Lance feels a twinge in his gut as he’s reminded of his beatings up until this point.
“Alright boys, let's watch the face!” He groans, his voice coming out harsh and gritty. He coughs weakly, the iron taste of blood tainting his tongue.
His kidnappers barely spare him a glance, one of them simply leaning over his tray of tools, carefully choosing what to use next. A pair of pliers glint in his hand, and he sets it back in the array of horrible instruments. Lance slides his gaze from one to the other, gauging success for an escape attempt. Not very likely, based on how the last three went.
Lance tries to focus- his own rattling breaths jostling his bruised, likely broken ribs.
“Usually, I try to learn the name of my date before we get all down and dirty. You know what I'm talking about, don’t you, guy-with-one-eye? You fellas got any names I need to know?”
The man in question turns to face Lance, entirely unamused by his antics. He regards the paladin with his remaining eye, a cold grey that makes his hair stand on end.
“Paladin, if you’re going to speak, you might want to do us all a favor. Give us the information we seek, or-” His partner, a lanky alien with a pronounced limp, waves a thin, silver knife in his direction.
“Or this will be very, very difficult for you.” His voice is heavy with threat, and he leans forward, obscuring the rest of the room from view. The corner of Lance’s mouth twitches up, before he settles his own steely gaze on the man in front of him.
“It’s going to take a lot more than that to make me talk.”
Quicker than he can even blink, that silver knife is slammed through his hand, embedding into the wood beneath.
The screaming is involuntary, half out of surprise and half out of the blinding, sickening pain added to his current burden. His head snaps back as he spits out a string of curses. The alien with the limp grins, pale lips pulled back to reveal yellowing, sharp teeth. They laugh at him, discordant and eerie in melody with his scream. The blade is twisted, Lance’s hand spasming uncontrollably around it.
Lance is left gasping for air, as the man’s gaze lingers, savoring the sight of him.
“Now, my partner tends to enjoy this part.” He pauses, a contemplative look coming over him. “As do I, thinking about it. Did you know they searched far and wide for a human mercenary, just for you?” He grins, the crooked shape of it not quite reaching his eyes. “Because I know exactly what it’ll take to undo you, piece by piece.”
He takes a few steps away, grabbing a large, damp rag from the table, before returning to Lance.
“Now, you’ll call me Dex. If you have anything important to say, you’ll tell me.” Dex squats down in front of Lance, getting much too close for comfort.
Lance weighs his options. To antagonize or to not antagonize, that is the question. A decision made quite easily, he thinks, as he leans back best he can, takes a deep breath, and spits as hard as he can in Dex’s face.
The reaction is immediate- Dex falls backwards on his ass, startled by the sudden assault. The tall alien in the back stifles a laugh.
“If you’re from earth, I suppose you’ll know exactly what that means, Dex. What about your buddy, huh? They don’t have a name?”
There’s no response, and there won’t be, he thinks, when he sees the dark look on Dex’s face. The man grips his hair, throwing the rag across his face.
He hears a faucet turn on somewhere- and he braces himself for the pain to come. As water is poured over him, as his lungs burn and scream for air, he prays for salvation. For a rescue he isn’t sure is coming.
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He’s being jostled, again, Lance recognizes, even in his semi-delirious state. He coughs, hoarse and grating, tasting the blood dripping through his teeth. He doesn’t open his eyes, instead steeling himself for another round. It seems as though it's been only moments since the last, no reprieve, and perhaps if he pretends to still be unconscious, he’ll steal a few moments more.
“Woah, boss,” He rasps, “You’re so gentle this time around.”
A choked sob isn’t the reaction he’s expecting, and his eyes flutter open in response. He can’t make out much else, but he recognizes the man in yellow kneeling in front of him. He breaks, finally, and tears begin to drip sluggishly from his eyes.
Big, warm hands grasp as his, and relief floods through him.
“Hunk,” He gasps, voice breaking. “Hunk.”
Those hands shake as they untie his binding, pausing over the hand with the silver blade still sticking out.
“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Hang in there for me, Lance.” His voice is strangled, holding back tears.
Lance’s head falls forward, resting heavily on Hunk’s shoulder. He breaths him in, tears dripping down the scorched yellow armor. He lets his gaze roam around the room, still wary of his attackers- until his eyes fall onto the battered corpse of his torturer. The nameless alien lays in a bloody pile, no sign of life left. It sends a chill down his spine and a grim sense of satisfaction to his heart.
He rests his eyes, his body relaxing against Hunk’s welcome touch.
“My knight,” Lance gasps, “In shining armor.”
“Lance, please.” He begs. Hunk wraps the hand with the knife in it, carefully winding the bandage around the blade. “Just stay with me, okay? I’m right here.”
He hoists Lance into his arms, doing his best not to jostle his wounds as he sprints towards the yellow lion, his body limp but still warm.
Here, he’s safe, here, he is home. In the warm embrace, Lance falls asleep, as Hunk pleads with him to stay.