WHO: Dylan Dog (Clint Barton eventually, and a Clark Kent cameo) WHAT: Monster hunting, 11 Months away WHEN: 30 March - 15 April WHERE: The Continent WARNING: Language, Blood, Violence (spoilery for The Witcher if you haven't seen/read/played it) STATUS: Complete
There was a soft whining coming from beside the bed, the noise becoming more persistent and he felt a soft nudge against his arm as two little paws scrabbled against the covers. Rolling onto his side, he peered down at the pup, picking out his cute little face in the dim morning light. Beside him, Clint seemed to be still asleep, but Lucky was as agitated as his son, albeit at the foot of the bed. "Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?" Archer whined again, pawing at the duvet. "Need to go out?”
The answering whimper didn’t sound like Archer’s usual ‘father, I need the toilet’ noise. So instead of getting out of bed, he scooped up the puppy and cuddled him against his chest. "There now, any better?" Archer didn’t answer, other than to fidget against him, wriggling to burrow between his side and Clint's back. Lucky had commando crawled up into the space between them by now and let out a little huffing noise which wasn’t a whine or a bark. Almost as soon as he did, a weird tugging sensation curled around the base of Dylan's skull and the room shivered around him.
"Clint?" Panic rose in his throat and he tried to grab onto his boyfriend’s hand as his lover stirred, "Clint!"
Sitting bolt upright, for a few frantic seconds Dylan’s scattered mind tried to focus on his surroundings, then his sweat-soaked back flopped down against the stuffed straw mattress as he remembered. Throwing his forearm across his eyes, he groaned, two months and the nightmare wasn’t fading—despite the many distractions he'd had to face since coming to this very strange new world, or old world, considering the lack of technology altogether.
Stretching his arms up above his head, he winced slightly as the newly healed wound on his shoulder protested; the reknit muscles below his skin still tender. That had been a fun encounter, just his luck to drop him into the path of a vampire the very first week in this new world. Albeit a type he wasn’t familiar with, an alp, and he’d gotten too close to very formidable claws. Five gouges slashed across his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck, but he’d managed to fight it off. Cassandra’s ring had saved his life, the silver chain causing the creature to back away rather than move in for the kill. Wrapping the links around his fist he’d used it as a makeshift knuckle duster, a couple of solid hits and the creature had fled.
One fight had gained him a reputation as a Monster hunter, and his wounds were tended by a local apothecary. That’s where the Witcher had found him. They’d spoken about vampires, he’d been interrogated about what he knew, what skills he had, what else he’d fought. Belial had scored him some extra credit and the next thing he knew he was training with the Cat school of Witchers. Together with his new partner, he’d finished off the Alp then they’d moved from one town to another picking up contracts as they went until arriving at the Witchers’ temporary base in a ruined fortress.
Since then sixty eight days had passed, and he was still no closer to returning home.
Music wasn't an uncommon occurrence in the keep, but it was usually men and women's voices raised in lusty song after a hunt, not a lilting melody expertly picked out on a well-tuned lute. The song grew louder as whoever was playing it wandered the hallway, until they were nearly abreast with Dylan's door. "Wrath and ruin," the man suddenly sang, low and with surprising depth for something that would easily show it to be improvised as he went on, leaned against the jamb, "he slays the soulless, stranger with the raven hair."
It was a good thing the man was singing, so Dylan had more time than usual to pull on a tie front purple-black shirt and black breeches, before he was no longer alone in his room. On many occasions he’d been caught without a stitch of clothing by one Witcher or another coming to drag him out on a hunt or to train. At least this poor bard was spared that sight today. "You make me sound particularly dangerous." Dylan commented, watching the other curiously as he made himself at ease in the doorway. "I could argue that you are a stranger, at least to me, and to this encampment. Who are you?"
"The whole point of a well-sung tale is to take what is true and spin it into something entertaining." The man at the door flashed a wide grin with an artful little flourish of notes, before he bowed over his instrument and straightened again. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service—or Jaskier, at your pleasure." He bounced his eyebrows and then winked. Incorrigible didn't even begin to contain his multitudes. "I'm no stranger to this particular school of Witchery, unless you count time against me, and then I must confess it's been ages since I've visited Geralt's feline brothers and sisters. It's Dylan, isn't it? The wandering ways do like their whispers."
