Archive of Our Own

Dakota really isn’t supposed to be out in the woods this late.

Over the past few months, they’ve all settled into a routine. Just about everyone has moved into the Prime Defenders base in some capacity or another—Ashe and Vyncent have school dividing their attention, but they somehow still make it over more regularly than Dakota had expected. William, like Dakota, lives there full-time. 

Though, unlike Dakota, William’s “full-time” seems to have a small asterisk appended to it, seemingly thanks to his powers. He’s been more restless than ever, and it seems like it’s every other day that he’s jaunting off to poke at some mystery or wisp-related lead. He’s rarely ever gone for longer than a day, maybe two, but it’s enough for Dakota to feel his absence keenly.

Tide is here too, of course, and while he does take the occasional mission of his own, he’s usually only absent for half a day or so before he gets back, usually in time to whip up dinner. It’s almost always stroganoff. You guys were eating nothing but take-out and pizza for months, he keeps informing them. I need to make sure you get your nutrients.

Even Wavelength—Mark, whatever—lives with them now. It’s part of his probation, which is in turn thanks to a partial pardon that Ms. G had pushed for. Dakota’s still not so sure about the guy, but if Ms. G is vouching for him, it’s probably the right call. He even accompanies Tide on jobs when he feels like it. Though he cites “cabin fever” as his reason, Ms. G and Tide are constantly joking that he’s on his way to being a real hero sooner rather than later. Unlikely, maybe, but whatever. Dakota’s not going to say anything about it.

And that’s not to say that Dakota doesn’t have his own obligations—his check-ins with Ms. G, supervised visits with his aunt—but they do tend to be a lot less time-consuming. 

Which is perfect, honestly. With all the threats looming on the horizon, he definitely needs the time to train. But there’s only so much that he can do on the island, and only so much that sparring with the same familiar rotation of people can do to hone his skills, so sometimes Dakota just has to go back to what works. 

The mountain.

Dakota hasn’t quite mustered up the courage to pester Master Cole and Grandma Cole for more lessons yet, but the woods are full of enough challenges as it is. In fact, he’s starting to think that there must be something in the water up here, because the animals are as aggressive as ever—and honestly a lot bigger than they should be.

It’s still pretty scary, but it’s also great training. Dakota’s already stronger. Or at least, he’s pretty sure that he is. Out of breath, comfortably sore, heart pumping—it’s a great feeling.

Unfortunately, the epinephrine rush that comes with tough training is way more distracting than it really ought to be—and on this particular visit, the time has definitely gotten away from him. 

The sun has long since set, and Dakota’s only about halfway down the mountain. He really doesn’t want to miss dinner, both because he’s starving and because Tide will almost certainly start to worry if he does. So…yeah, maybe he’s rushing a little . Maybe he’s not paying as much attention as he should be. At the very least, Grandma Cole would have him running laps for half a day if she saw him right now—probably while sitting on his shoulders and lecturing him on the importance of watching his surroundings.

And she’d probably be right, since that’s exactly how Dakota landed himself in this stupid situation:

Sitting on his ass, pine needles poking through his pants, and leg firmly embedded in a bear trap.

On top of that, it has the gall to be the most ridiculous, over-the-top bear trap that Dakota has ever laid eyes on. The teeth, now glistening red, are way sharper than they look on TV—though maybe that’s just the fact that they’re currently embedded in Dakota’s calf. And there are rows of them, nested one below the other—a procession of steel razors that have clamped down on Dakota’s lower leg, starting just below the knee and not letting go until just above the ankle.

It really doesn't seem like the sort of trap that Grandma Cole would set up—and Dakota almost feels bad for whatever hunters have decided to try and start poaching the big game on this particular mountain. There's no way that this is going to work out for them.

Unfortunately, knowing that does very little to help Dakota out of his current predicament, nor does it spare him from the fact that something warm and wet is building up behind his eyes, threatening to spill over if he stops holding it back.

The layers of jagged teeth make it almost impossible to move without pushing some of them in further. The pain of it, though, is somehow less alarming than its appearance. 

His left leg looks a lot like it’s been dunked in a bucket of red paint below the knee, the blood saturating his jeans and running in thick rivers down his skin. It’s filled up the inside of his shoe and is spilling onto the forest floor beneath him, soaking into the dried leaves and soil and turning it into a gritty, coppery-smelling paste.

It's only a matter of time before an actual bear catches the scent. If Dakota is still here when that happens…

Well, Dakota can probably still fight a bear like this. Right? 

Not that it matters. Dakota's not going to be here when a bear does show up, so he's not really sure why he's thinking about that.

Dakota clenches his jaw and scoots forward. The movement sends a small rush of blood out of the injuries, even plugged up by the trap's teeth as they are. It's painful, but not unbearable.  

There's really only one option for Dakota here, and he takes it, bracing one hand on either side of the bear trap's jaws. 

"Come on, DC!" he says quietly, mostly to hype himself up. "You got this."

He turns his small, self-motivational speech into a yell of determination as he tightens his grip and pulls down hard . 

Dakota knows that he's not quite as strong, or really as super, as he used to be. He can feel it in his straining shoulders and back—the old DC would have been able to rip this trap in half like it was nothing. But now, it takes effort. Real effort. 

