by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: The Hitman's Bodyguard
Characters: Michael Bryce, Darius Kincaid
Pairings: Michael/Amelia mentioned
Words: 2,864
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Humor, Action
Warnings: PTSD, Panic Attack, Referenced Past Torture, Canon-Typical Swearing
Author's Notes: Originally posted to SquidgeWorld on Oct 3rd, 2024. Title is from the song "So Much For Stardust" by Fall Out Boy.
[Original Author's Note:] Just watched this movie for the first time and immediately felt the need to write fanfic lol. I haven't seen the sequel yet, so it might not fit with the established canon of that one, but my idea for this is that it takes place a few months after the first.
There'd been so many times over the last few years when Michael wondered just how his life had turned into such an unmitigated shitshow. He didn’t have to ask himself that anymore. Now he had a definite answer — his downhill spiral had started the exact moment he’d first crossed paths with the wisecracking asshole currently sitting in the chair beside him.
“Does this idiot ever shut up?” the aforementioned asshole murmured over to him, only partially under his breath.
Michael steadfastly ignored the attempt at banter. Not because he particularly wanted to hear what some wannabe drug lord had to say to them, but more out of principal.
“Seriously?” Darius asked in disbelief. “You’re seriously gonna give me the silent treatment. What are you, five?”
He was supposed to be in Naples right now, having dinner with Amelia to celebrate the one month anniversary of them officially getting back together as a couple. Instead, he was stuck in this leaky basement somewhere in the countryside of southern France, tied to a chair and being monologued at by a discount Bond villain. Not exactly the perfect anniversary he’d envisioned.
“You know, this is way more your fault than it is mine,” Darius said.
As determined as he had been to simply not acknowledge his ex-nemesis, that was a statement he couldn’t allow to slip by unchallenged.
“My fault?” Michael shot back, matching the volume of Darius’s whisper-yell. “My fault?! We wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t tried — for the twenty-ninth time, I might add — to kill one of my clients! This was the last day of my assignment, too. If not for you, I would be taking touristy photos of Mount Vesuvius right now.”
Darius shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. “C’mon, man. It was the perfect set up. Exactly the sort of challenge I love. You couldn’t expect me to pass that up.”
“You shot at me.”
“Bitch, please. You really think I would’ve missed if I was aiming for you? No, I shot at your client. You were just in the way.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” their captor finally cut in, voice dripping with impatience. Figured a man who had legally changed his last name to ‘King’ would be annoyed at not being the center of attention. “Can I have your attention here, or do you two need a few minutes to sort out your little spat?”
“Oh, sorry,” Darius said. “Didn’t realize your dumbass was done droning on over there. Did we miss something actually important or are you still patting yourself on the back for being such a genius mastermind?”
The man’s expression darkened. One thing Michael clearly remembered from his research file on this guy was that Lyle King could be impulsive and prone to fits of temper. Seemed likely they were about to find out how true that was.
“Fine. If you would prefer we get down to business…”
He snapped his fingers at one of his men, who nodded and stepped out of the room. The guy returned a minute later with a toolbox and several unpleasant looking devices. King pulled one of the items from the toolbox — something that looked more painful than lethal, though that was hardly a comfort under the circumstances.
He turned back to the duo with a smirk. “I’m completely fine with proceeding to the next order of business.”
“Y’know, I wouldn’t mind hearing the whole villain monologue again, actually,” Michael commented.
Ignoring him, King set the toolbox down on a nearby table and began laying out his instruments of torture.
Oh, he was so going to be late for dinner. Amelia was definitely going to kill him. Providing he survived this experience first, of course.
“Now,” King said, eyes narrowing at Michael. “All I need from you is your client’s current location, and the route he’ll be taking to the airport tomorrow.”
“Then why am I even here?” Darius asked. “This is clearly between you two.”
“You killed two of my men as they were trying to pick up the bodyguard. Are you really going to tell me you’re not involved in this?”
Darius rolled his eyes, turning back to Michael. “See? Told you this was your fault.”
Michael didn’t bother trying to respond to that. He was only half listening anyway, and registering very little of the conversation. His focus was locked firmly on the henchman in the back of the room. Or, rather, on the clear plastic tarp he was in the process of hanging from the rafters of the basement’s ceiling.
He swallowed hard as images of other tarps flashed through his mind — tarps that were also hung in a poorly lit basement with tables full of torture devices.
Shaking his head, he tried to focus back on Lyle King. He and Darius were going to have to take him down during their escape, so it would be helpful to assess any weaknesses now while they still had time. Preparedness.
“We’ll start with you,” the supposed mastermind told Michael. “And then, if you won’t give me what’s needed, maybe we’ll try your friend.”
