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Chaos fic: It's Not the Fall that Kills You (1/1)

December 18th, 2012 (10:00 pm)

feeling: naughty

Title: It’s Not the Fall that Kills You

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: For sophie_deangirl. Beta given by lena7142. This is a deathfic, but really, in my mind, there will be a sequel that makes it less so, if I ever get to writing it :)

Warnings: Death.

Summary: The ODS has a mission where the bottom falls out. Literally.


Michael’s always been a runner.

This is the only thing he doesn’t like about his job. At home, he’s run every route he can find in the greater D.C. area. When he’s on a mission, however, he has no such luxury. He can never run for sport on the job. When he’s running for work, he’s running.

For his life. For the intelligence. For the lives of his men.

Sometimes all of it.

And he’s running now.


Michael’s lost track of the miles -- through the trees, their path is circuitous enough that it’s really impossible to tell -- but he knows by the burning in his lungs and the tingling in his legs that it’s been far enough. He’s at point because that’s what he does.

Plus, he’s the best runner among them.

Malick can match him for endurance, and he’s faster when it comes to flat out sprints, but Michael has the clear distance advantage. Rick’s clearly no slouch, but he lacks self control, and his emotions play on him harder than they should, which slows him down. Billy is surprising in this; he may be a slovenly pig most of the time, but his physical prowess is still impressive, but he’s too flat-footed to be really counted as a runner.

Michael may outpace them, but they’re all still there. If they don’t have the stamina or the aptitude, the sheer push of adrenaline is enough to motivate them all.

Because they’re running through the mountainous jungles of Chile.

With an entire militia running right behind.


This is, perhaps, no surprise. After all, if Michael were a member of this militia, he’d be pretty pissed off, too. The ODS had scouted, infiltrated, and the promptly sabotaged the entire operation. It wouldn’t knock them out of the long term game, but with all signs pointing to an imminent attack against the American embassy, it had seemed like the best option at the time.

And, to the credit of the ODS, it had been pretty spectacular. They could have done something subtle -- like disable the trucks -- but there was too much risk involved with that. They wanted to make sure the militia had no chance to resume normal operations for a long time. So they’d decided to light the place up.

Lighting a large warehouse was always a rather vibrant choice. When it’s full of weapons...well, let’s just say the ODS liked the fireworks.

The militia, not so much.

Michael had planned on there being a minimal contingent on the base at the time. He hadn’t counted on a returning group right as they made their run.

Just in time to cut off their planned escape route and make them improvise through the mountainous jungles.

Michael was good at improvising, but the grounds weren’t familiar; they were outgunned and poorly armed to withstand any real combat.

Some people thought that running was a sign of weakness. Michael knew better, though. He was a proud man, but he wasn’t stupid.

So, he ran.


Michael judges the landscape and responds accordingly. There are no paths here. Their route winds through the trees, and Michael skirts along the edge of an incline, taking them diagonal up a slope and then straight down over a rocky crevice. It’s not so much about the direction as it is running against the grain, finding the most logical route and taking the least expected option.

And it’s not just running.

It’s jumping, it’s weaving, it’s climbing. He grits his teeth and passes a fallen log. Behind him, his teammates lumber around it, Billy almost falling as his long legs don’t quite make the jump. Michael doesn’t dare look back, but he listens for the sound of their footsteps. Casey’s short, even footfalls; Rick’s thunderous steps coming without abandon. Billy’s awkward paces, heavy but somehow still effective.

It’s not pretty, but it doesn’t have to be.

It just has to get them out.


Michael sees the plateau before they crest it. He can read the shift in the landscape, see the horizon line even out, but he doesn’t realize how large it is until he steps out on the suddenly-open ground, gauging the expanse before them. He runs a few paces but lets himself peter out, controlling his breathing as he gathers himself for a firm reassessment of their current predicament.

Behind him, his team comes up just short of his position.

Rick is visible listing, panting with his mouth open. Billy has to bend over, resting his hands on his thighs as he heaves for air. Even Casey is red in the face, hair noticeably out of place while he comes up beside Michael with a scowl.

“I hope that this rest means you have a plan,” he says, his voice cutting even if hindered by his increased breathing.

Michael looks at his team, then looks out across the plateau again. He has a few visual landmarks to work off of; they’re moving in the right direction, but true escape is on the other side of the ridge, which drops off dramatically no more than a mile in front of them.