The mechanism that keeps the trap shut is unreasonably strong. Dakota's pretty sure that it would be impossible for a normal person, even an athletic one, who hasn't had Dakota's special form of training, to move the thing at all. 

But under Dakota's grip, it slowly but surely creaks open, moving the barest inch at a time as he pries it off his leg. The entire limb is immobile, the pain almost paralytic, and Dakota may actually be crying a little. But only a little, and only from how difficult it is. Really.

At least when the trap snapped shut, it had been fast. Opening the trap is slow , and Dakota can feel every agonizing millimeter of progress as the teeth drag against the inside of his leg, like they’re gnawing deeper into the injuries that they created in the first place.

It isn't until the damn thing is halfway open that the real problem starts. 

Dakota doesn’t even notice it until the blood on the ground starts to become an actual pool, no longer absorbing into the dirt but rising above it. It takes him another few seconds to put two and two together, to realize that there’s only one place that the blood could even be coming from, and look up at his calf. The sight of it isn’t as alarming as it maybe should be—he’s not gushing blood, but it is pouring out of him, like a sink left to run.

That’s the first clue. The second is the wave of dizziness that rolls over him like an oceanic current, followed by a blast of nausea that has him clapping his hands over his mouth and gagging before he can even try to stop himself

The trap snaps shut with a wet thud and a crack. 

"Fuck!" he shouts, the sound echoing in the dark woods around him. He’s still covering his face, the dampness of his blood-slick fingers rubbing off on his lips and chin. When he's finally sure that he's not going to throw up on himself, he grabs onto his good leg and clenches his fists into the denim of his pants, glaring at the trap with hazy eyes. "Ow. Who did this?" The words come out less righteous than Dakota intends, instead sounding almost plaintive. Dakota has no idea who he’s asking, but geez.

He doesn't really like the bears of this stupid mountain. Quite the opposite, in fact. But this has got to be super inhumane, and Dakota is so going to track down Grandma Cole and tell her about this. 

Or, at least, he will once he gets out of the damn thing. 

“One more try,” Dakota mutters to himself. “Don’t wimp out this time, DC!” It’s more difficult to get a solid grip on the trap now, partially because the metal is slick with blood this time and partially because Dakota’s shaky fingers refuse to close with the necessary force. After a few tries, though, he manages to get a hold that feels like it won’t give out when he applies a little bit of pressure.

Second time’s the charm, right?

Dakota shoves down, ignoring the fiery pain that immediately ignites in his leg, and the metal creaks open with a—

—

The full moon is just barely visible through the foliage overhead as Dakota blinks his eyes open. His leg still hurts, though it's dulled down to a constant, deep ache, and when he sits upright—ignoring the way that the forest spins perilously around him when he does—he finds that it is still tight in the trap’s bloody jaws.

Shit. He’d fainted, and judging by how much colder the air feels, it lasted for a while.

The forest floor beneath him is wet to the point of almost complete saturation, and a part of his brain that sounds an awful lot like William adds, in irritated, almost paranoid fashion: You're lucky you woke up at all, Dakota. 

Speaking of William, he is gonna freak the fuck out if Dakota dies out here. It would break their promise, after all—even if he technically broke it first. Not to mention, of all the things in the world, DC can not die to a stupid animal trap. That's so...lame. 

If he's going to die, ever (which he won't, because Dakota always keeps his promises), he's going to go out in a cool way—like by saving all his friends or blowing up the moon or possibly by punching a shark. 

So maybe, Dakota admits. Maybe it's time that he called someone.

Plus. It's cold out here. Like, really cold. And in the distance, Dakota can hear various animals moving through the woods, stepping on twigs and rustling the bushes. There are no heavy footfalls that would suggest a bear is on its way...but Dakota's not exactly the most observant person in the world, so he can't say that he's sure about that either.

But whatever. That stuff is totally unrelated. What actually matters is the fact that Dakota can't break his promise. 

He rubs his hands off on his thighs—not that it does much with how sticky the drying blood is—and fishes his phone out of his back pocket, gritting his teeth through the redoubling pain.

The phone flickers on when Dakota turns it over in his hands. His lock screen, even partially obscured by a single sticky thumbprint, makes him grin. It's a selfie from dinner together, taken shortly after they'd all moved into the base. His own face is half cut-off, only visible above the nose. The rest of the Prime Defenders have congregated behind him for the photo—Tide standing toward the back, and Ashe, Vyncent, and William in front. Vyncent is half-looking in the wrong direction, while William and Ashe are smiling awkwardly at the camera. Off to the side, William’s right hand is blurry from where he’d decided to flash a peace sign just a millisecond too late. And toward the very back of the picture, visible more as a shadowy outline than a full image, is Mark, holding a plate of lettuce wraps and glowering miserably, like he can’t believe he’s been subjected to the indignity of a family photo, lizard eye glowing just enough to be noticeable. 

Unfortunately, as comforting as the picture is, it’s not quite enough to offset the dread that comes from seeing the time—1 a.m., yikes —or the notification that reads “ From Tide - 21 MISSED CALLS.”

So Tide has definitely noticed that he’s gone. Oops.