Some part of his brain was aware that he would normally chime in right then with a denial along the lines of ‘Oh, we’re not friends. Frenemies at best. Maybe workplace rivals.’ But nothing came out. The sounds of those fucking tarps rattling as they were tacked up filled his entire mind. He shut his eyes and tried to take a deep breath to brace himself. It wouldn’t come. He couldn’t seem to get his lungs to expand fully. He couldn’t clear his mind of those sounds.
“Let’s start with the easy part. You know the locations of all the safe houses on his planned route. Give me the list and tell me which is the most likely location to start at, and we’ll work from there. That sounds reasonable, right?”
The man continued to drone on, but Michael couldn’t hear a word of it anymore. Everything felt off to him. Like the world was a bit muted somehow; muted and several degrees off its axis. He could feel the coppery tingle of electricity on the air. The stench of burning flesh filled his nose, almost making him vomit. His airway was so tight, there was no way to draw in enough oxygen.
“Bryce?” a concerned voice echoed around him, suffocating in its closeness.
Someone — or possibly several someones — was standing over him now. Way too close. He couldn’t breathe with everyone crowded around. He couldn’t hear any of the angry words being shouted over his head.
“Where is your client hiding out and what is his route to the airport?” King’s voice cut through the chaos, but it didn’t quite sound like him anymore. It sounded deeper in Michael’s head, more accented. ‘I ask you one time. Where is Kincaid?’
His chest felt tight and heavy. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manage to get a full breath in and out. His hands were shaking, but he wasn’t cold.
“You idiot, what did you do to him? He can’t answer my questions if you cut off his air.”
“I didn’t do anything yet!” one of the henchmen shouted back defensively. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”
Someone reached for his neck and Michael acted on instinct. He headbutted them. Hard. Blood spattered down onto Michael from the guy’s freshly broken nose before his target stumbled away with a curse.
The immediate commotion around Michael almost covered the clatter of noise as Darius leapt into action. The chair was still secured to three of his limbs, but he’d somehow managed to get one arm free, and that seemed to be enough for him. He landed a nasty right cross on one of the henchmen and sent them down for the count.
Darius swung around, letting the chair make bone-crunching impact with one of King’s other minions. The man cried out in pain and stumbled backwards into Michael’s chair.
Michael still couldn’t breathe properly — couldn’t even think properly — but he knew he was probably going to suffocate if he didn’t get out of this basement immediately, so he sprang into action as well. He was working more on pure instinct and adrenaline than any conscious thought as he grabbed a knife off the guy’s belt and used it to slice through his restraints. Propelling himself to his feet, he deftly switched the blade to his other hand and stabbed the man in the back of the calf. He screamed in pain and crumpled to the floor.
“Knife!” Darius called out from… somewhere.
Michael had lost track of him, which was disconcerting since he made a habit of specifically not losing track of people. For that matter, he really wasn’t sure where anyone was right now. Everything was blurring past his vision too fast. His heart was beating so rapidly he could barely hear anything past the pounding in his ears.
Still, they weren’t in the clear yet, so Michael wasted no time in flipping the knife around and throwing it in a clean arc over to where Darius’s voice had been.
He was panting so hard now he could barely keep on his feet. His vision was blurring too badly to even fight properly, but he kept going anyway. Wild swings and punches at any vaguely human-shaped figure in his path. Some of the blows must have hit their mark because there were more than a few screams and grunts of pain.
As soon as he had a moment with no obvious sources of danger in his line of sight, Michael crumpled down to a crouch on the floor. His fingers clawed at his own collar, trying to pull away anything that might be obstructing his airflow. There was nothing there, and he was wearing a t-shirt so there wasn’t even a collar to open for more space. His hands quickly shifted upward, repeatedly feeling over his face for whatever was trying to suffocate him. He couldn’t feel anything with his fingers, but his brain was certain that it was there. A cloth. A water-soaked cloth that was blocking out his air and the light and muffling the sound of his own screams and…
“Bryce! Hey, come on, stay with me here.”
The words managed to cut through his panic. Michael was suddenly aware of how badly his hands and limbs were shaking. He was sweating, too. Was he having a heart attack? Was that why he was having so much trouble breathing?
“Shit. Bryce, can you hear me?”
Somewhat. Actually, no, it was the opposite problem. The voice was way too loud, and too close. He needed… space. He needed room to breathe. Room to think.
“We need to get out of here. Bryce? You with me?”
Not really. But he also very much wanted out of this basement as soon as possible. Which meant having to move.
Michael nodded in response, and thankfully Darius didn’t question it. They moved across the basement floor, hopping over bodies as they went. Michael nearly stepped on King at one point; he hadn’t even seen the man get taken down. From the looks of him, he wasn’t going to be getting back up any time soon.
They made a quick stop in the garage to retrieve the weapons that had been confiscated from them. Darius also produced the keys to one of King’s prized automobiles. Michael opened his mouth to protest the hitman’s choice of the Bugatti, but one “Just shut up and get in the car” from Darius made him change his mind. He wasn’t feeling up to an argument.
