Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The loud, ear-splitting creak of the door echoed throughout the building as Curly slowly pushed the door open, a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in his hands as he walked over. He kept Jimmy in his room, away from the outside world—all to himself. Curly was over the moon that he now had him, his claws dug deep into him. He’s been looking after him ever since they got back to Earth, cuddling him, ‘helping’ him, bathing him—in his eyes, things were better now. Even if Curly often felt a twinge of disgust towards himself, when he had the rare moments alone. But perhaps that’s why he was determined to keep Jimmy around at all times.

“Made you some eggs. Some toast, too. Can never go wrong with them.” As he spoke, his gaze fell on Jimmy for a moment. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what the man was feeling. He had become incredibly different—docile, even. The dog no longer had any bite, nor any bark, really. Curly had tried a few times to rile him up, but all he got was a dead stare. Even after doing unspeakable things to him, Jimmy remained as obedient and clueless as can be. It kind of made him sick, sick about what he’d done to him, but in the same vein, he felt it right. It was the right thing to do, even though Anya’s reaction once she found out was that of shock. Curly could not understand why she even cared, why after what she proclaimed Jimmy had put her through.

Any remorse or guilt was tainted by this need of his to be the hero of everyone in his life. In his mind, he’d saved Jimmy. His mind seldom lingered on whether or not it helped Anya, but at least Jimmy would be easier to contain now. Before Jimmy could answer, he had already placed the plate down and had now sat himself down opposite him, a slight frown on his face. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the remarks old Jimmy would make. He’d make some comment about how the way he made his toast was shit and that he could do it better.

“Go on, eat. You seem to really be a pain to get to eat lately, yet you’ll do anything else I’ll tell you. Strange,” he mumbled. “But I can’t complain. You are a very good boy like this. Shame you weren’t before.”

Jimmy stared at the plate of eggs and toast with a vacant expression, his lips twitching into something that resembled a smile—wide and unblinking, as if someone had puppeteered his face into place. His eyes, once alive with resentment and narrow with anger, now seemed hollow. The color was the same, but the light behind them was gone. Extinguished on that metal table aboard the Tulpar, in the sterile cold of Curly’s improvised surgery.

The static was loud today. It buzzed in his skull like a broken radio, filling every silent crevice with white noise. Sometimes Jimmy pressed his fingers against his temples, as if squeezing might tune it out. It never worked. He never remembered it wasn’t going to work.

He reached out mechanically, his movements slow and deliberate, like a machine going through programmed motions. The toast felt rough against his fingertips, and the eggs smelled faintly burnt. Jimmy didn’t notice. He bit into the toast without tasting it, chewing because he knew that was what Curly wanted.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Jimmy could still remember, in fragmented bursts of lucidity, the restraints digging into his wrists. His struggling had only made them tighter, his skin raw where the straps rubbed mercilessly. He remembered the cold press of the needle against the corner of his eye and how Curly’s voice stayed steady through it all.

“This is for your own good.”

“No! Please—Curly!!!! I’ll stop! I’ll stop!!! I’m sorry!” Jimmy had screamed, his voice ragged, broken by his own fear. “I’ll fix it! I’ll fix everything—I can! Please—don’t—please!!!”

He remembered the sharp, unbearable pressure as the needle pushed past his eyelid. There was no pain at first, only a sickening awareness of something invading him. Then, when it hit the soft tissue of his brain, agony like fire and glass flooded his skull. He’d howled, his voice twisting into something almost inhuman, and begged until his words melted into incoherent cries.

And then, somewhere in the middle of the procedure, Jimmy died.

Not physically, but the Jimmy who had filled the ship’s halls with bitter sarcasm and desperate anger—the Jimmy who had hated Curly almost as much as he needed him—was erased. What was left behind was a shell. A version of himself that smiled too much and thought too little. He remembered waking up afterward, his head throbbing and vision blurred, and the first thing he saw was Curly’s face.

“You’re gonna be okay now, Jimmy...” Curly had said, and Jimmy—obedient, lobotomized Jimmy—had believed him.

Now, back in the present, he glanced up from the plate, crumbs falling from the corner of his lips. That smile lingered, wide and empty. His voice came out soft, almost childlike, his inflection flat.

“Thank you… for the food, Curly. You’re so… good to me.”

The words felt foreign even as they left his mouth. Somewhere deep inside, in the parts of his brain Curly hadn’t managed to fully silence, something twisted and writhed. But he couldn’t access it, couldn’t articulate it, so he simply tilted his head slightly and kept smiling. His body leaned ever so slightly toward Curly, like a dog desperate for approval. For affection. His fingers twitched as if they wanted to reach out, but he pulled them back to his lap.

“You’re always so good to me,” he repeated, as though trying to convince himself it was true.