Dakota hits the "call back" button before he can talk himself out of it. Tide's disappointment—and the questions, and the probably inevitable ban on him coming to the mountain without some form of supervision or accompaniment—aren't actually avoidable, but somehow it feels like they will be if he just puts off the interaction for long enough.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Maybe that's good enough? He can probably hang up now. Now, it's not like he didn't call back. He did, and no one picked up. That's totally not his fault. Dakota pulls the phone away from his ear, fully intending to hit the "end call" button. 

The ringing cuts off. 

"Dakota?" hisses a very familiar, very non-Tide voice. 

Dakota raises the phone back to his ear so fast that he's pretty sure his cheek is going to bruise from the impact. "Mark?" he says, probably way too loudly for these woods. "What are you doing with Tide's phone? Where’s Tide?”

"Where the hell are you?" Mark says back, voice booming in a way that immediately raises Dakota's hackles. "Do you even know what time it is?"

"Uh, yeah," Dakota snaps, then repeats: "Where's Tide? Is he dead? Did you kill him? If you killed him, I'm going to fight you."

There's a beat of silence, the reaction somehow managing to be incredulous before Mark says a single word. "Killed him? What the—no, I didn't fucking kill him. He's out in the jungle, searching for you!" 

"Well then why do you have his phone?"

"Because there's no damn signal out there! God, kid. He left his phone with me in case you called him back. Good thing too." Mark's tone is sharp. "What the hell are you doing? If you’re out partying, you better not have dragged Ashe into it." 

"Uh...no." Dakota says. He tries to lower himself down to the ground and instead just ends up falling flat onto his back. Ow. "To the party I mean. And to the Ashe thing. They’re not here. Can you just get Tide?”

"Kid," Mark sounds a little exasperated. "I don't have a goddamn clue where he is. This island is fucking massive."

"Oh." Dakota cranes his neck to look at his leg, biting back a hiss. "Um. Okay. That's fine. Can you have him call me when he-uh." Oh, come on. Something is moving in the bushes. Dakota blinks a few times—for reasons completely unrelated to the sudden racing of his heart and the dampness in his eyes, of course. "Can you have him call me when he gets back?"

Quiet. 

Did Mark just hang up on him? That asshole. Dakota should have expected—

"What happened?" Mark bites out, in the same tone that Tide and the other professional heroes use when answering the question isn’t so much a choice as it is a requirement.

If Dakota didn't disapprove of lying as much as he does, he'd probably do it now. As it is, he answers honestly: "Oh, well, you know. Nothing much."

"Don't fucking bullshit me, kid," Mark practically snarls, and Dakota winces instinctively. Caught. He means what he’s saying, genuinely—he just doesn't think that Tide will share the sentiment. "Are you crying?"

Well, fuck. Mark noticed? That’s great. An extra layer of humiliation to top off the rest of this stupid situation. "No!" he says, and because the Universe apparently hates him, his voice cracks halfway through the word. "Ignore that."

"Fuck," Mark cuts himself off with a growl. "I—ugh. Dakota, calm down. I'm not-uh. Not trying to yell at you. I know you don’t trust me. Which is smart. But I’m trying to…help. What happened? Are you okay?"

"Are you trying to be reassuring right now?" Dakota can't keep the bewilderment out of his voice. That doesn’t make any sense at all, but he has no idea what else this could be.

"I am being reassuring as fuck," Mark says; there's a sharp layer of offense to his voice. "And stop dodging my fucking questions."

"Um..." Dakota stares down at his leg. Some of the shallower punctures are starting to clot, but many are still dripping blood—more slowly now, but enough that Dakota doesn't think they'll stop on their own. "I need a ride?"

"Dakota," Mark says, with a firmness that Dakota usually only hears him use on Ashe. It's not angry, just solid and resolute. Almost comforting, but also stern. It’s a voice that Tide’s used a few times—usually when he’s trying to usher the Prime Defenders out of a situation that he’s deemed too dangerous. 

"Okay." Dakota exhales. "I just. Had a training accident. I'm a little hurt. But it's not that… honestly, it's really fine?"

"Shit." Something in the background makes a loud noise—a door slamming, maybe?—and then there are footsteps, heavy but moving fast. "How bad?"

"Um. Not bad?"

"Uh huh," Mark says, the sound laden with skepticism. What, does he think Dakota's a liar? "Right, so on a scale of one to ten, with ten being that you're actively dying, you'd say this is a..." 

"I dunno. A..." Dakota squints at his leg, and the blood that's spread everywhere and totally ruined these pants, which he genuinely liked a lot. "Fooooour?"

"Okay." Mark exhales. "Four. Fine. Fine, that's fine. Okay. Where are you on the island?"

Ah. Dakota almost hangs up there and then. "I'm...not on the island?"

" What? " 

 “I went out to train!” Dakota says, keenly aware of how pouty the words sound. “I was visiting my aunt this morning.” 

“Yes, and you told Tide you were coming back here afterward!”

“Well, I changed my mind!”

“You can’t just run off without—” Mark starts furiously, and then cuts himself off. He takes a few deep breaths, loud enough that Dakota can hear him even through the microphone. When he speaks next, it’s much quieter and more controlled. “Okay. That’s not important right now. Where are you?”

“You know those mountains just outside New Haven?” Dakota says, a little sheepish even despite himself. “Uh. There. I can share my location.”

