Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

More and more people were refusing to obey the laws of the land. First, her loyal General shuns the kingdom. Then her best knight follows suit, trying to make amends and avoid his fate for driving away the General. Even her loyal dog, her second in command, turned his back on her for an old friend from a different time. And while the people scattered, Queen Lizzie was left with no other choice but to take matters into her own hands. Raising sword and shield, she struck fear into the hearts of the wayward with her battle prowess and ability to keep troops in line. And when she captured the enemy Prince? The lawlessness all but ended. Her people knew better than to run amuck when she returned. 

“Tell me, Prince Mumbo, what made you think it was a good idea to attack me, entice my most trusted advisers away from me, and attempt to turn my people against me?” Lizzie glares down at the dark haired man. Barely a man, more of a boy if looks could be trusted. Skinny and pale and timid. And yet his sharp cheeks, darkened eyes, and knowing stare make him feel like an eternal being. “Did you really think that would work?” 

“No.” His voice is hoarse and quiet, with none of the malice behind it that Lizzie had expected. But there is a hint of hope hidden somewhere in the cadence of his words. “But it worked for long enough to get your attention.” Even while he’s tied to a chair and chained in her dungeon he has enough confidence to play coy. What an intriguing countenance. 

“Explain yourself, or I will leave you here to rot until you change your mind.” She demands. Lizzie takes a step back and scans the cell, making sure this isn’t some kind of set up. When she’s certain the coast is clear she approaches him, leaning down so they’re face to face. “And if this is another one of your little traps, I assure you, you’ll be coming down with me.” 

“I swear on my life, Queen Lizzie, I was not behind those traps and I was not behind starting this war.” Mumbo assures her, looking more determined and desperate than before. “I want peace. I want love and abundance for every citizen of every kingdom, but when one is merely a figurehead one cannot do much.” 

A figurehead? Is this not the Crown Prince of the Southlands? Does he not garner respect from not only his own people, but the kingdoms that surround them? Southlands is a respected nation that has a long lineage of steadfast rulers and wealthy noblemen. How could a bloodline such as this fall so quickly? 

“And you expect me to believe you — Crown Prince Mumbo Jumbo, soon to be king of the Southlands — are a servant in your own home?” Lizzie scans his face, looking for any kind of deceit. She can’t see any. 

“Servant may be a kinder word than I would use for myself, your Majesty.” A melancholic smile paints his face. “If you seek proof, look at my hands. My face. My body as a whole– It no longer befits a ruler.” She glances at the calluses, broken nails, and cracked skin of his hands. They’re not the hands of war, but of hard labor with no reprieve. “I am… I am ashamed. I can no longer show my face to my people without head to toe coverings and I am very rarely afforded such luxuries. I do not want my people to assume I do not care, because I do. Deeply and truly– And if you can find it in your heart to show your enemy mercy, not for his sake but for his people’s, I would be ever in your debt, My Queen.” 

To say Lizzie is taken aback is an understatement. But now she understands how a figurehead could be made out of a strong lineage. One kind hearted soul, too good to see the deceit and treachery of those around him, is manipulated into giving away his power. Fear and strife are the only things that follow an unstable leader. And yet he is still so well spoken of. Lizzie can only imagine it’s because of that same kind heart, the type of heart she once had long ago. The one that aches with every swing of her sword and longs to hear laughter in her castle walls again. 

“‘My Queen’, you say?” Lizzie looks him in the eyes. Mumbo’s gaze falters and his cheeks burn scarlet. “How could you possibly be my enemy if I am your Queen?” She bends down, key in hand, and unchains him from his restraints. 

“I– What are you– Queen Lizzie—?” 

“You are to only refer to me as ‘My Queen’ from now on, do you understand?” Lizzie brushes aside the metal and takes both of his hands in her’s. “I will help you, as I try to help all my subjects. And my friends.” She pushes his hair off of his forehead and places a gentle kiss there before guiding him to his feet. “I cannot in good conscience return you to a place of power, but I can keep you.” 

“You will… Keep me?” Mumbo’s face turns an even darker shade of scarlet while he attempts to steady himself on his feet after so long. He does look lovely in red. 

“As one would their spoils of war. I cannot guarantee you anything except a more personal version of the peace, love, and abundance you so desire.” Lizzie bites back the smile tugging at her lips. “Are you opposed?” 

“I…” Mumbo looks arounds and hesitates. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and doesn’t rush him. After so long being pushed around, she knows he will need time to think for himself. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and squeezes her hands. “I am not, My Queen. But… You must promise that my people are now also yours as I am.” 

“I will see to it, promptly. As long as you understand I have no more room for disloyal rulebreakers in my castle. Cross me and you will live to regret it.” Lizzie smiles at him with as much softness and humor as she can muster. “Now, let’s take care of you, shall we?” 