“Once we get on the other side of the ridge, we should be in the clear,” Michael explains, nodding off to the distance. “There’s a CIA outpost, not to mention a village not far on the other side. Even if they do cross after us, they won’t get very far.”

“That’s all well and good,” Billy says, almost wheezing with effort as he straightens. “But unless you’ve come up with a way for us to sprout wings, I’m feeling like it may be a bit more difficult than that.”

Which is the point. They came in by chopper; Michael knows the area to some degree, but the trails are not officially marked and much of the terrain is known only by people who commonly cross the territory.

Rick comes up next. His face is pinched, sweat dripping down in rivulets. “There’s a bridge,” he says.

“I know there’s a bridge,” Michael retorts. “I just don’t know where.”

“I do,” he says, licking his lips.

Michael feels something loosen in his stomach, something like hope unfurling in his chest, buoying his spirits.

Rick squints, but nods toward the ridge. “I overheard the guards talking,” he says, pausing to take a ragged breath. “The only working bridge is four miles to the north.”

Michael does some mental recreating, approximating the distance and direction from the camp and reorienting himself for his current location. In this, there’s a moment of uncertainty, a suspended moment of aimlessness that roils his stomach and pounds between his eyes.

And then it comes together. In his mind, he sees the bridge. He gauges how long it will take. He sees a viable exit, easily within their grasp.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s--”

Gunfire crackles in the distance.

Michael glances over his shoulder. Rick is wide-eyed and Billy looks bothered. Even Casey appears more on edge than usual.

“Let’s run,” Michael says.

No one hesitates as they start up, northbound up the ridge, toward the bridge.

Toward freedom.


Running is a private sport; it’s solitary activity. Even in races, the outcome is based solely on how fast you can move your legs. There’s no one else to rely on -- only you can move your legs faster or slow, widening the stride or pushing up on the sole of your foot for extra bounce. There’s only you.

This is why Michael likes to run, he thinks. He likes that it’s just him. He likes that he has the power to control the important variables. He’s in charge of the outcome. The faster he moves, the more efficient he runs -- the result is up to him.

Michael runs; Michael succeeds. It’s within his grasp.

It’s his to control.

So Michael runs.


Still at point, Michael sees the bridge first. It’s not hard to make out, and there’s a clear dirt road leading up to it, narrowing down to a single-file lane at the edge of the cliff. The chasm is deep and yawning, stretching across with a jagged cliff face to the gentler rocky terrain on the other side. The steep drop off goes down far, the distant floor lost among the trees and rocks. There’s a river at the bottom, snaking its way through the valley, mist billowing from what Michael can only assume is its roaring banks.

It’s far enough down to make Michael’s stomach churn.

Far enough to make the wispy rope bridge, swaying visibly in the mountain winds, look like salvation--

And possible disaster all at once.


Michael’s always been a runner, but he’s not so set on his sport of choice to run blindly. There are some occasions that require more thought, more care, more precision.

This is one of those times.

“Okay,” he says. “We made it.”

Next to him, Rick looks physically ill. Casey raises his eyebrows.

Billy snorts. “I admit, I was hoping for something a little less...,” he began, trailing off with his brow furrowed.

“Suicidal?” Casey prompts.

“I was going to use the word daunting,” Billy concludes finally.

“It’s not so bad,” Michael tries to say, but he’s already assessing. Assessing the thickness of the ropes -- fraying, mostly at the ends -- the distance between the slat floor -- it’s intact, but there are gaps -- and the overall integrity of the structure. There is audible creaking in the wind.

“We have no way of knowing if it’s even safe,” Rick says, half gaping.

Somewhere in the distance, there’s yelling and gunfire. The hair on the back of Michael’s neck go up. This is how it often is; a rock and a hard place, no good choice, just a least horrible choice. How many missions are strung together by a wish and a prayer, a few fraying ropes and rotted boards.

Too many.

And one more.

Michael presses his lips together and nods. “There’s one way,” he says.


He orders Casey across. The older operative is not keen on taking orders, but he’s done the same assessments as Michael; he knows there’s no better option. Michael watches him get halfway across when the gunfire echoes closer. They need to be on the other side by the time they get here. And if they wait to go turn by turn -- which is technically the safest route -- half the team will be sitting ducks. It’s a chance to have more than one go across at the same time, but it’s less of a chance, as far as Michael can tell.

Michael knows he’s playing the odds. But it’s the best he can do. The lesser of two evils.

