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Friar Tuck Everlasting (friartuck) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-07-07 18:30:00

Who: Friar Tuck and The Sheriff of Nottingham, then St Francis
What: Just a little death
When: Tuesday night
Where: Behind the soup kitchen
Warnings/Notes: Violence, Character Death



Of course in the end, all of their preparation and all of their careful plans to stick together didn't matter. In the end, the Sheriff found him somewhere he should have been safe, because of course he did. Of course Malcolm would want to infect a good thing with his presence.

It was the end of Tuck's shift at the soup kitchen and it shouldhave been safe. Tuck had literally stepped outside into the back alley for one second, just to carry out the trash and by the time he turned around, there, shadowed in the doorframe, stood Malcolm, blocking his way in. Tuck felt his blood run cold.

"Oh you f-" Tuck groaned and froze, taking in his surroundings. He had to weigh his options here. To his left, the alley behind the soup kitchen ended abruptly with the wall of another building. To his right, there was a chainlink fence about six feel tall, which should be easy enough to scale if he had a head start. That was probably how Malcolm got in here in the first place. Going forward was no choice. That way only led to Malcolm.

Francis? If you can hear me, I could really use your help right now, mate. Sheriff. Soup Kitchen alleyway. Hurry.

His muscles twitched as Malcolm's steely gaze held him. There were two options here, try to run for it, or just let the Sheriff win. And Tuck wasn't going to go down without a fight. Not again/

He turned left, acting like he was going to take off that way, then feinted and sprinted for the fence, desperate footsteps echoing off uncaring brick. He reached the fence and jumped, landing roughly halfway up and then scrambling for the top. His hands had just made purchase when he felt a strong hand grip his leg and pull. "No, no! Fuck off me!" Tuck kicked out behind him, though he was kicking blind, his focus entirely ahead of him, towards freedom. He heard the sheriff grunt one of Tuck's kicks connecting, but then his other leg was caught, Malcolm's grip like a vice. Tuck was dragged down, away from safety, the jagged metal of the fence etching deep red lines into his skin as Tuck cried out in pain.

He landed on the alley pavement with a grunt, immediately rolling to the side to break the sheriff's grip. When he stood, it was with resolve. Running wasn't an option. Fight it was.

Tuck was unarmed, and he was nowhere near as strong as the Sheriff who spent his leisure time jogging, lifting weights and torturing people instead of eating canapes and reading the Bible. But where Malcolm was strong, Tuck was fast. And when the first punch was launched towards him, Tuck ducked out of the way, causing Malcolm to lose his stability long enough that Tuck could jam a shoulder into his side and send the man sprawling. Tuck turned on his heel and ran for the door, but a second later he felt a hard impact on the inside of his knee. It toppled him, his hands shredding as he skidded across the pavement.

Then it was on, the two of them locked in close combat, kicking and punching each other. One would have the upper hand, but lose it to the other nearly immediately after. It continued until the both of them were bloody, exhausted messes, stooped and dragging in heavy breaths. That was when Malcolm pulled out a gun, training it directly at Tuck's head.

"Oh, you fucking coward," Tuck growled, his bloody hands immediately raising. He backed up against the wall until he felt the rough brick against his back. Malcolm had made Tuck feel like he might still be able to get out of this, but now-

God, he was going to be chained up by his neck again. Francis, where the fuck are you!?

Dread settled cold and heavy in his stomach, and Tuck honestly thought he was going to be sick with fear. He swallowed roughly, but was at least momentarily distracted when Malcolm asked him, "Do you have your phone with you?"

"I- Yes?" It was in his pocket and if he thought using it would have helped with this at all, he already would have, so what the fuck was the Sheriff on about?

"I want you to call Will Scarlet and get him here," Malcolm said, his voice ice cold.

Suddenly, Tuck understood. All of this business about going after someone else had been a double bluff. The sheriff was only here for Tuck because he was easy to locate, but Will was the actual target the whole time. Tuck wasn't a target, he was a fucking trap. And this time Malcolm wasn't going to beat Will up, he was just going to kill him. "I'm not going to do that," Tuck growled.