Chapter Text

He went to the bathroom and on his way back, opened the wrong door. Scar should have known, considering this dorm room has a neat little whiteboard out front with friendly notes and funny drawings and his dorm room has a concave in one side of the plywood from where his head knocked into it one too many times. But of course, he was too absorbed in his phone — watching a very interesting video on the intricate history of how a certain genus of tree made it to the US — to notice. 

“Hey Cub! Did you know the Bradford Pear is a hybrid of a certain kind of Chinese pear tree and a native North American tree?” Scar rambles, not looking up from his phone as he kicks off his flip flops. “And the reason it smells like a dead body is because it’s actually pollinated by flies-” He finally glances up and meets the eyes of someone that is definitely not Cub.

Scar has done many dumb things in his life; Nothing that has gotten him seriously injured or killed as of yet, and most of which were accidents. The dumb thing Scar is currently doing is an accident. It is not going to get him seriously injured or killed. It is, however, leading to one of the most awkward interactions he’s had in a very long time. And that’s saying something. 

The person standing in front of him is a strikingly handsome guy — he would assume around his age since they’re being housed in the same section of the dorms — with coily black hair, dark skin, and eyes such a deep brown they look black. He’s also standing in only his underwear with a pair of pants in his hands. Scar just walked in on a stranger changing. His eyes trail down, away from his face, getting a full picture of the person in front of him. Scar just walked in on a hot stranger changing. And now they’re staring at each other. 

“OHMYGOD- I'm so sorry!” Scar’s shoulders scrunch up as he starts backing out of the room. He grabs at the door. The stranger doesn’t move, eyes wide. “I thought this was room 203, it’s obviously not- Oh look! I’m right across the hall! Sorry to barge in. Have a good night!” Scar slams the door closed, hitting his hand on the way out. “Ow! Geez– Sorry!” 

When he finally gets it closed, he turns tail and bolts across the hall to his room, double checking the room number before ripping the door open and shutting it behind him with a bang. Cub jumps out of his seat. Scar sighs and slides down the door, sitting on the floor with his head in his arms. 

“Scar? What the hell was that about?” Cub rushes over to him, grabbing him by the wrist so he can see Scar’s face; at least partially. “Are you okay? Is there danger?... Did you hit your head again, because I swear to god if you’re just being dramatic-” 

“Cuuuuuuuuuubby.” Scar whines, using Cub’s vice grip against him to pull the other man into a hug. Cub stiffens immediately. Scar doesn’t let go, forcing his roommate to awkwardly kneel to avoid crushing Scar. “I think I scarred someone for life, and not in the fun way where we become best friends and now they have to deal with me.” 

He sighs and pats Scar’s head, slowly giving in to the hug. “I… Whatever happened, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Cub slowly pulls back. He gets himself to his feet before helping Scar up. “Now explain.” 

Scar sticks out his bottom lip at Cub. When that doesn’t work, he groans and hides his face in his hands. He peeks out from between his fingers. Cub folds his arms, clearly unamused. He’s making that face. The face that tells Scar he isn’t getting out of this no matter how hard he tries. Scar relents, mumbling into his  hands.  

“IwasjustgoingtothebathroombutwhenIcamebackIwalkedintothewrongdormandsawahotguyinhisunderwear—” 

“Stop. I’m gonna need that a little clearer, buddy. Try again– Scar, where are your shoes?” Cub looks around the floor. Scar finally gets up from the floor and searches with him, also confused until a lightbulb goes off in his head. 

“Oh my god, I left them in the hot guy’s room.” Scar feels all the blood rush to his face. “Well, there goes that pair of flip flops.” 

“Wait, hot guy? What are you talking about—” 

A knock cuts them both off. Scar knows logically the knock is no louder than any other knock, but for some reason this knock thunders in his ears like lightning just struck. He forces himself to look out the peephole. 

“Oh my god, it’s him.” Scar’s throat goes dry as all of his blood drains back out of his face. “He’s probably really pissed off and he looks so strong like he could totally beat me up and– Cub, where are you going?! I need help!” 

“Sounds like a you problem, Scar. Good luck.” Cub walks back to his desk and takes a seat. “Also, he can definitely hear you through the door. The walls here are thin.” 

Scar bites back a yelp and slaps his hands over his mouth. How does he always manage to make things worse for himself? He’d love to stand here contemplating that question and having an existential crisis over it, but the longer he doesn’t open the door, the longer that hot guy has to stand there. Scar takes one last look through the peephole before taking a deep breath, turning on the charm, and opening the door. 

“Well hello there.” Scar smiles with all the confidence he can muster. “How might I be able to help you, good sir.” Cringe! Embarrassing! This guy doesn’t know Scar and here he is sounding like a total dork; which he is, but that’s not the point. 

