Hansel: Drown

[warning: suicidal ideation]

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Hansel felt sick. He stood at the aft of the ship and stared out at the ocean because it made him feel sicker, and this sickness felt like something he deserved. He'd let his guard down for a day -- a goddamn day -- and this was what happened -- the ship scorched, everyone varying fucking degrees of traumatized, his workplace fucking exploded --

And Mishka was gone. That shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. Mishka hadn’t been in his life for two years, at least not in any way he wanted, but all it took was a little time with him at his estate and it was like all of that melted away. And everything was all right again. There were still problems to deal with, but they were dealing with them together. That was all he wanted. For them to be fucking together.

He kept thinking about what the thing had said.

*I wish you could hear the way he’s screaming.*

God, he could hear it. He couldn’t stop hearing it. He couldn’t stop hearing the thing’s wretched voice coming out of Mishka’s mouth, couldn’t stop picturing its ink-spill eyes in his head, the wrong way it moved his body. The fucking smile that wasn’t a smile. It called him its favorite. It called him *Mikhail*. How fucking dare it.

His fists tightened on the railing. He had to stay mad. He had to stay mad or he’d crack, and there was no time to crack -- he had to keep focused, he had to take care of his crew, he had to figure this thing out, he had to get Mishka back. But then he remembered how goddamn useless and stupid he was, and how hopeless a notion it was that *he* could figure this thing out, that he could solve any problem that couldn’t be solved with a liberal application of stabbing, and this wasn’t one of those problems because he wasn’t going to stab *Mishka*.

He didn’t care if that thing was inside him. He didn’t care if it meant that it took him too -- like it would have out at the estate, if not for Nixie.

He couldn’t help thinking that maybe that would have been fine.

It had said, *I wish you could hear the way he’s screaming*, and it had said, *But you will, when you join us.* Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing. They’d be together. Maybe they couldn’t do anything, from the inside, but maybe it didn’t matter -- maybe Mishka wouldn’t be screaming if he wasn’t fucking *alone*. Maybe Hansel could make him feel safe. Maybe --

It just --

It should have been him. Mishka would be able to save him. He would have some fucking brilliant plan with ten times more steps than it needed, and he would have ten more plans on top of that one, each increasingly more complicated, but one of them would work. Hansel didn’t have a plan. Hansel’s plan was to stare out at the ocean and make himself feel worse. He was fucking *useless*. He’d always been fucking useless. He’d never been anything but a blunt object and without someone like Mishka, or Ripley, or his stepfather to point him towards the right things to hit, all he would manage to do was break shit and concuss himself.

It should have been him, but he knew he wouldn’t even make a good host for the thing.Not that strong anymore.Too old. No tricks. Dead in the blink of an eye next to the hundreds of years it could have fucking *fun* with Mishka. Or maybe its magic would keep him alive longer -- the others had told him about the version of the thing they’d found in the ruins, that dwarf. Maybe that would be … fine. Maybe it would be better. They’d be together.

The ocean was turning black as the sun set underneath it, ink spilled around a fire. He closed his eyes and he could see the bloody red dawn, he could feel the air change as storm clouds closed in, and he could hear the thing using Mishka to say, *Hello, lover.*

He was going to throw up. He was definitely going to throw up. He’d told Mishka not to be afraid but he was *so fucking afraid*. He didn’t believe himself when he’d spoken to Mishka, or when he’d told Sugar this wouldn’t be a problem. He kept trying to be something he wasn’t -- someone who was more than a blunt object -- and he wasn’t any goddamn good at it. Look what he’d done to Jonn. Look what had happened to him and Mishka. What had happened to Elitash and Serena and --

Hansel opened his eyes and looked out at the black ocean. He felt a moment of dispassionate clarity and heaved himself up onto the railing, and dove off the ship.

He hit the surface like a misfired cannonball and sunk like one too, weighed down by his armor and shield and trident, curling his body up small. It was fucking cold and the further he sank, the icier and darker it became, and the salt burned his eyes. He twisted until he couldn’t remember which way the surface was, disoriented in the deep, then stretched his arms and legs out, weightless and adrift, lungs beginning to strain. He would never float back to the surface. He could stay down here and rot. The crew would think he’d abandoned them, he supposed, but they’d be better off for it -- they didn’t need him. God knew what he would end up doing to them.

He thought about Jonn. The kid could manage without him -- he always had -- but it would probably be worse for the world if he wasn’t there to remind Jonn not to do … the things he did. And he thought about Roddy, and whatever was going on in *that* kid’s head that he was pretty sure Jonn would make worse if he wasn’t there to set the both of them straight. He thought about Sugar, trying so hard not to break down, being the captain while the rest of them floundered. He thought about Goro, locking himself away after the horrible fucking things that creature had done with him. And he thought about Larkin Basha -- god, he had to say *something* to that kid to explain himself, before they reached the Sanctuary, he just didn’t know what.

It would be easier to be bones on the seafloor. It would be easier to let the thing have him.

He let out the poisonous air trapped in his lungs and followed the bubbles upward, fighting against the weight of his armor. Not that strong anymore. Too old. No tricks. But he could find the surface, and he could fucking swim.

Hansel would keep his head above the water.