“Share it with my phone,” Mark says gruffly. He sounds out of breath, like he’s walking quickly. “I’m leaving this one here for when Tide gets back. One sec.” Something rustles, and then Mark’s voice goes muffled. “William! Come here!” Nothing for a moment. “Yeah, kid. I’m on the phone with Dakota.”

In the distance, William says something too distorted for Dakota to understand, but it sounds hushed and upset.

“Hi, Will,” he manages, just in case William can hear him through the speaker. 

“No, I need you here to brief Tide on the situation when he gets back,” Mark responds.

William’s next words definitely don’t sound happy. Dakota thinks that he hears something along the lines of leave a fucking note in there, which is surprisingly bold even considering how much more confident William’s become lately. Then, there’s a dull noise that’s probably Mark putting his hand over the mic, because after that, even Mark’s half of the conversation becomes completely inaudible. 

Dakota takes the opportunity to share his location with Mark’s actual number, only half-paying attention to the protracted and surprisingly heated exchange that seems to be occurring on the other end of the line.

After a minute or two, the hand lifts off the mic. "I'll be there in just under an hour," Mark says shortly. Dakota’s pretty sure that it’s more like a ninety-minute trip, even with the new, WATCH-constructed underwater tunnel that makes driving to and from Harttawa Island possible in the first place, but whatever. Dakota’s not a mathematician. "How's your phone battery?"

Dakota glances down at the symbol, which has gone yellow. It was definitely green when he and Mark started talking. "Uh. 20 percent."

"Okay. Hang up for now, and call me if anything happens. Do you understand?"

"That’s dumb," Dakota says, unable to hold back the burst of humor that he feels at the thought. "What are you going to do? Listen to me get eaten by a bear?"

"Just do it.” It’s less a response than it is an order. If Mark thinks the idea is as funny as Dakota does, he’s definitely not showing it. Another door slams, and then in the background, an engine roars to life. "And stay where you are."

"Yeah..." Dakota gives his leg a dubious look. "I don't think you have to worry about that."

—

Staying off his phone to conserve battery is much easier said than done when the only other things Dakota has to focus on are the pain in his leg, which has reemerged with a vengeance, and every eerie sound that creeps out of the woods around him and which may or may not be a bear coming to eat him.

The cold is almost agonizing, settling deep into his bones and dragging every second out until time is practically moving at a snail’s pace. He keeps checking his phone expecting to see that an hour has passed, only to discover that it’s barely been five minutes. 

And then, after a small infinity…a noise.

The cracking of wood, something large lumbering closer and closer, trampling through the brush. Shit. Dakota pushes himself up onto the palms of his hands, eyes darting around frantically, scanning the woods around him...and almost blinds himself as something sharp and bright cuts through the foliage. 

"Dakota!" calls a familiar voice. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Mark?" Dakota shouts back. His heart is racing in his chest, and the relief almost knocks him back to the ground. "You dick! Why are you yelling?”

"Had to hike a fucking mile off the street and I'm the dick," Mark grouses. His silhouette is finally distinguishable from the looming trees and branches; he's not quite in his suit, but an odd shape jutting out from the line of his lower back reveals that he’s wearing the tech that helps channel his powers to the rest of his body. "You know, I could just leave you here— "

He steps over a fallen log, the beam of his flashlight falling on Dakota, and goes silent.

Dakota squints up at him, lifting an arm up to shade his eyes. It's hard to see Mark well through the glare of the flashlight, especially since the moon's sidled further along its arc in the sky and is now well-hidden by the trees, which block out its light entirely. 

"What." Mark says flatly. "The fuck."

"Stop shining that in my face!" 

It takes a beat for Mark to react. He stands dead still for long enough that Dakota almost gets worried, and then he stomps forward, the beam of the flashlight moving away from Dakota's face and bouncing off the trees around them instead. 

"You said your injury was a four out of ten!" 

Mark is a good foot taller than Dakota, and much bulkier to boot. This doesn’t really bother Dakota; he’s used to just about every opponent dwarfing him, and he knows that he’s more than capable of winning a fight even without the advantage of size. But right now, sitting prone and already feeling a little faint, it occurs to Dakota—with a slow, detached sort of awareness that you only learn from facing threats in the field—that Mark could probably stomp down on him and crack his head open like an egg without much effort at all.

“I could what ?” Mark stops short. The slitted pupil of his lizard eye flickers—narrow, wide, narrow again. 

Uh-oh. Did he say that out loud? “This is a four out of ten.” Dakota declares instead. Changing the topic seems like a good idea. 

Mark's expression is so still and difficult to read that it could be carved out of stone, like one of those Greek sculptures of the gods, looking down with thunderous intensity that could portend either aid or tremendous harm. When he kneels down beside Dakota on one knee, he moves slowly, carefully. 

"Kid," he says, voice as rumbly as ever, but also much more gentle than Dakota is used to. He reaches up with that same caution and uses his sleeve to scrub at some of the drying blood that Dakota had accidentally rubbed off onto his own face. "Any situation with this much blood is an eight out of ten. Minimum. Jesus. You stepped in a fucking bear trap?"

"Yeah," Dakota says. He's pretty sure he'd flush with humiliation if he weren't so cold. Then, because he can't be too nice to Mark, he adds: "Obviously."

"Okay, let me take a look." Mark doesn't even snipe back, which actually sends a spike of alarm through Dakota. What could possibly be so wrong that Mark doesn't even have the energy to be mean in return? 

