Hansel: Backstab

*You’re adorable. Sorry I murdered your boyfriend.*

*Hey, if you ever get lonely, come have a glass of wine with me. Whore.*

*Kisses,*

*<3 Mishka*

“Fuck,” Hansel muttered.

Jonn had torn it up, but Hansel could still make out enough of the words. Jonn hadn’t been trying to hide it. He’d left the pieces scattered over his mussed-up bed. Not that he kept it tidy normally, but this was clearly more than laziness or restless sleeping—this was fury. This was an attempt to take out anger in a way that hadn’t been stupid, but he wasn’t here now, which meant he’d resorted to stupid.

He checked the bag Jonn kept stuffed under his bunk, rifling through it. His crossbow and bolts were gone, and the little vial of poison. He’d probably thought that would be ironic or something. He couldn’t just go out and get drunk like a normal sad person? He had to go for murder and poison. Fucking Mishka.

“Fuck.” He dropped the bag back to the floor. All right. If he hurried—.

“Um, isn’t that Jonn’s bag? And Jonn’s bed?”

Hansel flinched. He hadn’t noticed Roddy was there—how you missed a six-foot turtle picking at a black lute, he didn’t know, but he’d managed to until the kid had spoken up. It was just automatic to check for Jonn, and as soon as he’d realized something was wrong, tunnel vision had set in.

“Yeah, it’s, uh.”

They were friends now, or something, right? He’d probably help if Hansel asked anyway—he had before he’d even known Jonn. He was a good kid. Hansel couldn’t put him in that position again.

“Y’know, it’s fine.” He kicked the bag back under Jonn’s bunk. “He goes through my shit all the time. It’s, uh, what we do.”

Roddy didn’t look convinced (for the truth, it had sounded like a godawful lie), and it wasn’t like he was blind—he could see the mess Jonn had left behind. He’d probably heard Hansel grumbling profanity before, too, and not spoken up. He seemed on the verge of saying something else, and Hansel didn’t want to deal with that, so he headed it off.

“Did you see him earlier?”

“Yes.” He said it reluctantly, still plucking at his lute. “He was drunk. And then very mad. He didn’t say anything.”

Hansel sighed and scrubbed at his face. “He is my fuckin’ son. All right, don’t—.” Did he need to say this? “Look, stay here. I’ll bring him back. It’s fine.” He grabbed his trident before he hit the door. “It’s fine.”

He wouldn’t need the trident. He wouldn’t need it. Jonn wouldn’t have gotten far, and he’d be easy to track because he was drunk and stupid, and Hansel would pick him up and drag him back to the guild, and then he’d feel dumb for even bringing the trident because it was just something else to carry and his back would be killing him over it tomorrow.

But—if he did—

If he *did*—

It wasn’t going to matter. Jonn always took backstreets, because he was shady like that, and Hansel traced the likely route through the city hoping to see him slouched against an alley wall, puking his guts up or passed out already. Plenty of people like that out at this time of night, but no Jonn—not in the passage behind the barracks that led down to the river, not along the river, not the twisting little street that left the city.

The trident was fucking heavy on his back.

If he *did*—who did he think he was going to use it on? Mishka’s guards? If he had to, to defend Jonn, he would, but it wasn’t exactly his goal to turn up at Mishka’s estate and cause more problems. Mishka himself? As if that was an option.

… Jonn?

The vineyard wasn’t that far, but the closer he got the more he hoped he’d just missed the kid somewhere. Should’ve checked the bar they’d been spending time at since that night. Maybe he’d gotten mad but been drunk enough to think he’d be an even better shot if he was even drunker, and now he was facedown on a table getting his pockets picked. It’d serve him right, scaring Hansel like this. He’d think it was hilarious—Hansel marching out here to save him, stumbling around in the dark, him nowhere around.

Well, Hansel hadn’t been doing a great job of saving him lately, anyway. Maybe he wouldn’t find it that funny. But he could be testy about it if he wanted, as long as he was alive.

There was a small group of people in the road up ahead, and he barely paid them any attention—tunnel vision—Jonn wouldn’t be with a group—until most of them broke off and he realized they’d only been near each other, not together. The one left behind had a long black cloak with the hood up, and they were unsteady on their feet, not making good time. The cloak fluttered as they walked and Hansel could see the crossbow held loosely in one hand.