They had put several miles of empty roadway and darkened skies behind them before Darius spoke up.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The words sounded hollow and distant even to his own ears, and the scoff from the driver’s seat showed how much they had been believed.
“Don’t give me that. If you were fine, you would have fought me tooth and nail to be the one driving right now. You didn’t even remember your seatbelt.”
On reflex, Michael quickly reached up to grab his seatbelt. Clicking the buckle into place, he shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m okay now.”
“Bryce,” Darius said, in that tone of voice that usually accompanied those impromptu car ride therapy sessions he was so fond of initiating. Michael wondered how someone who killed people for a living could also be that in touch with their — and apparently everyone else’s — feelings. “You’re not okay. You had a panic attack.”
He wanted to protest that assertion. If for no other reason, then to at least annoy Darius. The man was already driving the car, no need to let him drive the conversation unchallenged as well. It was a cheap illusion at regaining control, but what he wouldn’t give to have even that.
Instead, he stayed silent.
“Come on, Bryce, you know you can talk to me. After all, you wouldn’t even be going on that date tonight if not for my advice, and me smoothing the way with that agent of yours.”
Michael grit his teeth. That comment was definitely one he would have had a retort to under any other circumstances. But now that the initial adrenaline high was fading, his body and brain were both crashing rapidly.
Huh. Maybe there actually was some merit to that panic attack theory.
“Alright, fine,” Darius grumbled. “Stubborn ass triple-A moron.” He took a long breath, as if this conversation was going to be more taxing than the situation they’d escaped only minutes prior. “Okay, try this. Between the CIA and your precious bodyguard career, you’ve probably been through a lot of rough shit. So I don’t think it was King that scared the crap out of you.”
“Really?” Michael snorted, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. “Good thing you didn’t choose to wield a psychology license instead of a gun, you’d probably do a lot more lasting damage that way.”
“Well, look who’s decided to join the conversation.”
The smug tone in Darius’s voice almost made Michael want to punch the man in the side of the head. He didn’t, but mostly because Darius was driving and messing with the driver of a moving vehicle would be stupidly reckless, seatbelts or not.
“Look, I’m trying to say that I don’t think that knock off Goldfinger would have triggered that kind of response from you normally. Not exactly the world’s most dangerous criminal there.”
Michael huffed out a laugh. That much they could agree on.
“So there must have been something else that set you off,” Darius continued. “What? You allergic to cheap imitation Louis Vuitton? I don’t think I saw anyone driving without their seatbelts on the way to the villa. And the stairs had handrails, so it couldn’t be a safety violation. Please don’t tell me it was that mind numbing ‘conquer the world’ speech he gave us.”
“It was the tarps, asshole,” Michael finally grit out. King really could have learned a thing or two from Darius on torturing information out of people.
“What?”
“The tarps. Something about them… I don’t know, they reminded me of the ones in Goran’s basement. In Amsterdam.”
There was a long pause from the driver’s seat. Michael would have congratulated himself on being able to actually make Darius Kincaid shut up, if not for the circumstances making it impossible to feel celebratory.
“Shit, man. This has been bothering you since the Dukhovich mess, hasn’t it. You been having nightmares?”
At least three times a week for the past few months. Not that Michael planned to ever reveal that to Darius. The silence seemed to be answer enough, though, judging by the pained expression on the hitman’s face.
“Have you tried talking to someone yet?”
Michael scoffed. “I thought that’s what we were doing.”
“No, dumbass, I’m talking about a professional.”
“A therapist?”
“Bryce, you were tortured. That’s not something you just walk off.”
He knew that. Back when he’d been in the CIA, they would make him attend psych evaluations every time he came back from particularly rough assignments. It wasn’t the idea of therapy that made him balk. He had no problem with it, in theory. The issue was having to acknowledge that fact. Because admitting he needed help meant admitting there was a problem to begin with. Admitting it meant lending some form of legitimacy to what had happened to him. It made it real.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that yet.
“Look… at least think about it, okay?”
There wasn’t much else he could do, so Michael nodded his agreement. It seemed to satisfy the man who was maybe not as much his enemy as Michael still liked to believe.
“Good. Now let’s see about getting you to Naples.”
Darius eased the vehicle into a much higher speed than would be advisable on these roads — a fact which Michael immediately pointed out and was subsequently ignored.
Okay fine, Michael conceded, at least to himself. Maybe it actually was something more than a workplace rivalry. He was still never going to give in and use the ‘F’ word, though.
Also archived on SquidgeWorld (Link) - If it's found anywhere else, it was uploaded without my permission.
Thank you for checking out my fics! If you would like to chat with the author, you can contact me on my tumblr or dreamwidth, or leave a comment below!