capencowl2020 | [CLOSED]

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Who: Kylo Ren & Ronan Lynch
What: Kylo's stolen the Greywaren, a magical object that grants wishes. This object also happens to be Ronan Lynch.
When: Following Kylo's theft of the Greywaren from the Black Box Fight Club, some time before Victor Vale's live broadcast of Apollo's unveiling and the subsequent terror attack
Where: Kylo Ren's apartment
Warnings: Heavy and plentiful. I'll update as necessary. So far: forced imprisonment, mind-control...

Kylo hadn't planned on keeping a prisoner in his own home. He hadn't, in all honesty, planned on ever having guests here at all— his apartment is his sanctuary. But there's nowhere else he can reasonably take his prize without risking its loss— and so, once he's certain no-one is following him from the scene of the kidnapping, he has Ronan pull over. The stop is just long enough for Kylo to reverse the switch, reclaiming his own identity and the driver's seat. It takes nothing more than a gentle nudge to push Ronan safely into pliant cargo unconsciousness, and nothing further than a satisfyingly quiet drive to reach the relative seclusion of his apartment. He carries Ronan inside, his nerves singing with the thrill of an unexpected triumph.

Safely vacant, Ronan makes no protest as Kylo lays him down on the floor in the dark, windowless safe room he uses for meditation. It's little more than an oversized closet in terms of dimensions, but Kylo had it reinforced and soundproofed over a year ago and until he can make better arrangements, it seems as good a solution as he's likely to come up with at short notice. He'll install a ring in the wall, later, as an anchoring point for Ronan's... leash. Rope, he thinks, rather than the uncomfortable weight of chains. Nothing inherently punishing, unless Ronan decides to make it necessary, but something physical— all the successful liberations of prisoners Kylo can remember have exploited weaknesses in the very technology designed to prevent them. No. All he needs is a way to store Ronan securely during the hours he'll be occupied with other commitments and unable to intervene should his captive decide to make a bid for freedom.

Still. It's a pity he doesn't tend to take his work home, he thinks, eyes tracking over Ronan's sprawled, heavy body one last time before pushing the door shut and listening to the lock click into place. Perhaps he's grown a little over-reliant on the versatile convenience of the adjustable, flexibly hinge-waisted interrogation tables found in any decently equipped government facility.

But wouldn't Ronan look inviting, stretched out for him on one of those?

Distractingly so. But for now, once he's freed himself of the weight of all his costuming, it's time to get to work covering his movements for the evening with the usual parade of check-ins and reports— though it's hard to concentrate on anything but the slow, steady rhythm of Ronan's breathing as he waits to feel his acquisition stir awake.

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"Sometimes you don't choose to die," Ronan answers. "Sometimes you just fucking wish for it."

And what did he think would happen, exactly? Was his treasure supposed to flourish in these conditions? Maybe this guy just believes the myths. Maybe he thinks, despite the evidence before him, that they Greywaren is merely a thing. And why would a thing care where it's kept?

Kylo tears open another long sterile strip and begins— faster, this time— to bind Ronan's knuckles again, while those words fester in his mind, twisting over and over. He can't even begin to grasp why he's so tightly furious. It's something about that one moment of mistaken relief. Something about the sharper, genuine panic of being trapped in the dark with a nightmare. Something, too, about his knuckles torn bloody. His throat ripped raw.

But he'd never wanted to die.

"It's re-inforced steel," Kylo informs him, already hating the suspicion building in his mind as he hears himself speak. "You know you'll break long before it does."

"Yeah." Ronan's shoulders shake, either with a shrug or silent laughter. "I know."

Why is this guy still fixing him? He has to have figured it out by now. Ronan doesn't survive this. It probably won't be tonight, but maybe tomorrow, or a week from now. He doesn't have to bring the nightmares back with him. He can bring the wounds. He can bring his death, already done, and certainly no prince can save him then.

"Just take what you want from me already," Ronan tells him, suddenly exasperated, because it should be obvious. "Take it and kill me before I kill myself. Your sword looks like it works faster."

Despite being more sorely tempted to snap Ronan out of this self-pitying malaise than he'd thought possible, Kylo resists the bait— finishing his work in tautly irritated silence before hauling himself up to his full height and kicking the looted medkit back under the bed. He stares down at him, chewing on the jostling host of things he cannot or should not say until he can bear it no longer.

"Have you ever been detained by the government of this world?" Kylo asks, simmering heatedly. "There was nothing on file for you, but that doesn't mean much. If anything. Have you?"

"I don't know," Ronan drawls. "Is the government detaining me right now?"