Dakota doesn't get a chance to ponder it for too long before Mark puts a large hand on his knee. He's clearly intending to reposition the limb and take a closer look, but the contact alone sends an agonizing wave of pain up Dakota's leg. The yelp escapes before he can bite down on his lip and cut it off, and by his side, Mark yanks his hand back like he's been burned.

"No." Dakota hisses. "Just do it. I want this thing off ." 

Mark's lips twist, but after a moment's consideration, he returns his hand to Dakota's leg, tilting it just slightly so that he can shine his flashlight on it.

That ominous silence returns, and Mark's eyes narrow. "What sort of Saw bullshit is this?" he says, with a tone that forebodes trouble. What, like it’s Dakota’s fault?

"I don't know!" Dakota says. His voice is higher pitched than he intends it, but the pain is too sharp for him to reel it in. "I didn't fucking make the thing."

"Setting this shit out here where people can step in it," Mark's just muttering under his breath now. Dakota doesn't think he's even meant to hear it, much less respond. "What kind of sick fuck....I'm gonna—woah, hey. You good, kid?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm..." Dakota exhales slowly through his nose, less steadily than he wants, as he waits for the wave of lightheadedness to pass. The movement hasn't been pleasant, especially after more than an hour of him trying to hold as still as possible. "I'm fine. But we gotta hurry. There are bears out here. And they're like. Big bears."

Mark raises an eyebrow. "How fucking big?"

"What do you think?" Dakota says, gesturing to the trap. "They're, like, not normal bears."

That seems to give Mark pause. He glances around the woods. "Let me guess: they can smell blood?"

"I mean, yeah, but so can normal bears."

"Right." Mark groans. "Yeah, cool. That's fucking great. There's giant evil bears out here?"

"Well, I don't know if they're evil. But they fucking suck." Dakota crosses his arms over his chest.

Personally, he does think the bears are a little evil, even though he's loath to agree with Mark on anything, but Grandma Cole always likes to insist that nature is just nature. There's no good or bad about it, according to her. Just the way things work, and the ways in which they don't. “Can you get this off of me?” He really doesn’t mean to sound pleading; in fact, he’s actively trying to avoid that. Unfortunately, he’s starting to think that there’s something about speaking through a haze of pain that makes everything you say sound a little bit like you’re begging. And to top it off, when Mark doesn’t reply right away, he can’t keep from adding: “Please?”

Which means that he’s basically actually begging at this point, but fuck. Dakota wants the damn thing off. Counting the time he was unconscious, it’s been almost four hours of this. That’s four hours too much. 

Mark's face twitches in response to Dakota’s final plea. "Okay," he says, slowly, like he's not quite sure. "Yeah. Normally I’d say leave it, but as heavy as it is—damage’s only gonna get worse if I carry you back while it's still attached. But you're going to bleed...a lot."

"That's okay," Dakota says, faintly. 

"You’ve already lost too much," Mark says back. He shrugs off the bag that he's been carrying over his left shoulder, unzipping it in a single quick movement and pulling out a first aid kit. From that, he pulls a package of gauze and a small autoinjector of healing stimulant that WATCH typically reserves for emergencies. "But the fact that you haven't lost consciousness is a good sign."

"Uh..." Dakota says. "I mean. I did earlier, but I'm sure that's no big deal."

Mark stares at him with a blank expression, and then presses his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, saying something under his breath that could be a curse or a prayer or maybe some combination of the two. 

“Okay,” he says, after he’s finally composed himself again. “I’m going to take the trap off, and then I’m going to hit you with this.” He holds up the autoinjector. “It’s not very strong, but it should heal you just enough that you won’t start bleeding to death. Then I’m going to bandage it to hopefully stop the rest of the bleeding.” A pause. He swallows, throat bobbing. Something on his face seems apprehensive, like he’s dreading what’s about to happen, but that can’t possibly be right. “I’m gonna be honest with you, kid. It’s gonna hurt.”

“Trust me,” Dakota says, slightly breathless. “I know. I tried already.”

"You—what am I saying? Of course you did. That was dumb," Mark tells him, without hesitation or compunction. "Here, just..." he puts the flashlight on the ground, then reaches out and grabs one of Dakota's hands. The blood on them has almost completely dried now, and is flaking off in little strips like snakeskin. He guides it over to his elbow, to the sleeve of the large hooded jacket that he's constantly wearing. Giving Dakota something to hold onto. Huh. "Brace yourself. And don't bite out your tongue."

And then he turns to the trap, the gear at his back sparking to life, grabs it by either side, and begins to pull.

The pain is somehow so much worse now, like Dakota's body has grown used to the intrusion and refuses to let go, and Mark is having to rend the flesh anew in order to free him. Dakota doesn't scream, in part because he's truly braced for it this time, and partly because he can focus entirely on holding it together without also expending the energy it takes to pry the trap open—but mostly because Mark is right here, and Dakota refuses to let him see it.

Leaning forward so that he’s practically doubled over on himself, he clenches his fist hard where it's buried in the fabric of Mark's jacket, hard enough that Mark's elbow is probably going to bruise down to the bone. It occurs to him that he should probably loosen his grip—but he can't. He just can't, the way that you can't so much as twitch a muscle when you're being electrocuted, as if the pain arcing through him has paralyzed him entirely.