Dylan’s eyebrows rose at the explanation, but he nodded, conceding the point. There weren’t too many anthems about mild mannered people, and he had made a reputation for himself already. Pulling his hair back from his face and tying it with a spare lace, he smiled in response to the wink. "A Viscount? What’s a titled man like you doing in a place like this?" His tone was friendly enough, though he was still rattled by the dream memory. "Ah, you run with the white wolf, I saw his horse, but haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Geralt yet." Pleasure was probably too optimistic a word, if the Witcher’s reputation was anything to go by. "Dylan is right. Of nowhere specific. You could add that to your song, a rolling stone gathers no moss, or something equally poetic."
A few more notes were plucked out, and for a moment Jaskier seemed to look down at his lute while giving every indication that his hooded eyes missed none of the man's movements. His mouth quirked up in a smirk. "Me? Oh, just everything I can to tarnish the vaunted nonsense and vex my forebears by being as rakish and disreputable as possible." His smile deepened and his gaze practically sparkled. "Pleasure? I'd like to see the man who garners such a warm feeling from that grump, especially first thing in the morning. My dear Witcher is an absolute grouch, but if you give him a sword, a drink, or coin enough for a visit to the closest house of ill repute, well, he might think twice about killing you just for daring to breathe his air." Jaskier stilled his strings with the palm of his hand and gave a dramatic gasp. "Oh, I do like that one. I'll have to crib that rolling stone line—give you… middling credit. Were you going down for breakfast?"
"Rakish and disreputable, tell me more." Dylan had actually laughed at the answer, in the first real show of amusement or any kind of levity since he’d been pulled into this strange world. He immediately felt guilty, knowing that somewhere in space and time, Clint was missing him. But thankfully Jaskier swept the conversation along so he couldn’t slip into a brooding silence. "Well, who can blame him? Witchers aren’t exactly treated kindly by most. I have been called a grump before, more than once." Dylan’s thoughts strayed then to Marcus and he hoped fiercely that his friend was okay back in their world. "However, I will heed your warnings and avoid Geralt this early in the day. Perhaps I’ll invite him to spar later, if he’d be willing to tutor a newcomer?" The feline Witchers had a very distinct fighting style; lots of deft movements and flexibility to catch the opponent off guard, which he was slowly getting used to. But wielding a sword still felt very clumsy, and by all accounts Geralt was amongst the best. "No credit necessary," Dylan joined Jaskier at the door, a tiny grin curving his lips for a moment at the dramatics. "I am, will you join me?"
"Only if you don't mind being serenaded along the way." Jaskier may have grinned and strummed his lute anew, but it wasn't as though he was so self-absorbed he hadn't noticed both beats where the stranger's thoughts had slipped into darker avenues. It sparked his curiosity. Not enough to dig, however. Most people required more social lubrication for that sort of thing anyway, and Dylan didn't strike him as the type to enjoy a bit of daytime drinking. "You've inspired my muse, and you'd be a poor patron indeed if you didn't allow my creativity to blossom while in your presence."
"Of course, by all means serenade us both. Let your muse run free." He smirked a little, "So long as it doesn’t get between me and my plate."
~§~
Cleaning grime and gore from a beard was disgusting, so Dylan had decided early on that he would continue to shave as best he could whilst in this strange world. A decision he was very grateful to have made as he washed away the remnants of his most recent hunt. Getting rid of the now grubby water, he pulled on the fresh set of identical clothes waiting on the bed, before turning his attention to his bloodied blade. Taking it out into the courtyard, he sat in the watery sunlight and meticulously cleaned the heavy iron sword. He hadn’t been particularly successful with the weapon, failing to finish off the creatures they had been tasked to dispatch. Luckily he hadn’t been alone and his Witcher mentor had finished the job. He didn’t feel comfortable with failure but until he was better with a sword, he’d have to get used to it.
"You move well enough, but you are not used to your weapon."