He bolted, all but tackling Jonn—the kid would’ve definitely fallen over if he hadn’t been grabbing him. And he was *wasted*—he didn’t fight back beyond a weak flail with his unoccupied hand and a startled sound. It was dangerous for him to just be out at night like this, much less on his way to the well-guarded house of someone who had no problem killing people. Gods, he was so fucking stupid.

Hansel crushed him until he squeaked.

When he let him go, it was only to arm’s length. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Jonn’s expression went from confusion to indignation, but he wasn’t able to get out any coherent excuse between the anger and the booze. He pawed vaguely at Hansel in a way that indicated he was trying to get away and gestured with his crossbow, swinging it up to almost hit himself in the face with it. Hansel leaned back, grimacing.

“He fuckin’—,” the kid slurred.

“We talked about this.”

“*You* talked about it,” he asserted, wobbling in Hansel’s grasp.

“All right.” This wouldn’t be productive. “Let’s go.”

He pulled the crossbow away from Jonn, hooking it to his own belt, and while the kid protested he shifted to easily heft him up onto his shoulder. Jonn made a retching sound, and he winced in anticipation, but thankfully nothing came of it. The trident wasn’t that heavy now. Neither was the kid. And he mumbled for a moment before going quiet, so Hansel had to assume he’d passed out. Maybe they’d both get lucky and he wouldn’t even remember this had happened. Hansel would clean up the note, burn it, drop him in bed and let him sleep it off.

Hansel looked ahead. They were already alongside the vineyard—too close to the house. The lights were on. Mishka might have looked out and seen them. He still *could*. And Hansel knew he was fucking relentless. Even if Jonn blacked this out, it would probably only be a matter of time before there was another note.

He took a deep breath and turned back to the city proper. It was over for now. He was sure there’d be some sort of fallout from this, but he’d deal with it when—

The very tip of a knife prodded into his back. It wasn’t with much force, but it caught him so off-guard that he fumbled and dropped Jonn, turning again, his hand going to his trident. There was no one there, of course. Just Jonn sitting in the mud holding a dagger, already looking guilty.

“What the fuck, Jonn?” He didn’t know what else to say. He was barely bleeding, but still.

“Gimme my bow back.”

“No.”

Jonn waved the knife at him pathetically.

“You can’t reach me. You’re on the fucking ground.”

Jonn looked down, apparently not believing him until he verified it for himself. “Then … come down here.”

Hansel narrowed his eyes. After considering it for a moment, he reached out to bat the knife out of Jonn’s hand, sending it across the street and into the bushes somewhere, then joined him. Jonn glared at him, but it didn’t last long. He grabbed for his bow, and Hansel fended him off; he fumbled for the other dagger in his belt, and Hansel took it away from him. He even reached for the trident, and Hansel only had to shrug to keep it away from him.

“You got a plan here?” he asked finally.

“M’gonna fuckin’ kill Mishka.”

“Are you, now.”

“You said you’d help!”

Hansel winced again, but lashing out seemed to deflate the kid a bit, at least. He folded over himself, burying his head in his hands, tangling his hair through his fingers, and Hansel tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but couldn’t. After a beat he realized Jonn had hid his face because he was crying.

“He’s making fun of—he’s fucking taunting me,” Jonn choked.

Hansel thought of the note and its little red heart. He honestly wasn’t sure if Jonn was right. Mishka had claimed he kind of liked the kid—well, he hadn’t just claimed it, it was the unavoidable truth. Maybe he did feel bad about the unintended death. He’d never actually *intended* to kill anyone, after all. Maybe he was so fucked up that he thought this was a real way that people communicated with each other—*sorry about the murder, xoxo*.

Could he say that much? “He didn’t …” No. He couldn’t make excuses for the man Jonn held responsible for Flynn’s death. “Jonn, just …”

He didn’t know what he could say at all. When he touched Jonn’s shoulder the kid twitched away and sniffled, and quickly straightened, wiping his eyes. “Give me my knife back.”

“Absolutely not.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not gonna stab you, I just want it.”

“You shouldn’t’ve stabbed me in the first fucking place if you wanted knife privileges.”

Hansel stood, slipping his hand to Jonn’s forearm to pull him up, too. The kid scowled, but let Hansel support him and took a faltering step closer to lean heavily into him.

“You’re not my real dad,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, you’re not my real son.”

He hoped that would be the end of it—the conversation would end on a quip and not be brought up again, and all would be well, and things would return to normal—but after they’d made it some way down the road back to home, Jonn spoke again.

“I am gonna fucking kill him, though.”

Hansel didn’t respond.