Mark doesn't so much as flinch in response to Dakota's hold, even though it must hurt. Though, maybe not. Dakota has seen Mark tank some pretty abominable hits—there's almost certainly some superhuman durability in there with the rest of his abilities. Either that, or he's just got an insane pain tolerance.

Actually, given what Overlord's crew did to him, Dakota's fairly certain that both possibilities are true. 

The process goes much faster with Mark at the helm. It still feels like it takes a century—but it's a shorter century than what Dakota endured while he was trying to free himself. After what is probably only about 30 seconds in real time, Mark grunts—gets both jaws of the trap parallel to the ground, and locks them back into place with a click. 

He's panting, out of breath, but he doesn't stop to get ahold of himself. In a single movement, he grabs Dakota's injured leg—just above where the actual wounds start—and practically shoves it off the pressure plate before Dakota can accidentally trigger it again. That's probably wise—Dakota's leg is blazing with pain and feels like it weighs a million pounds, even if the sudden forced movement does make him yelp.

"Sorry," Mark says, and it's so unexpected that Dakota almost forgets how much the entire experience hurts. He looks up at the former villain and is met with a familiar sight—that stubbled face, splattered with blood. Dakota’s blood, this time.  "Almost done, kid." In the same quick motion, he uncaps the autoinjector and slams it into Dakota's thigh like an epipen. It doesn't seem like it does anything : the pain doesn’t abate, the injuries don’t close, but enough of them clot over so that Dakota’s leg is only dripping blood rather than hemorrhaging heavily. 

Watching Mark bandage his leg after the fact is kinda funny—he’s moving fast, like the world’s most harried, underpaid half-lizard nurse. Dakota nearly starts giggling, which he’s starting to think is a symptom of blood loss and not actually related to how funny things are, until Mark pulls the bandage tight. 

It could be the surprise, or maybe it really just hurts more , but this time Dakota does scream. The pain is a vicious living thing, eating its way through his flesh like acid, carving its way down to the marrow of him with surgical efficiency. Dakota’s vision goes blinding white.

When his eyesight returns, he’s on his back. Like last time, he has the sneaking suspicion that he maybe just lost consciousness. Unlike last time, the sky and trees above are blocked out by Mark’s big head, and he’s holding onto Dakota’s shoulders. There’s a concerned look on his face that immediately puts Dakota on guard. What’s he so worried about? 

“Back with me?” Mark asks, and Dakota grimaces. Nods, even through the pulse of pain that floods through his head, and then shivers. “Okay, I’m gonna pick you up.”

“I can walk,” Dakota mutters, and Mark has the gall to bark a laugh at that.

“Don’t be dumb, kid,” he says. “Besides, Tide would have my fucking head.”

He picks Dakota up with surprising gentleness, clearly taking great pains to avoid jostling his bad leg. It’s bewildering—Dakota can’t imagine why Mark cares—but he’s too tired to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he doesn’t say anything about it. He even half-tucks Dakota under his coat, blocking out the whistling wind. Dakota sinks into the warmth with a sigh, and the arm around his upper body tightens. 

The hike back to the road is not an easy one. Dakota knows because he’s done it—but somehow Mark makes it seem easy, and Dakota even feels secure and sheltered against the elements the whole time. He could fall asleep in here, and it’s possible that he does a bit, because the trek back to Mark’s car seems to go by in a few minutes flat. 

The bleariness abates when Mark lays him down in the back seat of the car. Dakota’s eyes are still heavy; he’s only really watching what’s going on through his eyelashes, but Mark shrugs off his coat and lays it on top of Dakota before swinging the back door shut. There’s a thud as he deposits the mangled remains of the trap in the trunk, and then they’re off. 

Dakota blinks a few times—tries to turn over onto his side and quickly finds that his leg would much rather that he didn’t.

“You’re not supposed to speed,” he mutters, and Mark jolts in his seat.

“Fuck, kid!” he snaps. “I thought you were asleep!”

They do slow down, though, so Dakota counts that as a win. 

After a few minutes of awkward silence—Mark staring at the road ahead, the radio playing a staticky news report at a low volume, and Dakota side-eyeing him suspiciously through the rearview mirror, Mark sighs. “I’m not gonna ask what the fuck you were thinking,” he starts. “That seems like a conversation for you and Tide. But uh…this sort of thing happen often?”

Dakota wrinkles his nose. “What, like the bear trap?”

“Yeah, like the bear trap. Fuck else would I be talking about?”

“Oh. No, not really. But Master Cole did give us a pet pig once, and then he tried to kill it,” Dakota says.

“A pig? ” Mark says, eyebrows pinching together. 

“Yeah. It was in an alternate dimension or something. He gave me, William, and Vyncent a pig, and then he told us he was going to come back and murder it in three days.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah, but William lost his pants.” Dakota cracks a yawn.

“Huh,” Mark says, for an apparent lack of anything else to say.

“Yeah.” Dakota waits. Mark’s not the real talkative type unless he’s mad, and after a little while, it becomes clear that that’s the conclusion of the conversation as far as he’s concerned. “I spoke to my aunt today.”

“...I heard,” Mark says, after a hesitation. 

Dakota waits. And waits. Finally, he breaks: “Aren’t you supposed to ask me how it went?”

Mark snorts. 