The mixture of guilt and adoration for Jimmy wrapped around Curly’s heart tightly, his chest feeling heavy as he watched him lean forward. But the weak smile that spread across his face only grew, watching his arms lift up, only for the smile to fade a little once they dropped back to his lap. There was a dark glint in his eyes. “If you want a hug, you can ask,” he spoke lowly, his voice soft, yet it dripped with some sort of command. He leaned back slightly, glancing down at the food.

As bad as he wanted to hug Jimmy, and do much more—he wanted him to eat. “But you need to eat first,” he spoke sternly, reaching out to grasp the fork and stabbing into the egg. He furrowed his brows as he scooped some up. There was a flash of the image of Jimmy begging and crying, flailing and pleading for Curly not to allow this. It caused his hand to shake a little, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I just remembered somethin’ from when we were kids,” he started, “The time I punched your Pops in the face.” He smirked, “You thought I was crazy for that, but he deserved it.”

He then sighed. “I wish I could’ve done more for you, maybe then this wouldn’t’ve happened.” He then lifted the cutlery up, pointing it towards his lips, “Open up, Jim. Be a good boy for me, yeah?” he spoke, his voice slightly raspy as those words left him. “Maybe I’ll reward you, I’m feeling generous today.”

He was such a good boy, so malleable—so pliant, no cussing, no name-calling. The “You’re so good to me” seemed to fan the flames of Curly’s delusion. He was SO good to him. There was a strange dichotomy between him truly believing he’s right, he’s saving Jimmy—to feeling this sickening guilt, the nausea overwhelming most nights.

But he couldn’t deny—it felt good to have him listen to him and do as told without much pushback, having someone cluelessly do whatever he told him felt empowering. For once, his leadership wasn’t questioned, no snarky comments about how lucky he was.

“I love you, Jimmy.” The words left his mouth, hot off his breath, the room lit up by the moonlight boring through the blind, casting the light over Jimmy. Curly glanced towards the bed. “Why haven’t you been sleeping in the bed?” he questioned, “You’re always on the floor lately.”

He was genuinely concerned. “You are allowed to sleep there, you know. I am not going to hurt you for that, darling.”

Jimmy’s head tilted slightly as Curly spoke, his expression shifting into that uncanny, empty smile again. The static in his head hummed louder with every word, but it didn’t drown them out. He heard everything. Hug, good boy, I love you. He clung to each phrase like a shipwrecked man clinging to debris in a storm. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, the faintest echo of something he might have once done with purpose.

When Curly mentioned the hug, Jimmy’s body leaned forward just a fraction, his shoulders rising and falling as if testing the weight of such a thing. Hugging felt distant, like something he used to know but couldn’t quite remember. He didn’t ask, though. Not yet. Not until he was told to. His fingers curled and uncurled in his lap, his nails scraping faintly against his palms. The noise didn’t bother him—nothing really did anymore.

The fork. The egg. The food. Jimmy’s eyes followed Curly’s movements with unnerving precision, staring at the fork as it pierced the eggs, watching the way Curly’s hand shook slightly. His lips parted, not because he understood what was happening, but because his body seemed to anticipate what was coming. The static wavered, and for a fleeting second, an image flashed in his mind: his wrists tied, his screams echoing in the metal room, the sharp, icy spike driving into his brain.

The memory was vivid, too real, and it made his hands twitch harder, his eyes darting for just a moment before returning to Curly’s face. He smiled wider. Smiling always made things better.

“You... punched my Pops,” Jimmy repeated quietly, the words sluggish as they tumbled out. There was no emotion in them, no laughter or anger, just a faint, ghostly recognition. “That was... funny, wasn’t it?” His voice cracked slightly, as if part of him wanted to laugh but didn’t know how anymore.

When the fork was held up to his lips, Jimmy opened his mouth without hesitation. The egg was warm but tasteless. He chewed mechanically, staring blankly at Curly as he swallowed. His lips twitched, and then the same flat, hollow voice spilled out. “Good boy. I’m... a good boy.” He said it not as if he believed it, but as if he needed to repeat it, needed to hear it spoken aloud to confirm it was true.

Curly’s “I love you” hung in the air, wrapping itself around the broken remnants of what Jimmy once was. Something flickered in his expression, like a crack in the perfect shell of his mindless obedience. It wasn’t recognition or understanding necessarily. It was the faintest ghost of something almost human. He didn’t know what to do with it. His static-filled brain couldn’t process the words. Instead, he tilted his head again, his hollow smile widening.

“I love you too, Curly,” he said, his voice a dead echo of something he might have once actually meant.

Curly’s question about the bed made Jimmy glance toward it, the faintest frown crossing his face. He hesitated, his hands moving to clutch at the fabric of his pants. “The floor, it feels right,” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s quiet on the floor. Safer.”

