𝙸𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝙸𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚁𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐?

|𝟡| ℚ𝕦𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕠𝕗 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕤

Trigger warnings: swears, minor angst, guns, non-graphic death 

Another warning: I wrote all of this at twelve am so... 

No editing we die like men 

Zak :D

We need to talk.

The text was bright against the white background, words blurring together the more he reread them. Darryl stared blankly down at his phone, the empty screen reflecting the bead of fear settled in his chest growing more and more apparent in his face. He gulped. He debated not replying, just leaving his phone off, ignoring the statement that was making him more nervous with every passing second. He knew he couldn't. But boy was he ever scared, the ring of the call waiting for Zak to pick up echoing in his skull. "Yes?"

"Darryl?" His voice was soft and crackly through the speaker, and sounded as if he was almost afraid Darryl wasn't there listening. He felt his heart shatter into a million tiny shards, the fear replaced with a deep ache of guilt.

"I'm here, geppy." Zak almost giggled on the other line, a small, breathy laughing sound, muffled like he covered his mouth. Darryl smiled sadly. "What do you need?"

"I got hurt fighting people again..." There was an audible crack in his voice, choking a bit from either physical or emotional pain. Zak continued, "and, uh, someone sang me a lullaby."

Darryl coughed to cover his gasp. He slapped himself, literally, on the forehead. There was no way Zak didn't know. Why was he calling him though? To confirm?

"Can... can you sing, Darryl?"

"I can try."

So Darryl sang out the same he had yesterday, feeling tears collect behind his eyes like drops of dew in the morning when Zak started to hum along the chorus. They sat on call for a while after that, neither of them knowing what to say, or if they even needed to talk. Darryl relaxed in his chair, closing his eyes despite the rapid thundering of his heartbeat. Anxiety cursed through his veins like electricity, sparking his brain to shut down because of panic. Zak took deep breaths, seeming to struggle with staying awake. "Zak, you can sleep if you want."

He was only given quiet grumbling in response. Darryl sighed, pushing himself up into a more comfortable position in his chair. "Geppy. You need rest."

"Stay with me." He wasn't asking, he didn't need to. Darryl would've stayed on call with him for hours and hours, in silence, if it would make him happy. "Are—... Are you a bad guy?" Darryl looked at his hands. The kids he used to work with coined the black and white words 'bad' and 'good' without a second thought. Nothing was that simple in the real world. He couldn't quite find the words to describe what he was, what group he fit into for the hierarchy that is heroes and villains, so he fabricated the truth a bit.

"I'm not. Neither are you. We're just on different sides. Tomorrow, hear mine out, okay?" Even though Darryl couldn't see it, Zak smiled to his phone, finally closing his eyes.

"I will. Love you, Darryl..." He trailed off and was fast asleep before he could even hear his answer. Darryl laughed lightly, smiling at the snores of his friend. And, in the warmest, sweetest tone he had ever found himself using, said;

"Love you too, muffin." 

.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡*∞*⍋⋆*❅｡.

George smirked. Five men sat around the long, wooden table, towers of poker chips stacked taller than him in front of each seat, boxes of playing cards set neatly in the middle where they could all reach. He had a pathetic amount of chips, two hundred or so, each worth it's weight in cold, hard cash. If he were to lose now, the debt would be painful. Large coloured windows cast a orange and yellow tint to the room, designs of flowers and fire shining brightly like they were challenging real flames to prove their accuracy. The light danced over his deck. Three aces, a seven, and a jack. His fingers skittered over the cards like skates, debating whether or not to replace one or two, finally flicking his seven into the discard pile with a quiet fwip. Picking up another jack, the round continued clockwise. A five of clubs. Queen of hearts. Two of clubs. Ten of diamonds. The clattering of bets growing higher and higher echoed off the walls. It was his turn again, so he abruptly shoved his entire pile of coins in.

The men stopped. They were all incredibly cocky already, not by skill, but by huge expendable bank accounts and piles of money that could stretch from here to Antarctica. One even stopped a laugh at his steely look. George forced his eyes to remain cool, forced down the grit of mirth from beating these poor, hapless fools, and stayed silent. It took all his conscious effort not to smile when the tall, Asian man sitting at the head of the table copied his bet. Three others followed. They probably assumed he had a bad hand, by the shake he put in his hands and always skittering eyes, and just risked so much to scare them. They were idiotic enough to believe his acting. A pity, really, if they were any smarter he could've worked with them, though there was one who hadn't gone all in yet. It was his turn, but he didn't make a sign to move, just regarded George with sharp, green eyes.

They were that sort of deep, forest colour, like leaves and bushes were after a deluge of rain, but also darker, shadowed, almost. He had a white mask on; not the surgical kind, it was made of fabric, and dirty blond hair. Actually, more brown with highlights than blond. The suit he wore was custom made, it was tailored to his exact measurements. He looked like he could hold his own in a fight, his hands had prominent nerves (a sign of someone having a muscular build) and his cards always seemed to stay in the air after he flicked them for just a second too long. George kept his stare evenly.

"Fold." His voice was deep, and most likely a fake, or second voice he used when he didn't want to reveal anything about himself. A trick George himself used so sparingly his real accent might as well'd been a false one. The green-eyed man carefully put his chips in the pot, pushing them all in the middle, a stack of fifteen hundred replacing the empty space with a promise of cash.

"Royal flush." The Asian guy grinned, a sadistic expression that tugged his features in non-flattering directions.

"Three tens." George quirked an eyebrow, staring down the other two. They threw down pigs, shame burning their cheeks.

"Two jacks, three aces. Pay up." His cards fluttered to the table, and weren't doctored with to any degree, much to the men's horror. They leapt up, the clutters of chairs hitting the marble floor inaudible with the amount of yelling and cussing happening. George and the green-eyed man remained sitting and silent.

Rich men's egos really are like card structures. If you blow slightly on it the whole thing'll topple down, and you can leave them to try and build it up again. All George did was pocket the bottom cards and make their money fall with them.

"I'M NOT PAYING YOU, YOU STUPID SON OF A BIT—" Before he could finish that statement both of the men were on their feet, George unholstering his gun and cocking it while the other man cracked his knuckles. No one breathed. The four men that lost to George all aimed guns at him, smiling evilly at what they thought, surely, was triumph. It's one guy, with one gun, how would he take four of them?

Well, turns out George wasn't alone. The doors broke open loudly, the crack of broken marble and splintering wood replacing the tension with adrenaline. Sapnap had one gun in each hand, signalling for George to get out his too. George let the smugness curl his mouth, fingers tightening around the trigger. Everyone (excusing the one who folded) had at least one not-yet shot bullet aimed for their head. Nothing moved.

"Boo." Sapnap whispered. And with guns firing, bullets exploding from both side's shots, a card lifted in the air. A queen of hearts. It moved right in front of one of the men's faces, blocking his vision for a split-second. Just enough for George's bullet to strike him in the head, through the card.

"The hell was that?" Sapnap cut through the stark quiet after the outburst of noise subsided. The man's eyes crinkled with a smirk, cracking his wrist.

"Saving you two, that's what." The deep voice was gone. In it's place was nothing George had expected.

"Dream?"