For all he knows, this is a safehouse for some federal agency or another. He doesn't know who he's dealing with. He doesn't even know what to call this guy. Until a few minutes ago, he hadn't been sure whether he was dealing with a metahuman or some kind of psionic cyborg.

Kylo laughs. Sharp and hollow. He doesn't let his glaze flick to the blank-faced menace of his helmet on the nightstand despite the incredulous urge. All this fear. Ronan's, his own. It feels ludicrous.

"No."

He looks Ronan over, marveling at the completeness of the illusion. Here he is, a highly effective collector of secrets. A mind-reader. A wearer of costumes and masks. And he'd been completely fooled by the disguise.

There's no strategy here, no plan or agenda. The act is just that. Peel away the trappings of the fight club brawls, alleyway heavies, even the expansive tattoo spread across his back, and what is there left beneath? The frightened naivety of a boy so used to being shielded and protected he's never needed to cultivate any true resilience for himself. Of course he's considering suicide. Of course.

"You'd know, if they had you. If you were conscious enough to know anything at all. No. No, you're here because of what you can do for me. What you can help me accomplish. But also because of what you could do for them."

A team of scientists, like those involved with Project Helios. He amends the thought.

"What they could do with you."

Well, that explains why Kylo hasn't bothered to demand anything yet. It wasn't about getting the Greywaren into his own hands, just getting it out of everyone else's. He didn't need a plan because throwing someone into a soundproofed broom closet does that job just fine.

"I hope you're not expecting me to thank you for rescuing helpless little me from the big bad government," Ronan hisses. "Throwing someone in your personal safety deposit box doesn't constitute a heroic act. No gold star for you, mister."

"Do you think I would have waited this long to collect. If I was looking for one," he scoffs. "Or that I would choose to court your approval."

He reaches out to tip Ronan's chin with a finger for a better angle in the low light, curious to see if the dark line at his throat is evidence of the nightmare attack or simply the border of a shadow.

Still shaken in the wake of the attack, Ronan flinches as Kylo reaches for him, though he composes himself quickly enough to pretend he didn't just believe Kylo was reaching out to strangle him. Especially since he was the one who invited Kylo to kill him a few minutes ago, and it would be his own damn fault if Kylo obliged.

He relaxes slowly into the touch, allowing the examination. If it looks half as bad as it feels, he's sure he's pretty ugly right now. And indeed, the shadow at his neck is a bloom of bruising that will only get more purple over the next few hours. At least, unlike a rope, the creature didn't tear his skin raw.

Apparently feeling generous enough not to comment on Ronan's instinctual response, Kylo's scrutiny is light on touch— just a single fingertip, then the pad of his thumb as he turns Ronan's head— but heavily focused in terms of attention. His lips press together, brow furrowing as his eyes track over the injury.

"Where did it go?" Kylo asks. "I didn't kill it. Did I."

"I don't know."

It wasn't something Ronan was capable of killing, either in the dream or this world. But most of it had manifested from his fear of his captor. In some ways, it was more Kylo than Ronan. Kylo would be its match, then, wouldn't he?

"Even if it's gone, I'll probably make another one."

Kylo's gaze draws up from the purpling bruise ringing Ronan's neck to find his eyes instead, searching. He could push in, if he wanted. But he asks, instead:

"Why?"

His hand drops away, diverting at the last moment from coming to rest on Ronan's shoulder.

"I know you don't want to."

Ronan looks at him. Funny, how comfortable he felt simply taking the answers from Ronan before, when he was hidden behind a mask. Now he wears a human face and wants to pretend at humanity.

"Don't you know you're hurting me?"

"Is that what this is."

He doesn't look away this time.

"Yes, I know. I can feel it. I know I'm hurting you. Did you think I needed to be shown?"

"I don't think you give a shit," Ronan answers, "but this is just what happens when I'm hurting."

He is the embodiment of subconscious expression. He doesn't just create the intended.

"I'm a Pandora's Box of repressed bullshit. Keeping my fucking chin up only works as long as I'm awake. When I close my eyes, I'm trapped with everything I'm afraid of. Like everyone else. But everyone else gets to wake up from their nightmares. My nightmares wake up with me."

Kylo watches Ronan's face for an overlong moment, a decision being weighed quite clearly behind his dark, steady eyes.

Then, abruptly, he leans past Ronan's shoulder to pluck up one of the pillows on the bed.

"Then for now, they'll have to wake to me," he says, sliding his closet door open to search for blankets. Considering how sparsely populated the interior is, it doesn't take long. He doesn't turn back.

"Won't they."

Edited (i can word) 2020-01-26 07:26 (UTC)

Ronan's eyebrows knit in confusion as Kylo leans over him, forcing him to duck out of the way (putting rather more distance between them than actually necessary). He's... grabbing the pillow? What?

"What?"