It’s also why he’s going to go across last.

Accordingly, he shoos Rick across next. Rick squawks and protests, but Michael shoves him the first few steps. The kid stumbles, knuckles white on the rope, eyes transfixed on the sheer drop below him. Pale faced, he straightens and starts taking tenuous steps across.

When Michael turns to Billy, the Scot gestures. “After you,” he says.

“I’m the last man out,” Michael says.

“If this thing goes south,” Billy says, “it looks like we’ll all be going down together.”

Michael looks down, and his vision narrows. His heart pounds and his palms sweat.

“Besides,” Billy says lightly. “I’d rather no one see just how terrified I am. I’ll be just a step behind.”

There’s no time to argue. Gunfire resounds in the distance, closer still. There’s no time for anything.

Michael takes a step.


The first step is easy.

The ones that come after give Michael pause. The bridge is older than he thought, and the boards seem to splinter as he steps. The rope is rough and too thin under his hands, and he finds himself holding on tight despite his desire to appear calm and collected.

Still, it’s one step in front of another. They’re almost there.

In front of him, Rick is moving at a slow, steady pace. The wind whistles, shaking them and Michael shuffle steps his way, moving one hand at a time, fingers twined around the weather-worn rope even as it tenses beneath his grip. Ahead, Casey’s two-thirds of the way across and Billy’s close at his back.

They’re almost there.

Then it all falls apart.



It’s a gust of wind.

It’s an extra step.

It’s one person too many.

And then there’s a snapping noise, reverberating off the walls of the cliffside as the rope loses its tension and they’re falling.

The air whooshes, and Michael’s mind goes painfully blank. He’s falling, a surreal weightless sensation as the wood gives way and the rope slips through his fingers.

It’s getting away from him.

All of it. Too much, too fast, not enough--

And then Michael remembers and his fists clench and he holds on. His grip is so tight that his knuckles ache, and he’s too aware of the fact that he’s holding on with all he has to a broken rope, but there’s a chance, he knows, there’s a chance--

Then there’s a wall of gray and Michael barely has time to brace himself before he slams into it.

The impact is jarring and everything goes gray. When he hits a second time, his vision returns and he manages to turn himself this time, curling in on the rope, offering his back to the cliff face as they hit a third time, twisting and dangling and still holding on.

Still holding.


It takes a long moment for Michael to open his eyes. When he does, he realizes he’s staring at the rock, his fingers clutching the rope unconsciously with a death grip.

He’s still alive, though. He’s fallen, but he hasn’t hit the bottom.

He breathes, blinking a few times to gather his bearings. The bridge had given way, of course. Maybe age, maybe way, maybe just damn bad luck, but it had broken.

From one side only. Michael flails for a moment, and quickly sees that at least they’re dangling from the far side of the cavern.

Better still, Rick and Casey are hanging above him. Casey appears entire still, but Rick is still bucking in obvious distress. Michael turns his gaze down, and sees Billy, grinning weakly up at him.

And below him, the vast drop, suddenly steeper than ever before.


Michael and his team are dangling from the edge of a cliff on a rope that may or may not hold. They’re running from criminals who will probably arrive within minutes. When they arrive, they will be able to pick off Michael’s team one by one, and there will be nothing Michael can do about that.

Which means, he needs to get off the cliff.

Which means, they need to climb.

“Okay,” he says, calling out, his voice echoing uncertainly across the rocks. “So that could have gone better.”

Rick lets out a sob above him. Casey snorts.

Below him, Billy just says, “That seems like a bit of an understatement.”

Perhaps. But Michael’s all about simple things. Life is too complicated; sometimes the direct approach is best.

Sometimes it’s all there is.

He works his jaws, tightening his grip. He squints up, past Rick. “Casey, do you think you can climb up?”

Casey responds with a grunt, pulling himself up a few times. “Yes,” he says. “It’s going to be slow going, though. I lost some ground when we fell.”

Michael glances down. They all lost more than a little ground. Still, he looks back up. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Go as fast as you can and get to the top. Then we’re going to need you to anchor the rope to help the rest of us pull up.”

“You know,” Casey says, huffing with effort as he pulls himself up some more, “if we all spent more time on physical training--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says. “But then that’d make you pretty useless now, wouldn’t it?”

Casey pauses, and looks down, truly quizzical. “I never thought of it like that.”

“Great,” Michael says. “Now climb!”