The sound brings a frown to Dakota’s face. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Mark says, in a voice that definitely means something. Dakota tries his damndest to glare at Mark through the mirror, and Mark heaves a sigh. “Listen, kid,” he continues, the words gruff and low. “I don’t think you’re gonna care much for any of my opinions about your aunt.”

Dakota purses his lips thoughtfully, pulling the jacket tighter around his shoulders and curling in his good leg so that almost all of his body is hidden. He doesn’t know what Mark has heard—it’s not like Dakota really believes in secrets, and it’s come up a few times around the base while Mark was definitely in earshot, but it’s always hard to tell whether he’s paying attention. “What the hell does that mean?” he asks.

“Means that even when I was at my fucking lowest, I didn’t let my goddamn kid starve,” Mark says, the words a low, angry rumble, and Dakota shuts his mouth with a click.

That’s reductive. He knows it—knows who his aunt is, not just when she’s sick but when she’s doing well. He knows that she wants Dakota to be happy. Wants him to stay with people who can actually take care of him, even though she’s not one of them. And she does miss him; Dakota can see it in the way that she tears up every time one of their visits ends. Maybe she isn’t perfect, but isn’t that what love is? Loving someone enough to let them go?

“You were right,” Dakota informs him, not raising his voice above a whisper. “I don’t care for that.”

“Told you,” Mark says with a hum. “Whatever. It’s your choice. She’s your family. But I don’t have any fucking tolerance for that shit.” 

Dakota disagrees, of course. Vehemently. Still, in a weird way, he can’t help but appreciate the straightforwardness. The others dance around the topic—William has come the closest to expressing an opinion, with doubt making its way onto his face almost every time Dakota brings his aunt up. Meanwhile, Tide is on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Though he constantly says that Dakota has his unconditional support, his expressions become unreadable every time it comes up in conversation. Vyncent and Ashe exist somewhere in the middle. They’re not good at hiding the fact that they have thoughts on the situation, but Dakota can’t figure out what they are for the life of him.

And, well, Mark’s not that much better. Dakota can’t claim to understand what’s going on the guy’s head, ever , and his general vibe is just suspicious as hell. But in this, at least, he seems honest. Even if he is wrong. 

Dakota swallows. His throat has gone tight, an expected burst of emotion rising up to grip him by the neck. 

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” he says in lieu of anything else, with a sniff that he’s really hoping Mark will chalk up to the cold. Though true, it’s not what he means to say—but he’s pretty sure that’s fine. Mark doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who responds well to thanks. 

Mark looks up, gaze flickering to the rearview mirror, his single human eye meeting Dakota’s tired visage in its reflection. His fingers are tapping against the rim of the steering wheel, a quiet staccato beat. Finally, he huffs out a breath like a penned fighting bull, intense enough that Dakota’s honestly surprised when plumes of smoke don’t shoot out of his nose.

“You’re an idiot, kid,” Mark grumbles. “Of course I fucking did.” And then, clearly done with talking, he jabs at the power button on the stereo system. “You like Vanessa Carlton?”

“Duh,” Dakota rolls himself deeper into the coat, burying his nose in the fur-lined hood as A Thousand Miles begins to play quietly in the cabin. 

“You tell anyone about this sappy shit,” Mark says. “I’ll drop kick you out a window, okay?” When Dakota grunts an affirmative, he nods, apparently satisfied. “Now go back to sleep.”

And Dakota does.

—

Time passes in jolting, disorienting stops and starts. The pain is too severe for Dakota to fall into the deep sleep that he probably needs, so instead he catches his rest in feverish bursts, every turn and every bump in the road pulling him from his rest with an unwelcome burst of pain. 

Eventually, they roll to a stop. A car door opens and slams a few seconds later. And then there’s a rush of cool air as someone opens the door by Dakota’s head.

“We home?” Dakota slurs, and Mark pulls an odd expression at that.

“Yeah, Dakota,” he says. “Come on.”

Dakota nods, pushing himself upright and scooting out of the car. He stumbles half a step as he gets out, thrown off balance by the pain until he puts more of his weight on his good leg. 

Mark is saying something, but he sounds a little tinny and far off. “Woah, woah. Dakota, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m going inside,” Dakota says, shooting Mark a derisive look as he starts shuffling forward. Isn’t that obvious? “Come on. I’m—”

He trips. A bulky arm catches him around the waist just in time to keep him from hitting the ground. The hold is tight enough that Dakota can’t slip out, either accidentally or of his own volition, and so unexpected that Dakota squeaks in surprise.

“I have not had enough sleep for this,” Mark says, and pressed against his side like this, Dakota can feel the low rumble of the words in his chest. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t let Dakota go when he stands back up to his full height, instead carrying Dakota under one arm the way one would a particularly claw-happy cat. Luckily, it’s only a few steps to the garage door, and he’s still in Mark’s jacket, which is plush enough to stop Mark’s forearm from digging into his ribs.

“Come get your fucking kid, Tide!” Mark thunders as soon as they make it into the base. He hasn’t stopped moving—doesn’t stop until he’s marched them all the way into the living room and practically dropped Dakota onto the couch. By which Dakota means that Mark definitely means to throw him, apparently remembers at the last possible second that Dakota’s leg is still actively bleeding everywhere, and completely loses his grip when trying to pull back in time.