Ronan tracks Kylo's movement to the closet, incredulous as the guy keeps gathering up his bedding supplies.

"You wanna have a fucking sleepover?"

"Not immensely," Kylo supplies, somehow completely missing the expected range of tone for humorous sarcasm but achieving it regardless. He begins layering blankets as a makeshift bedroll on the floor between the bed and the door.

"But I have a long day tomorrow and you—" He pauses, turning his head to assess Ronan's face thoughtfully. "—haven't slept. So make yourself comfortable."

Right there on the bed, it appears he means. He returns to his work.

"So you're just sleeping on the floor?"

What, is he suddenly respectful of personal boundaries?

"This bed is huge. You don't have to fucking..."

There's a pause as Kylo attempts to decide which if any of the many reasons he'd immediately discounted that option he's willing to disclose.

He's not as concerned about the threat of Ronan and the contents of his dreams as he probably should be, of course, but regardless of how successful any such attempt on his life would likely be, it's unwise to risk encouraging him to try. Then, there's the idea of being in such close proximity to another person for an extended period of time, which in Kylo's admittedly limited experience is rarely comfortable. The fact that he wasn't lying about having a full day ahead, meaning that he should be aiming to get as much rest as possible. The challenge of even attempting to sleep when those around him are on heightened alert, with their fears bleeding out to fill his senses too.
What he certainly isn't about to admit, is that he's never shared a bed before. Or, that for reasons he doesn't fully understand, that this is the first time he's wanted to.

These long, considered silences when stretched out under the blank stare of his masked face tend to have an unsettling effect on prisoners. Unfortunately for Kylo, without the disguise it's far easier to tell when he's using the time to sift through his own thoughts looking for an answer.

"You'd sleep, would you," he settles on eventually. "With me beside you. You'd be able to close your eyes."

Quite clearly, he doubts it.

Why is this guy so keen on making everything creepy?

Ronan hadn't meant anything by the comment, not even that he'd prefer to share the bed. It just struck him as stupid, this pretense of hospitality while handling a kidnapping victim. Frankly, Ronan would rather not be treated kindly. He'll give his captor no excuse to tell himself that this life is a better one than the life Ronan lived freely.

But that response has Ronan's face heating up. "It doesn't make any fucking difference, does it," he snaps, "when you can just make me sleep."

The mind trick had worked perfectly well when he'd needed to transport Ronan without a fight.

"I can make you do a lot of things," Kylo points out, his expression shifting towards slow curiosity. Noticeably, he doesn't simply sink down onto his mattress of folded blankets to indicate the matter closed— even though it's all laid out ready for him.

That heat.

He felt it. Feels it still, simmering under the surface.

"And I think... it does. Make a difference. I think it frustrates you, when I don't."

Ronan's heart leaps into his throat, a jolt of fear at the threat he reads in those words, followed by hot shame when Kylo starts to pick apart his psyche. He rushes toward a defense before the uselessness of it holds his tongue. There's nothing he can say to someone who's reading his mind, as every weakness of his character is laid out to be poked and prodded.

When he does finally speak, it's not the sharp retort he'd wanted: "I just don't know why you wanna pretend I have a choice about anything."

Oh, you'll have to try harder than that, he doesn't say. The look in his eyes carries the message instead.

"Is that what you're angry about?" he asks, fascinated by the flush of shame, the strange, twisting tangle of thought and feeling that beckons for him to follow. Here are all Ronan's fears, his insecurities, every belief he leans on for protection. He can run his fingers along the edges, if he wants. Study their shapes.

"It is, isn't it. You don't have a choice about anything, because I could bend you entirely to my will. If I wanted. And why wouldn't I want that? A creature like me. No, you're not angry with me for having power over you. You know you should be, yes, but—"

Here, he realises he's taken a step towards Ronan on the bed.

"You're angry with me for not using it."

Ronan has spent years surrounding himself with dangerous people. He's spent years intentionally throwing himself in the path of their violence. Most people think winning a fight makes you stronger, but Ronan was always looking for the kind of fight he'd lose. It wasn't every punch he threw but every punch he took that made him stronger. All of that pain in preparation for the reckoning he knew would eventually come for him.

And all of it was a waste. None of his training prepared him for absolute helplessness. He doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that any action he takes can be stopped with nothing but a thought. Of course he's angry Kylo isn't using it. At least when he's under a spell he can tell himself he's not failing.

Just looking at Kylo feels like it's sapping his strength, his conviction. He doesn't know why he does nothing but stare as Kylo steps closer. Ronan should lunge at him, fight with everything he's got, use every second of freedom that he has to make a bid for escape.

And since he isn't doing that...

Does that mean he wants to be in this man's bed?

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