The gravelly voice was accompanied by a long shadow and Dylan lifted his gaze to meet the yellow eyes of Geralt. From what he could gather about the white haired man, he wouldn’t willingly strike up a conversation, and a glance toward the refectory door showed Jaskier lurking.
"Did a mutual acquaintance ask for your assistance on my behalf?" Dylan asked, a flicker of a smirk on his lips.
"You could say that." Geralt replied, his tone giving away nothing of how he felt about the matter. Instead the Witcher gestured for Dylan to stand, "I have a few moments to spare. So we can spar and I will tell you everything you are doing wrong."
There was the slightest hint of amusement that time and Dyl huffed a tiny laugh, though the words were likely all too true. Hopping to his feet, Dylan hefted the newly clean sword in his right hand and followed Geralt to the centre of the courtyard. In his peripheral vision he saw Jaskier move into a better position to watch and hoped he would be the only audience they gathered. Having his ass handed to him by the White Wolf wasn’t something he wanted too many people to witness.
To his credit, Geralt started by showing Dylan the first four staple moves in the Witcher arsenal. Which he dutifully copied, trying to move forward with each strike as the other did.
"Better, remember to keep moving, a still Witcher is a dead one."
Dylan nodded, concentration written on his face though he paused as Geralt reached forward mid stroke, not wanting to take his hand off. "Your grip should be firm but not too tight or you will never be able to flip the blade."
"I can't do that anyway." Dylan grumbled, trying once to demonstrate his inability.
"Hmm." was the only response he got from the Witcher, then his blade came slicing through the air at an awkward angle making Dylan twist to the side and drop his sword for a millisecond before catching it inverted so it lay alongside his forearm to parry the blow.
"Good." Geralt smirked, following up his praise with another attack. One which Dylan could parry with a more traditional grip on the sword, and he even dared to pose a counter-attack. One which the Witcher easily parried of course. Lessons from the training dummy came back and he used the few moves he knew well to rain blows upon Geralt while he parried and moved, drawing him into a more thorough sparring session.
Dylan couldn’t help but feel as if this were all child's play to Geralt, who held his sword one handed for the most part, whilst he had to grip with both. The weight and balance of the weapon still alien to him. Soon he was breathing harder and his hair clung to the back of his neck. The sun had arced further into the sky, growing in strength while his own waned. But he was determined to continue; to learn and be better.
Neither of them spoke, though a new light came to Geralt’s eyes whenever he perfected a move and he realised —somewhat suddenly, that it was quiet approval he saw. Their swords clashed against one another and he pressed forward with his whole weight, hoping to lower the Witcher’s defensive block. Geralt’s sword slid down his own, making his balance perilous momentarily which was when the White Wolf pressed his advantage. Flicking his blade free, he swept upward until the tip delicately touched the soft underside of Dylan's jaw.
Dylan froze, chin lifting after a beat in an effort to move away from the deadly point, though his eyes remained fixed in Geralt’s. For a long moment neither moved, Dylan’s breathing feeling like the only sound in the world. A strange expression flitted across the Witcher’s face, one that Dylan had no hope of deciphering, even as those strange yellow eyes never strayed from his own. Then; "Are you hungry? We should eat."
In one motion the sword and Geralt were gone, walking away toward the refectory as if going on a leisurely stroll. With a shrug Dylan followed, shouldering his sword, the odd moment forgotten.
~§~
"These people are no threat to you." Dylan's voice was steady, the tone stern as he stared at the group of villagers gathered before him. One of whom spat on the ground before his feet a sneer of disbelief on his ugly face.
"We're supposed to trust the word of a Witcher? A mutant?" The rest of the crowd jeered, clearly agreeing with the lout they'd appointed leader.
"Considering you trusted me enough to hire me, yes. Also," Dylan threw back his hood, letting them see his face clearly, and his very 'normal' brown eyes, "not a Mutant. I'm human, just like you." Maybe a little dramatic, but he had to glean some kind of fun from this existence. "Your livestock were stolen, not eaten. The man you say was murdered? Killed in self defence when he attacked."