"You are going to do it," Malcolm informed him, "or I'm taking you back with me, and the three weeks you spent with me last time will seem like a destination holiday." Malcolm closed the distance between them and drew a knife from somewhere on his person as well, holding it to Tuck's neck.

Being held at gunpoint and knife point, was making him sweat, but Tuck hoped that Malcolm was at least saving his shot. The sounds of their fighting weren't loud enough to be heard inside the kitchen over the din, but a gunshot would be. So Malcolm would have one chance, if he was going to get away afterwards. And likely he was planning to shoot Will andTuck since he was there, but it would have to be at the same time.

Which just left the knife. And really, only one option if Tuck didn't want to lure his friend -goddammit, the man he loved- here to certain death, or spend months at the mercy of a sadist. So, trembling, Tuck pulled out his phone. "Okay okay, I'll do it," he breathed, his voice a shaking, terrified mess. "Just don't take me there. Please just don't hurt me, please don't hurt me-" He kept up his litany of pleas until tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he drew out his phone and typed:



The second he had sent the texts, Tuck dropped the fearful charade and he flung the phone as hard as he could at the opposite wall, satisfied only when he heard it give an almighty crrrrack and then skitter to the ground.

"You piece of shit!" the sheriff bellowed, reaching for his phone with his gun hand, keeping the knife on Tuck's jugular. "You'll call him on mine, I want him to know you're in danger anyway-"

It happened so fast. Malcolm was digging for his phone one second, and then he felt strong hands grip his knife-bearing wrist, holding it in place. "Fuck. You." Tuck growled, and then he shoved himself forward with all his body-weight, plunging the knife deep into his neck. Malcolm dropped the knife in shock, stumbling backwards until he tripped and landed on his arse.

Tuck could feel it happening already, his pulse going thready and his knees weak. His lungs burned for air, but he had clearly severed his windpipe as well, and he couldn't breathe. He reached up to pull the knife out of his throat to speed the process up, because it hurt, oh god it hurt- A spray of blood painted the alleyway, as Tuck slipped down the wall into a heap on the ground. His vision greyed and then blackened and right before he slipped away, he heard what he needed to hear-

"MICHAEL!" Francis screamed, skidding to a stop on the other side of the fence.

Thank yo-

Francis heard Tuck's prayer slip away as the man died and he let out a pained wail, his fingers clasped in the mental of the fence. It was only then he actually noticed the Sheriff sitting there on his arse, looking completely confused.

Kneeling, Francis started to pray, and a great white light shimmered around him. Malcolm may have been sitting on the ground in shock because a man had just used his hands to die by suicide, but he still heard the sound.

Like ten thousand tiny feet-

-closer

-closer

The drain on the curb beside Malcolm's arse suddenly became a doorway from the sewer and out streamed a seemingly never-ending supply of rats, large and black, their teeth gnashing. Malcolm scampered to his feet, catching one of the rats with his boot and crushing it before he was overwhelmed by a literal wave of rodents climbing him, biting, scratching-

Screaming, Malcolm ran, scaling the fence and bolting into the night.

Francis stood, and the rats calmed, their mission over. Francis' own ascent over the fence was slower, considering every time he used holy energy like this it opened up the stigmata on his wrists and ankles. With bloody hands he scooped up the dying rat and held it, praying, until the rat was healed and squirming between his palms. He let the animal go and it scuttled back into the sewer, the other rats following. "Thank you brothers and sisters," Francis whispered to them as he went to kneel beside Tuck.

"Oh, Michael," he hissed, taking in Tuck's battered and bleeding form. The man had clearly put up a fight before the Sheriff had killed him. "What am I going to do with you, hmm?" Francis took his dear friend lovingly into his arms, holding him there as his body went cold. "I'll take you home, as soon as it's a little later and I can get you to the car without being seen.

There wasn't much else to say, so Francis held his dear friend's body until he could take him home to the parsonage.