Casey’s climbing, and Michael turns his eyes to Rick. “You doing okay?”

Rick is visible trembling, and he doesn’t seem to meet Michael’s eyes. “Sometimes it seems like we’re hanging on by a thread,” he says, voice sounding a little funny. “I never expected that to be literal.”

Billy scoffs from beneath them. “Never fear,” he assures. “This is less a thread, more of a rope. Old and weather-worn but think of how many fibers have to fray before it is too weakened--”

As if on cue, the rope groans and something gives, plunging them down. More planks from the bottom of the now-broken bridge fall, disappearing into the distant water and disappearing into the mist without a sound.

They stop short, no more than a few feet lower. Michael’s heart is pounding and Rick has curled up again. Even Casey is painfully still.

“Then again,” Billy pants. “Perhaps it’s best not to tempt fate.”


This is why Michael’s a runner: the outcome is mostly his to control. His success or his failure is mostly attributed to his own capabilities and limitations. He can limit the outside influence, and use such factors to his overall advantage.

Here, though, dangling from the end of a rope, he’s at the mercy of the elements.

He’s powerless.

That bothers him almost more than the rest.

But he’ll control what he can.

With a few short breaths, he steadies himself. “Everyone okay?” he asks.

“I’m feeling a wee bit precarious this far down, truthfully,” Billy offers.

Rick can’t even look at him.

“Casey?” Michael asks.

“The more we move, the more likely this thing is to break,” Casey tells him, looking down seriously.

Michael looks back, unwavering. “I know,” he says. “But staying here isn’t an option.”

“I’m just saying,” Casey says, face paler now. “One wrong move...”

The implications are clear. “It’s not your fault,” Michael tells him. “There’s no other choice.”

And the fact is, if it comes to that, none of them will know the difference anyway.

Casey takes a breath. “Okay, then,” he says, inclining his head and pulling himself up. “Hold on tight.”

As if there’s another choice.


This is what they do. Casey acts. Michael plans. Rick holds on for dear life.

Billy talks.

“You know,” he says, as conversationally as possible when they’re dangling above a ravine while their only hope frays second by second, “this reminds me of that mission to Cambodia.”

Michael makes a face. “The one where you got shot three times?”

“No,” Billy says. “After that, with the plane.”

At this, Rick looks down. “You mean where you jumped out of a plane without a parachute?”

Billy grins. “That’s the one!”

Michael snorts. “You almost died.”

“And so did you,” Rick says.

“But we didn’t,” Billy tells them roundly.

“I’m not sure how that’s the best story...,” Michael begins.

“It’s about holding on,” Billy says. “We hold on as long as we can, as hard as we can.”

The wind whips around them, and Michael rocks into the cliff, the rope groaning as Casey inches upward.

“And usually,” Billy says, “things will work out for the best in the end.”


Casey’s almost to the top when something gives again. This time, it’s a whine and a snap and Michael falls before being brought to a sudden stop. The force leaves him breathless, and his fingers fumble to hold the rope even as he keeps sliding.

He squeezes his eyes shut until tears come out. He can feel the skin on his hands wearing away, fingers slick with blood as he swallows a scream and grits his teeth.

He will hold on.

He will.

And this time, he does.


When he opens his eyes, Rick is almost sobbing. Casey is grunting.

“Hey,” Michael croaks. “We’re almost there.”

Rick shakes his head, but he’s not looking at Michael “Not close enough.”

Michael cranes to look, sees Casey. He’s closing in, but bridge is listing, hanging by a single rope now, and even that seems tenuous at best.

They’re running out of time, though. The more they hold on, the closer they are to falling.

This time, it may not be enough.


Casey’s climbing. Rick’s holding on.

Michael’s fingers are killing him, and his entire body is taut with the effort it takes to hold on, but he’s not letting go.

Then, he looks at Billy.

The Scot is still there, but he’s dangerously close to the bottom of the rope. One more fall, and Michael knows he’ll run out entirely.

One more fall, and they’ll all run out, Michael suspects.

Still, Billy looks up. He’s still smiling, somehow. “Normally I pride myself on coming up with the bright side of things, but I admit, this is looking a bit bleak,” he says.

Michael shakes his head. “You said it yourself. We just have to hold on.”

“Four blokes, one string,” he says. “Seems unfair -- for the rope.”

Michael looks up, sees Casey still climbing, Rick still clinging. The wind gusts again and the rope twists and tenses.