“Ow!” Dakota says, mostly for effect. It’s not exactly the most painful thing that’s happened to him tonight. He glares balefully up at Mark, who grimaces, actually seeming a little abashed.

“You okay?” he asks, just in time for two familiar figures to come barreling in through the door.

“Dakota!” Tide says, at the same time that William spots his leg and says: “Oh my god , Dakota!”

Tide is half clad in his super suit, though the top has been unzipped and is hanging around his waist, and he’s shrugged on a fitted t-shirt in its stead. “Where the hell have you—” his gaze follows William’s, settles on Dakota’s leg, and his entire face goes ashen. He whips around to glare at Mark. “What the fuck happened?” 

There are a few leaves caught in Tide’s locs, and his eyes have such intense dark circles that it almost looks like he’s been punched. Shit. Dakota sinks further into the couch. He really was worried. After all, it has to be pretty dire for him to bust out the fuck word.

“Hey, man,” Mark holds his hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. He stepped in a fucking bear trap.”

Tide stops short. Blinks. “A bear trap?”

“A bear trap?” William echoes, much softer, and when Dakota looks, he’s somehow already sitting on the glass table next to the couch, a bare few feet from Dakota’s head. 

“Yeah,” Dakota says. “It was pretty sick.”

William gives Dakota’s leg a pointed look. “I bet.” He reaches out and tangles one of his hands with Dakota’s. “You okay?”

“Hurts a lot,” Dakota admits, at what he thinks is a quiet volume.

Unfortunately, it’s enough to snap Tide out of his rapid exchange with Mark. He turns to Dakota, brow furrowed, the concern on his face almost frantic. “Right,” he says. “I’ll grab some pain meds, and I’m going to call HQ. They’ll send someone who can patch you up.”

“You don’t have to—” Dakota starts, but Tide has already rushed out of the room.

Mark snorts. “Just let ‘im fuss, kid. It’ll make him feel better.”

“You really scared everybody, Dakota,” William says, with that hard look in his eye that means he’s dead serious. “I thought you’d been kidnapped…” he trails off, glancing sidelong at Mark, and doesn’t finish the sentence. Dakota knows who he means, though. 

Mal. 

“Sorry, man,” Dakota winces. “I was just trying to train.”

William gives him a dubious look, but eventually just shrugs. “What kind of fucked up bear trap is this?” he asks instead. “Like this,” gesturing at Dakota’s leg, “just seems like overkill.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dakota agrees. As if being reminded of its existence was enough for Dakota to recall the pain, the sensation starts to sharpen again. “Someone was definitely overcompensating for something.” When he laughs, he winces. “Ow.”

They don’t get much further into the conversation before Tide makes his return. He shoves part of a tuna sandwich and a single yellow pill into Dakota’s face, and normally Dakota would get rid of the latter—he still doesn’t like pain meds—but for now he just folds it into his palm and nibbles on the sandwich instead.

Tide hugs him, and so does William, and Tide spends half an hour giving him a lecture about going places without informing anyone at all, which Dakota tries to listen to but can’t really focus on. They’re both almost excessively gentle. It should probably feel condescending, but this one time, Dakota doesn’t mind it.

Soon, it’s almost dawn. William’s migrated off the table and is sitting on the ground next to Dakota, still holding his hand, with his head and neck slumped onto the side of the same pillow where Dakota’s been resting his head. Tide lingers the whole time, until he’s eventually pulled away to prep their landing hangar for the WATCH doc, who’s apparently coming by helicopter. 

When he closes the door behind himself, Mark stands up from where he’d been leaning against one of the far walls, just watching—and admittedly exchanging the occasional barb with Tide. “That’s my cue,” he says. “WATCH and I barely tolerate each other to begin with. If I’m not allowed to pick a fight, I’m just going to head to the workshop.”

“Good luck,” Dakota says drowsily.

But Mark doesn’t turn to leave. Instead, he says, almost painfully slow: “For what it’s worth, that pill’s not much more than strong acetaminophen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dakota can’t turn his head without jostling William awake, so he settles for just redirecting his focus to the wall.

“Sure,” Mark says with a sigh. “Just…take it, okay? This sort of situation is exactly what that shit is for.”

Dakota opens his free hand and looks at the small thing. It doesn’t really look like one of his aunt’s, and his leg is still pulsing with agony. But the idea of putting it in his body is almost unbearable, probably worse than the pain itself. He’s never taken pain meds unless they were being administered through an IV while he was unconscious, so this is…intimidating.

“If you’re not going to take it,” Mark says. “You at least have to tell Tide. He’ll figure out something else to do. But you are not going to just sit here and ‘tough it out,’ are we understood?”

That means, of course, you tell him or I will .

Dakota swallows. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Fine by me,” Mark says, and that’s that. Or at least, Dakota expects it to be. Except when he brushes his way out the door, he pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “Oh,” Mark adds. “By the way, Dakota—I want my fucking jacket back when you’re on your feet again. You hear me?”

“On it,” Dakota says. He lifts his head blearily and mimes using one of Vyncent’s spells in the general direction of his injured leg. “I’ll concentrate and use all my powers to heal faster, how about that?”

“Good.” Mark looks away again before he responds, but in the brass doorknob, Dakota could swear that he catches a hint of a smile.