Come Home #2

Could you potentially expand on that story about the hero lying to the villain that they'd been poisoned?

Part 1 

“Is this your forever home, now?”

The protagonist peeled their eyes open with great difficulty, their vision taking a moment to unblur and come into focus.

The antagonist stood at the end of the bed. There was no alarm blaring their escape, but they were skilled enough that perhaps they were making an escape attempt without anyone noticing. It was a poor escape attempt idea, really, to stop by the protagonist’s cell on the way out. Although, the protagonist made no attempt to jab the panic button, so perhaps not.

“Pitiful place,” the antagonist said, examining the cell bars on the door. “No novelty doormat. Not even an imaginary puppy.”

“There might be an imaginary puppy, you just can’t see him.”

“Hm.” The antagonist eyed them. “You’re a liar.”

The protagonist grimaced, but didn’t apologise. Not about the big things and not about the untruths of imaginary puppies either. What good would it do? Saying, yeah, sorry I pretended I was dying but then wasn’t really pretending didn’t feel like it was going to cut it. It didn’t change the decision. It wouldn’t be sincere. They weren’t sorry. They would have much rather never have to say goodbye, never have the villain see them in such a state.

“What are you doing here?” the hero asked, instead.

“Apparently, I’m to save your life in exchange for my freedom.”

“That’s a deal tipped against your favour if I ever heard one.”

“Because saving you gets rid of the one person who might be able to catch me again?” The antagonist’s smile was a double-edged thing. “Or because you don’t think I can save you?”

“It could be both.” The protagonist hesitated. “You can’t come in here. If they asked you to – it’s a trap.”

“Is it?”

“The poison makes me hallucinate. I might hurt you. I’ve already tried to hurt people.”

“Hence your interesting new bedroom.” The antagonist tapped the bars.

It suddenly struck the protagonist that they hadn’t heard the antagonist enter. Were they oblivious and fevered or was the antagonist not actually there? The protagonist squeezed their eyes shut, and when they opened them again the antagonist had taken another step closer to where they lay on the bed.

The protagonist said nothing because – well, yeah. The antagonist really should probably just go.

“You don’t look strong enough to hurt me right now even if you tried,” the antagonist said. “Was that why you were so desperate to catch me before? Tie off a loose end before you kicked the bucket?”

“You should go home,” the protagonist said. “If you’ve got this far, we both know that you could bust out.”

Assuming the villain was there and not a hallucination, the protagonist wasn’t even entirely convinced the villain was telling the truth. It was possible that the hero’s friends had demanded the villain’s help. They were desperate, and it was the kind of thing that they’d do. It was equally possible that the villain had simply figured something was up and taken matters into their own hands, making their own way over. Either way, it was unlikely to end well. Either way, it was unlikely to save them.

Their eyes met.

“You know I’m not going to leave you,” the antagonist replied, too lightly. “As you say, you know all my weaknesses by now.”

The protagonist swallowed.

“So,” the antagonist said. “Tell me exactly what happened so we can figure this out.”

The protagonist said nothing.

They were good days and bad days. Good hours, and less good hours. At present, most of the protagonist’s hours were still more or less good ones, other than the sweating shivering pain of the poison coursing through their veins. But the team medic had already worriedly gnawed upon their lip, trying to keep their voice steady as they advised the protagonist that the good days and the good hours would grow more and more infrequent as the poison advanced. They would hallucinate more. Attack more. Become more and more of a danger to everyone around them, until they finally died.

“The kindest thing, the thing that my friends might have been secretly hoping for, is that you kill me before it’s too late,” the protagonist said. “Or when it gets too late. When I’m no longer…”

“Or they were hoping you’d kill me.” The antagonist shrugged. “This apparently being a trap and all.”

Yes, there was that. The protagonist shifted uneasily, looking down at the bedsheets. Comfortable. The kind of bed given for last days, when people only knew how to offer luxury because there was nothing else to be done.

“Please just go home,” the protagonist said. “If you’re there, if you’re listening.”

“Mm.” The antagonist’s head tilted. They closed the final gap between them, and the touch of them was so agonisingly real, their fingers cool against the protagonist’s hot skin. “I’ll go home, when you go with me.”

“I thought I was the only one who thought you could come home. That we could run away together.”

“Stop wasting time being sentimental. Tell me what happened. Give me data. Let me help.”

And the protagonist didn’t think it would help, not at all, but the antagonist’s gaze was burning into them with such ferocity, with such…

So the protagonist told them.

And the antagonist got to work.