He looks at Billy. “We’re almost there.”

Billy nods. “Funny thing, about a team,” he says. “I used to think success was a solitary thing. I used to be a self-made man. I thought that if I could control enough of the situation, then things would work out better in the end.”

Michael works his jaw, adjusting his bloody fingers a little. “That’s how it is,” he says. “That’s why we do the work we do. So that even when things look bleak, there’s still a way out.”

Billy’s not struggling anymore. He seems almost relaxed. “But it’s not about me anymore,” he continues. “We do what’s best for the team. Sometimes when we’re holding on, it’s for ourselves, because we’re so scared.”

Michael’s stomach feels leaden now, his hands going numb as his arms ache and his fingers scream in agony.

“I could lie to you and tell you that I’m not afraid, but you know better,” Billy continues. “Which is why you know what has to be done.”

“We just have to hold on,” Michael repeats, squinting up to Casey. The rope shifts and whines precariously, and Michael feels the fibers splintering under his grip. Casey’s close, but he’s not close enough. Michael can hold on, and it will make no difference.

It’s minutes for Casey to reach the top. Probably seconds until the rope snaps. From his position, Michael can’t climb to get them to safety and he can’t lessen the load, not without taking Billy with him. He has nothing but his plans and his platitudes and neither are good enough this time.

“Aye,” Billy agrees, but with resignation; resolve. The rope gives a little further and Rick yelps while Casey curses. Michael’s heart skips a beat, but Billy doesn’t waver. “You do that. No matter what. I’ve never been good at following orders.”

Michael’s stomach bottoms out and his throat constrict. His eyes are locked with Billy and he knows.

He knows.

Because it’s what he would do. It’s what he wishes he could do. To save his team.

Because sometimes it’s not running. Sometimes it’s not even holding on.

Sometimes it’s letting go.

Tears burning, Michael closes his eyes.


There’s a brush of wind. The rope jiggles under his grasp. Time passes; his heart beats. He can hear Rick’s labored breathing, and he hears Casey from the top.

“I’ve got it,” he yells, the words of victory echoing off the walls. “Just hold on while I get it anchored--”

And Michael opens his eyes and sees the end of the rope, blowing vacant in the breeze.


When they get to the top, Rick can’t cry anymore. He collapses to the ground and turns away from the rock face. He can’t acknowledge that Billy’s gone; he can’t say anything at all. Casey sits on the edge and scans, looking among the trees and the rock, looking for signs of life in the misty shores of the river. He seems desperate, and for all that Casey Malick is a pragmatic man, he seems unable to accept the fact that there’s no way Billy survived the fall.

For his part, Michael stands. The world ahead of them waits. There’s a clear path to freedom; the mission is within their grasp. Looking back, there’s nothing even to see. He didn’t see Billy fall, so he doesn’t know where to look for the body. With the trees and the rocks and the raging river, Michael supposes it wouldn’t make much difference anyway.

Billy’s gone.

It’s a sacrifice that saved them. The weight of all four of them would have been enough to snap the rope. With just three, they had just enough give to get themselves out. Just enough.

It’s hard to be grateful, though.

It’s hard to do anything at all.

The mission is his; safety is within reach. Now, they can run and keep running for as long as they want, as long as they need.

Michael’s knees want to crumble, though. They want to give way. He doesn’t want to run; he doesn’t even want to hold on. Not now, not with Billy...

But across the chasm, gunfire starts as their assailants appear. The first shot nearly takes down Casey, and Michael drags him back, flailing from the edge. He almost trips over Rick, but hauls him back too, moving toward the safety of the trees.

“We run,” Michael says. “Not much farther now.”

“Those idiots are out of range,” Casey snaps.

“For now,” Michael says. “Who knows what sort of friends they have on this side.”

“But Billy--” Rick says, his voice faltering on the word.

“Would be the first one to tell us all to move,” Michael says, pushing his remaining teammates forward. “Now run.

Casey looks ready to fight; Rick just looks lost. Michael growls and forces the nausea down in the pit of his stomach. The first step is the hardest, but it’s one foot after another, and if he has to drag the others, he will.

He will.

After two steps, Casey breaks away. It’s another few before Rick finds his footing and they’re moving through the forest again, away from the canyon, away from their assailants, away...

Michael keeps running.


He runs until the gunfire subsides. He runs until the trees thin and signs of civilization pick up.