The mob no longer looked so feisty or inclined to agree with whatever vitriol the lump of a man was about to spout next. Thankfully Dylan was saved from having to hear any further drivel as he pressed his advantage, continuing after a brief pause, "The Werecat only strikes in self defence and has never turned any of your townsfolk. You call them monsters, but they aren't the evil beasts you claim them to be. They were cursed to be shapeshifters and thus would never intentionally pass the curse to others."
Emptying two thirds of the coin the villagers had given him into his hand, he tossed the remainder back, the significantly lighter purse sailing through the air and hitting the mouthy man square in the chest. "For my inconvenience. If I ever hear of you bothering the cats again. I'll be back and I won't be so generous."
The farmhouse was nestled against the border of a wood, the arable land produced crops of wheat, sugar beet and potatoes. The men of the family only ventured into town for the market and Dylan couldn't blame them at all. Not when they were as likely to be attacked as to make any sales. Which meant the women usually settled any business. When Dylan approached the whole family came to greet him; father, mother, son and two daughters. The husband had been promised to another, but he didn't love her, so she'd cursed him and any male heirs to be therianthropes. Their forms were feline, making them werecats, the first he'd ever encountered. Perhaps it was his fondness for werewolves which had prompted him to take this job, but he was glad for it.
Dismounting the horse they had been gracious enough to loan him, he handed over the reins and most of the coin he'd taken from the mob. "Thank you for letting me borrow him and for your hospitality. You should get no further trouble from them." He jerked his thumb back in the direction of the village. "I warned them that if they bothered you again, in any way, they'll have me to answer to."
"Must you leave so soon?" The eldest daughter spoke up, and Dylan recognised the look in her eyes.
"I must, but I'll be back through this way come spring." He had a guild to return to, healing and more training to be done while the world turned cold.
"Take Talon with you," the elder man spoke. "Journeys pass more quickly on horseback and if you insist you can return him in the new year." Offering up the reins again, he gave him a look which brooked no argument and Dyl smiled.
"Thank you, Heikki."
~§~
Tal was moving as fast as he could with a prone rider on his back, the horse taking care where to place his feet as he thundered down the roughly hewn mountain track. For his part, Dylan tried to hold on as best he could, but his numbing grip on the reins offered little security and zero guidance to the bay stallion. He supposed he should be thankful for Talon’s carthorse breadth, at least he could lay across him in an attempt to retain his seat. Which was no mean feat when he’d barely any strength left in his body. He was absolutely no use in a fight against a Striga, despite having trained and hunted alongside the Witchers for over ten months. He had no magic and only a human’s stamina. Still, at least he’d helped keep it from returning to its crypt, before Geralt had all but thrown him onto his horse and set them running.
Dylan’s vision blurred as the pain in his side increased, scarlet spreading across the tatters of his dark shirt. Slipping further forward in the saddle, his head came to rest against Talon’s neck and he let out a shaky breath, counting each hoofbeat as they sped toward the nearest town. The steady rhythm pulled him down toward unconsciousness, glimpses of blond hair, softly smirking lips and sparkling blue eyes keeping him company in the dark.
"I wish I could see you, Clint." Dylan mumbled against Tal’s silky black mane, failing to notice as the road’s uneven surface gave way to neatly kept grass. Or register the sudden ache at the base of his skull. "Just one more time."
Probably a good thing that the lights in Clint's room started flickering when they did, because he had fletching in one hand and a razor in the other. Now, the feathery bits wouldn't have hurt much, but he appreciated not winding up with the sharp edge of the blade in his thumb after being alerted to an incoming message at an inopportune time. Stark swore up and down there weren't any cameras in the living quarters, but he wasn't convinced that FRIDAY didn't have her own optics she could turn on whenever she needed to—how else could anyone explain the whole P.O.N.G. system and the video it got? He set down the far more lethal bit before turning his aids up and looking up at the ceiling. "What's up?"
"I thought you might like to know there's a horse on the back lawn, Clint." He blinked up at the AI—knowing full well she didn't actually live above him like an omnipotent ceiling goddess, but some habits were hard to break, but before he could ask why he'd need this information, other than general hilarity, she was continuing, "The rider has been identified as your detective friend."