“Haha! I’m not sure I need help, but I figured I should introduce myself… You can call me Bigb. I’m your neighbor across the hall. You know, the one you just walked in on.” Bigb explains, a pleasant smile on his face. 

“Ah, yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to, I promise.” Scar rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s alright. I kinda figured, considering how quickly you ran away the moment we locked eyes. In fact, you ran so fast you forgot your shoes, Cinderella.” Bigb jokes, his playful laugh cutting the tension. He holds out the flip flops. “I thought you might want them back.”

“Oh that’s where those went.” Scar slaps on his patented, crooked smile, hoping it’ll hide how close he is to swooning from being called Cinderella. He takes the flip flops back. “You know, I thought I was half an inch shorter and a few ounces lighter when I left, but I assumed that was just the effect you have on people.” Did he just— 

“Oh, smooth talker. It almost makes me forget that you’re a pervert.” Bigb teases, his smile growing into a smirk. Scar’s heart is ready to hammer out of his chest. 

“Wha– Pervert?! I’ll have you know I am an upstanding gentleman, Bigb. I’ve never done a perverted thing in my life!” Scar retorts, gesturing with the flip flops in his hand. “… At least not on purpose. But that’s not the point–!” 

Bigb starts laughing more, pushing the flip flops out of his face. “Alright, alright, I’ll believe you… If you can prove it.” 

“P-prove?” Scar’s brain stutters. If that’s because he’s distracted by Bigb’s beautiful laugh and infectious smile, who’s to say. “Oh– Of course! I’m more than happy to, just tell me how.” 

“Make it up to me.” Bigb smiles wider. Scar feels Bigb’s eyes looking him up and down. “Since you’ve already seen me naked, take me out to dinner.” 

Scar was almost certain Bigb had underwear on, but he isn’t going to correct him right now for fear of looking like an even bigger pervert. “Really?” 

“Is that a no or?---” 

“No!-- I mean, yes, I mean– Uhhg, what do I mean?! Words are so difficult sometimes…” Scar sighs. Bigb doesn’t interrupt, he just waits patiently. Scar takes a deep breath and throws his smile back on his face. “Bigb, I would love to take you out to dinner some time. Does, like, this Saturday work?” 

“It does. I’ll see you then…” Bigb trails off like he’s waiting for something. 

Scar stares at him. He stares back. After a full minute of staring it finally clicks for him. 

“Scar! My name is Scar. Scar Goodmen.” He smiles apologetically. 

“I’ll see you Saturday, Scar Goodmen.” Bigb chuckles. “Just so you know, with a last name like that, my expectations are pretty high.” He turns, walking back across the hall to his dorm. 

“I’m looking forward to it!” Scar waves until Bigb closes his door, then quickly closes and locks his own. He rushes over to his bed and flops down, yelling into his pillow. 

This is probably the best possible outcome for the situation he’s gotten himself in. That doesn’t negate the embarrassment he feels. But it is getting him unreasonably excited for Saturday. Did he have something to do on Saturday? It doesn’t matter anymore because he definitely has something to do now and this date is taking top priority. Scar’s head starts spinning. He needs to lay here for a while and think in silence. 

“You might be the luckiest man in the universe, Scar Goodmen.” Cub speaks up, making Scar jump out of his skin. “Who else could walk in on someone changing and get an overwhelmingly positive response?” 

Scar groans and shoves his face back into his pillow. 

“James Bond? Superman?” 

“Shut up, Cub.” Scar throws a pillow at Cub who laughs and dodges it before tossing the pillow back and turning to his work again. Scar settles onto his back and starts to think up what exactly is going to happen on this date. He has to think up a location, an activity, how they’ll get there, and plenty of other stuff he’s definitely forgetting. His brain wanders in circles. He’s trying to come up with ideas but his mind keeps traveling back to one thing. For all of the dumb stuff he’s done in his life, he is pretty lucky. He’s definitely not “main character” levels of luck, but the universe seems to be on his side. Now more than ever. 

After a few minutes, Cub speaks up again. “Han Solo?” 

“You’re the worst!” Scar laughs.

Chapter Text

“You think I'll bend over backwards for a little extra cash?” Cleo glares down at him. “I have too much self respect for that.” 

Cub feels a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. He's always enjoyed the back and forth between himself and the informant in front of him. They’ve never been afraid to talk back. Cleo's never been afraid of him in general. It's refreshing. It makes their conversations more interesting, no less predictable, but interesting at least. He gingerly opens the top drawer of his desk. 

“Everyone had a price, Cleo.” Cub pulls two stacks out and drops them in a pile on the desk. “And I need information on the Queen of Heart, Heads, and Body parts.” He sets another stack on the pile. “So name your price.” 

Cleo scoffs. “I already told you, you're not gonna convince me to go after the Queen, Cub.” They lean back in the leather arm chair on the other side of his desk. “Seriously, this is starting to get disrespectful—” 

Cub tosses four more stacks onto the pile in slow succession. He watches Their eyes track each one as it drops. When Cleo digs their nails into the armrests, he knows he's won. He throws two more on for good measure. 