The static buzzed louder, making his fingers press harder into his thighs. He thought of the bed, how soft it was, how close it was to Curly. Something about that proximity felt wrong, like he didn’t deserve it, but the thought was distant, buried under layers of obedience and compliance.

“I can try the bed,” he said suddenly, his tone eager to please. “If... if you want me to. I’ll try.”

He shifted slightly, leaning toward Curly again. His body language was subtle but desperate, his need for approval etched into every movement. The smile never left his face, even as his eyes, dark and hollow, glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

Jimmy stared at Curly for a long, unsettling moment, the gears in his fractured mind turning slowly, the static in his head like a white-hot wave drowning out any coherent thought. He didn’t think to ask permission, didn’t think about whether it was right or wrong... he just moved. The scrape of his knees against the floor echoed softly in the quiet room as he slid off the chair and began to crawl toward Curly, his movements eerily uncoordinated.

His hands pressed flat against the hard surface, his fingers trembling as they gripped the floor. Every shift of his body felt detached, like a marionette guided by strings he no longer controlled. His breath hitched once as he drew closer, a faint, involuntary sound that echoed strangely in the room. When he finally reached Curly, he stopped at his feet for a moment, looking up at him with those empty, obedient eyes. His lips twitched into a smile again. Soft. Unsettling.

“Curly,” he murmured, his voice carrying no inflection, no warmth, just an echo of the name as if saying it would anchor him to something familiar.

Jimmy lifted himself slightly, his arms bracing against Curly’s knees as he pulled himself into his lap. He settled there awkwardly, his legs tucked beneath him like a child unsure of where they fit. His movements were slow and almost reverent, as though he was handling something fragile. The weight of his body against Curly’s was slight, almost imperceptible, but the way he leaned into him was heavy with dependence, with a need he couldn’t articulate.

Jimmy’s head tilted slightly before coming to rest against Curly’s shoulder. His brown hair, messy and unkempt, brushed softly against Curly’s neck as he nuzzled closer without any real purpose, his body pliant and unresisting. His arms hung limply at his sides, his hands twitching faintly as if unsure of where to rest.

“Curly,” he said again, softer this time, his voice barely audible. His breath warmed Curly’s collarbone as he repeated the name over and over, a broken mantra spilling from his lips. “Curly… Curly… Curly…”

There was no malice, no sarcasm, no trace of the old Jimmy in the way he said it—only raw, mindless dependence. Each time the name left his lips, it felt like a placeholder for everything he could no longer say. Everything his shattered mind couldn’t comprehend. His expression remained fixed, his eyes unfocused as he pressed closer, his weight leaning fully into Curly as if seeking shelter from the static roaring in his skull.

The moment stretched, eerie and suffocating, as Jimmy clung to Curly without arms or hands, only the weight of his broken self resting heavily against him.

“That’s right, you’re a good boy.”

The words seemed to ring throughout the room, the cold air drafting through the open window adding to the coldness of the interaction. There was a small hint of warmth radiating from within Curly, despite the circumstance. He watched on, noting how vacant Jimmy was. He was about to open his mouth until he felt him shift.

The response to Curly’s words, ones he’s repeated constantly with him, even while buried deep inside, while Jimmy lay there, completely unaware. However, this was the first time he’s heard it back from him. Even in such a dead, emotionless tone, Curly felt himself warm up. “Oh, really? I’d love to see how you show that love,” he teased.

There was more silence. All that could be heard was the gentle breeze of the wind outside. It was a cold December night, as was evident by the large sweater he had given to Jimmy the day before. He was also wearing one, old knitted sweaters made for him by his late mother.

Silence was making the blond nervous, so he cleared his throat, trying to get Jimmy’s attention. "My sweet boy... you're so good for me." Still, no answer. He felt a twinge of annoyance.

“Jimmy?”

No answer. Instead, he felt him climb into his lap, leaning against him. Curly swayed back slightly, finding one of his hands reaching up to rest against Jimmy’s head. He soon had his arms wrapped around Jimmy tightly, humming in content at how close he was. His good, obedient Jimmy.

Curly found himself burying his head in the back of Jimmy’s head, inhaling his scent, hands roaming his body absent-mindlessly. He murmured sweet nothings, “I love you so much, I have for so long…” he purred out lowly. “I am so happy you’re mine now,” he whispered. “You should’ve been mine long before now, hmhm…”

His hands stopped at Jimmy’s chest, the urge to make his Jimmy feel good hard to ignore, but he shook such a lewd thought from his head, kissing along the back of his neck. “Why don’t we cuddle on the bed? Or do you want to eat some more?” he questioned, glancing over at the plate. He hadn’t made much, just enough to feed one person. He soon rested his head against Jimmy’s shoulder, his arms tightening around him.