He didn't remember leaving the room, and the rest of the journey outside was a blur of gray walls and an echoing staircase, because Clint could not be assed with waiting for and taking the elevator. Only his years with the circus reminded him that approaching a horse at a sprint was a recipe for disaster, so he slowed to a tortuous walk as the gorgeous beast also cantered to a stop. His hands were raised, palms out, while he came closer. He could hardly breathe; the hope was choking him. All he wanted was the confirmation of the one thing he'd actually wanted for the last two and a half weeks, but even he knew better than to do something rash and reckless and stupid. Sometimes. "Whoa, hey. Hey, there, boy. Don't mean no harm, just wanna get a look at your rider. I'm a friend."
He knew that voice, but he'd been tricked before by his own imagination. So it was with a slightly hesitant lift of his head that Dylan caught his first glimpse of a very familiar building and an intimately familiar figure just a few feet away.
"Fuck..." He may have been around Witchers too long, but the single expletive held a world of emotion as he sat up in the saddle and stared in amazed shock at his boyfriend. Adrenaline helpfully bypassed his fatigue and in a rush of movement which made Tal whinny in question, Dyl slipped down from his back and all but launched himself at Clint. Ten months he'd been without his Avenger, and yet as soon as they touched it felt as it always had. The hollow he'd carried in his chest was suddenly filled with his lover's presence and he could have cried with the relief of it. Maybe he was, he couldn't tell. Despite being sticky with sweat, dirt and drying blood, Dylan cradled Clint's face between his hands, kissing him reverently before pressing their foreheads together, dark hair falling forward to veil the private moment.
"I didn't think I would see you again. I missed you so much, Honey."
The very quick catalog Clint had been able to do before his arms were full and his lips were occupied, told him that time shenanigans were afoot. His hands wandered from their purchase on the hardened leather armor to the ends of the new-to-him longer hair, and he had just long enough to make a list of what he wanted to do with this new development before all of his thoughts were consumed with relief and open curiosity. His eyes roved across his lover's face and down his body—greedy, hungry—which he noticed had packed on some bulkier muscles, not to mention the period garb. The horse behind them snorted, but Clint was far too busy trying to reconcile the man who'd disappeared from his bed over two weeks ago to the one in front of him. He took in and let out a trembling breath, while his knees threatened to become water. "Hey, baby."
It only took a handful of seconds for him to accept that this was real, not just a cruel dream, and the tears started falling unabated. "Thought I'd lost you." Clint kissed him again, because it was a thing he could finally do again, and gripped him tightly. This was about when he realized there was something wet against his arm. Wet and warm—which was when the familiar copper smell registered. "Um, babes… are you bleeding?"
Dylan managed another soft smile, even as he swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. He felt acutely aware of Clint's gaze as it wandered over his face, dropping to take him all in, and an almost-forgotten heat flooded his cheeks for a moment. His hands slid down his lover's back, coming to rest at a deliciously trim waist, where his grip tightened as he sensed the shakiness in both of them. "I thought I'd lost you."
Their second kiss was a little less reverent and a lot more hungry as he let Clint pull him closer. It had been so long, and he didn't feel he could bear to not be touching his boyfriend for even the shortest amount of time.
"Oh, probably, but it’s just a scratch… well, four scratches. Striga managed to find the weakest point of my armour." Dylan really didn’t mean to sound so blasé about the injury, he could see the worry creeping into Clint’s expression, but he’d had worse over the past ten months. "You look just like I remembered, like I dreamed you would when I finally made it back to you."
The way he said it gave Clint pause, really made him look at Dylan again. This wasn't two weeks' worth of hair growth, amongst a ton of other signs that Clint could no longer ignore. His fingers traced his lover's cheeks and jaw, cataloguing all the things that were the same and all the things that were different. "It—how long has it been for you? Where did you go? What's a striga? I'm taking you to medical. Also, I think your horse is glaring at us. Is he yours? What are you gonna do with a horse? He's gorgeous, by the way. You look badass. Don't leave me again, okay?"