He runs until there’s nothing left to run from.

Until there’s nothing left at all.

His chest is tight and his eyes burn. He tries to breathe, just like he’s trained himself, but he can’t.

He just can’t.

The emotion builds and he can’t.

He’s falling again, but this time there’s nothing to stop him. He lets go, and hits the ground hard on his knees as the first sob escapes.

And he doesn’t even try as the sobs shake him. Rick crashes next to him, and Casey’s not far behind. They’re out of breath and they’re hurting and Billy...

Because sometimes it’s not running. Sometimes it’s not even holding on.

This time, it’s letting go.


Posted by: sophie_deangirl (sophie_deangirl)
Posted at: December 24th, 2012 10:46 pm (UTC)
Sigh! I'm SO happy! Thank

Oh my gosh!!! This was so creative both with the peril and of course, in Billy's sacrifice. It's SO what Billy would do for the sake of his team. I just love the different angle, but I also love that Billy is joking. It makes his sacrifice that much more heartbreaking. And yes, I see the clever way this could continue. If anyone can survive a fall like that, it's Billy, hahaha! All the more h/c potential and I'm all for that. After all, he might survive, but certainly not unscathed! I'll be here waiting if you decide to carry this lovely angst-fest further to amp up the emotion and of course, the inevitable pain and suffering.

Fave part:

“We just have to hold on,” Michael repeats, squinting up to Casey. The rope shifts and whines precariously, and Michael feels the fibers splintering under his grip. Casey’s close, but he’s not close enough. Michael can hold on, and it will make no difference.

It’s minutes for Casey to reach the top. Probably seconds until the rope snaps. From his position, Michael can’t climb to get them to safety and he can’t lessen the load, not without taking Billy with him. He has nothing but his plans and his platitudes and neither are good enough this time.

“Aye,” Billy agrees, but with resignation; resolve. The rope gives a little further and Rick yelps while Casey curses. Michael’s heart skips a beat, but Billy doesn’t waver. “You do that. No matter what. I’ve never been good at following orders.”

Michael’s stomach bottoms out and his throat constrict. His eyes are locked with Billy and he knows.

He knows.

Because it’s what he would do. It’s what he wishes he could do. To save his team.

Because sometimes it’s not running. Sometimes it’s not even holding on.

Sometimes it’s letting go.

Tears burning, Michael closes his eyes.


Edited at 2012-12-24 10:52 pm (UTC)

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: January 3rd, 2013 02:45 pm (UTC)
Re: Sigh! I'm SO happy! Thank
billy watches

I know he didn't get a drawn out bit of dialogue, but I was going for originality in this one :) And I still tried to let him give an appropriate goodbye.

And yeah, the sequel is being written currently. I'm about half done, I think. It's very angsty!


Posted by: Lena7142 (lena7142)
Posted at: December 25th, 2012 12:07 am (UTC)

There's something devastating about the lack of closure here (I know you have plans there, but considering this as if it were a standalone, it's truly soul-crushing). The utter silence of Billy's death; that he's just there one moment, then gone the next, and Michael can't even bring himself to look. Michael's grief is so poignant, it makes me sniffle every time. Your ability to tap into raw emotion in your fics is remarkable.

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: January 3rd, 2013 02:46 pm (UTC)
billy knows

You are way too nice to me. I mostly just ramble and am amazed it's even coherent. I did sort of like the idea of Michael not watching -- I imagine it would have been much harder for Billy to let go maintaining eye contact. So much angst as it is!

Anyway, thanks. You put up with a lot and still say nice things!

Posted by: Moogs (moogsthewriter)
Posted at: February 2nd, 2013 02:46 am (UTC)
Avengers - Ironman

So I must've missed this the first time around, but HOLY CRAP DUDE WHAT. SO MUCH ANGST.


Seriously, though, as a stand alone this would break me even more, but now that there's a sequel, you can bet that's where I'm heading next. :) Win!

(Also, did I spot a vague reference to "The uncertain hour before the morning" in here, or is that me being vain?)

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: February 7th, 2013 12:37 pm (UTC)
billy knows

Well I did post this in the massive Christmas post so it was probably easy to miss it :)

Originally I did set out to write just a deathfic but the more I thought about this idea, the more I knew I wanted to write a sequel. So. I did!

(And it wasn't so vague a reference if I recall :) Your Chaos fic still pretty much wins everything.)


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