“You're a sick bastard.” Cleo grits their teeth. Head high, they storm out of the room. A second later, head even higher, they sweep back in, snatch up the money, and are gone again.

“Pleasure as always, Cleo.” Cub waits until the door closes to get back to work. He has his own research to do in the meantime. 

Cub could technically get the information he needs on his own, but it's hard to resist using such a capable contact. Besides, getting Cleo to do the dirty work keeps them close. He'd like to keep them even closer, but the strange relationship the two of them have wouldn't allow it. Stolen glances, secret moments, and subtle calling cards fit too well. So he'll settle for antagonist allies. 

It's no more than an hour later Cleo returns with a new gash on their right arm and a bloody envelope. They toss it on the desk, paying no mind to the numerous papers it ruins, and slam their hands down, leaning forward as far as they can without vaulting the desk entirely. Their fiery glare tells Cub everything he needs to know. He maintains eye contact as he pulls out one more stack from his desk that Cleo snatches on sight, shoving it into their shirt. Blood spatters a few documents. Cub doesn't bother looking at which ones — blood on his paperwork isn't unusual in his line of work. He's too caught up in their furious green eyes to care anyway. They stare back, unblinking. 

When Cub inevitably loses the impromptu staring contest, Cleo wheels around and marches towards the door. Cub finally looks at the blood on his desk. A speck or two he wouldn't bother with, but these are heavy drops soaking into walnut and lacquer. Cub clenches his jaw. 

“Hold it right there.” He straightens up and adjusts his sleeves, unbuttoning and rolling them up. 

“Why should I?” Cleo grabs the door handle. “I'm not one of your little lackeys, Cubby. You don't get to order me around and if you try I'll rip your throat out–”

Cub puts a hand to the door, keeping it closed as he smiles at them, restraining his irritation. “I wouldn't dream of it. But would you please wait for a moment?” Cleo rolls their eyes at him and lets go of the handle. “Thank you. Now, let's take a look at that arm of your's before you lose any more blood on my floors.” 

Cleo begrudgingly follows Cub over to his couch and plops down, waiting for him to retrieve his medical kit from a drawer. They sit in silence as he cleans their arm. He wipes away the blood with practiced ease while applying pressure. 

“Glue or stitches?” 

“When have I ever chosen glue?” 

“Touché.” 

Cub carefully strings his needle and sutures to the best of his ability. He isn't skilled, but his pants are gaining fewer stains with each pass. It's a slow process. Cleo doesn't flinch away or hiss at the pain, but they do roll their eyes. 

“You're gonna give me another nasty scar.” They complain, resting their arm entirely on Cub's lap at this point. 

“I'm not a doctor.” Cub ties off another stitch. Half way done. 

“Then why do you insist on doing this yourself?” He can feel Cleo's eyes boring into the top of his head. 

“Because,” Cub takes a moment to soak up more blood with a cotton pad as an excuse to meet their eyes again. “You wouldn't get this treated at all if I didn't take care of it for you.” 

“… Touché.” Cleo looks away and Cub gets back to his sutures. 

They lapse into another stretch of silence. Each stitch is painstakingly placed with concerted effort to avoid nerves and arteries. The only proof Cleo feels it at all is a subtle twitch in their wrist. Cub really shouldn't care, but the fact that they’re in pain despite more than half of their nerve endings being dead worms its way under his skin. Each twitch adds fuel to the fire. Cub places the final suture and gently wipes down the irritated skin with rubbing alcohol. She winces. And he burns. 

“Who did this to you?” Cub asks, finally breaking the silence. 

“Who do you think?” Cleo sighs and runs their free hand through their hair. “The Queen's lap dog, obviously.” 

“Tsk. Ren, that backstabbing traitor.” Cub places a clean cotton pad against the stitches and wraps a self adhering bandage around their arm. “He's not getting away with this.” 

“Yeah yeah, double crossers have to pay and all that.” Cleo waves him off with their newly bandaged arm. He catches their hand and slowly brings it to his lips. 

“Not what I meant.” Cub presses a kiss to the back of their hand. Cleo raises their eyebrows at him, their expression slowly shifting. Cub would call it patronizing if he didn't know better. He feels their finger tips graze across his cheek, sliding into his hair. 

“Don't go soft on me now.” Cleo leans closer, their unoccupied hand resting firmly on his thigh. 

“I think that's impossible when you're around.” Cub jokes, leaning closer and not bothering to hold back his self-satisfied smirk. 

Cleo's laughter fills the room. “Shut up.” 

Cub's smile only grows with the melodic sound. And when Cleo pulls him in, pressing their lips together in a searing — but fleeting — kiss, he happily obliges.