That gentle touch made him pause, and his thumbs traced the curve of Clint's hip bones beneath the fabric of his pants. Aside from looking tired and more stressed than he'd ever seen him, his archer looked no older than when Dyl had left his side. Which meant only he had lived through months rather than days. "Three hundred and twenty-seven days." Dylan answered, voice only cracking slightly. "I was in a place called The Continent. A Striga is a monster… A cursed princess, actually. Hopefully this one was saved. I guess antibiotics might be in order, but I do have green clay in my saddle bag." Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled at Tal, "Don't be jealous, this is Clint. I told you about him."
Talon snorted, bouncing his head in a nod and taking a few steps toward them so he was close enough to sniff out Clint's scent. "Clint, meet Talon, he's mine, or I'm his, I'm still not quite sure." He sighed, chin dropping slightly, "I don't know, maybe he could live at the farm?"
Brushing away the last tears from his lover's cheek, Dylan leaned in close and kissed him gently. "I promise, I'll never leave you again."
Even while his body heated from the sweep of Dyl's fingers, it was overruled by his head and his heart. He glanced back over at the horse and gave him a respectful nod. Big guy looked like he could and would squash him like a bug if he stepped wrong, so it only made sense to get on Talon's good side, if he could. He looked up and seemed to address the sky, "Hey, Clark? Any way you can hook our guy Talon here up with a place to stay and some nice, warm, sweet hay?"
He grinned at his boyfriend and lifted a hand to comb through Dyl's hair again. A giddiness had taken root that wouldn't be shaken anytime soon. The best thing in the world right then would be to believe in promises, even ones that were probably impossible to keep. But he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try to hang on to that belief with all his might. "Assuming he can, does this free you up for a medical trip? I'm gonna need an all-clear before I take you back to one of our rooms and give you an all-over check of my own. And you gotta know I still have about a bajillion questions."
Dylan leaned into the touch as Clint’s fingers combed through his hair, already he could tell that the new look was a hit with his lover. Though now he was back, he would likely get it cut to a more reasonable length for work. If his business even still existed. "How long has it been for you? Is Archer big now? Will he and Lucky even remember me? Did the agency fold after I was taken?"
The appearance overhead of his otherworldly doppelgänger paused his questions and he smiled in greeting. "That will never not be cool."
Clark’s returning smile was a little bashful, but obviously relieved to see a friend returned. "Don’t worry, I won’t fly Talon back to New Asgard." The horse looked from Dylan to Clark and took a step toward the newcomer, ears pointed forward until he caught sight of the well stuffed hay nets Clark had brought along for their journey.
"And now they’re friends for life," Dyl commented wryly, "so… I think a very thorough once over was mentioned?" The thought of their rooms had sparked a flood of memories and warm heat in his core. But they were in public, sort of, so he managed to restrain himself and instead took hold of his boyfriend’s hand, lacing their fingers together tight. "Via medical, of course."
Before he could assuage his boyfriend's fears, they were interrupted by the timely (or untimely?) arrival of Super Clark, and it's not like Clint could be annoyed, since he'd pretty much brazenly asked for the favor anyway. "Via medical," he confirmed after chuckling at how easily the horse's alliance was bought. "Shoulda grabbed some sugar cubes, but maybe next time."
He took Dyl's hands in both of his and raised them to kiss both sets of roughened, bruised, and recently healed knuckles, still wondering at the change in him. "You don't gotta worry about all that, doll. It's only been two weeks or so. Longest two weeks I've had in a stupid long time. But I'll fill you all in after you've filled me in yourself, 'kay?"
Stroking Tal’s neck as he passed, Dylan gave Clark a pat on the shoulder, "Thanks for this, Clark. I owe you."
Clint’s joke made him chuckle and he squeezed his hand lightly, "That would make you his absolute favourite. He’s not had many of those. I bet he’d go nuts for a mint."
Dylan wasn’t quite prepared for the tenderness in his lover’s touch, or the feel of soft lips against his abused knuckles and a noise slipped past his lips as he sighed. "Two weeks. That’s— I almost said unbelievable, but if the portal is involved I can believe anything." Dipping his head, he stole another kiss, just because he could, "Okay."