“I’ll let you choose,” he murmured, now pressing gentle kisses to Jimmy’s cheek, murmuring soft, breathless ‘my good boy’s in between each kiss. He got even more handsy now, the rough calloused palms now resting on Jimmy’s thighs. “You’re so tiny now,” he laughed. “I think I can get used to it.”

There was a slight hunger lingering in him, one he felt disgust towards. Something about having this boy, who was once a bitter, daresay, domineering man—completely at his mercy, putty in his hands—it excited, ignited something in Curly he was afraid of facing. But it stood, in the doorway of his mind, blue eyes constantly staring, pushing him into his true nature. A darkness he hid so well. It was slowly eeking out, almost at full display with Jimmy like this.

He knew Anya caught it, the way she looked so scared once he told her what he'd had gotten done to Jimmy. Even Swansea looked at him differently…

He didn’t care, though. He never did—all he cared about was him and Jimmy. His only priorities were them. But Jimmy was on top of that list.

Jimmy sat motionless, his body nestled against Curly’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The words Curly spoke—'You’re a good boy,' 'I love you so much,' 'You should’ve been mine'—washed over him like the static that filled his mind. They didn’t evoke any feelings nor awaken anything in him, but they stayed, echoing faintly in the hollow cavern where his thoughts used to reside. The sound of Curly’s voice felt warm, almost soothing, even if the words themselves meant nothing anymore.

Jimmy’s head shifted slightly when Curly’s hand pressed against it, leaning into the touch like an animal seeking warmth. His muscles were slack, his movements slow, deliberate, almost like he wasn’t fully in control of his own body. When Curly’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Jimmy didn’t react, save for a faint twitch of his fingers. The sensation of being held didn’t comfort him; it simply was. The murmurs, the kisses trailing down the back of his neck, the way Curly inhaled his scent—all of it registered in some distant corner of his mind, but none of it made it past the haze.

“You’re happy,” Jimmy mumbled after a long pause, his voice dull, flat. He tilted his head slightly, as if to look at Curly, but his gaze didn’t quite meet his. “You’re happy now. That’s good.”

The words tumbled out mechanically, a reflection of the fragments of his old self, the part of him that once mocked Curly’s need for validation. But now, they were empty, devoid of malice or sarcasm. He said them because he thought they were the right thing to say, because he wanted... no, he needed—to make Curly happy. That was all that mattered now in whatever was left of his brain.

When Curly suggested moving to the bed or eating more, Jimmy froze. His body tensed briefly, as though waiting for permission to decide. His eyes darted toward the plate, lingering on the cold eggs and toast before shifting back toward the bed. The thought of lying on the bed felt foreign, overwhelming even. He didn’t belong there, didn’t deserve the comfort of something so soft, but Curly’s words lingered.

He shifted slightly, pulling himself closer into Curly’s lap, his hands now resting limply on his thighs. “I’ll go to the bed,” he murmured quietly.

His voice cracked faintly at the end, his lips twitching into a strained smile as he pressed his forehead against Curly’s chest. The static in his head surged, drowning out any remaining hesitation or semblance of agency. He clung to Curly like a lifeline, his grip tightening ever so slightly as Curly’s hands roamed his body, resting on his thighs. His heart didn’t race, his breath didn’t quicken; even his physical reactions were muted, dulled by the damage to his mind.

“Curly,” he said again, his voice a whisper now, a hollow echo that felt like it might break apart at any moment. “Curly. Curly...” His hands twitched, clutching the fabric of Curly’s loose sweater as he buried his face deeper into his shoulder. He didn’t know why he kept repeating the name. But it felt like the only thing tethering him to reality. To the person who had become his entire world. The only name that mattered.

The faint laugh about his size didn’t register as offensive; nothing did. He simply nodded, his cheek brushing against Curly’s chest as he did. “I’m… good for you,” he murmured, the words shaky, uncertain, but spoken with the same mindless compliance as everything else. “I’ll always be... good for you.”

His body was pliant, submissive, as he let Curly hold him, kiss him, touch him. There was no protest, no fight—just obedience. He didn’t notice the darker glint in Curly’s eyes, the tension in his movements, or the way his voice softened into something almost predatory. None of it reached Jimmy. He was too far gone, too hollowed out by what had been done to him.

And yet, deep in the recesses of his shattered mind, where the static couldn’t fully erase him, something stirred. A faint, flickering ember of who he had been—a man who had fought, screamed, begged for his autonomy—fought to resurface. But it was smothered quickly, drowned in the static, leaving only the shell behind. Jimmy, the real Jimmy, was long gone. All that remained was the obedient, mindless person sitting in Curly’s lap, leaning into him like a doll.

Jimmy shifted slightly, his movements slow, as though each one required careful thought. His fingers trembled as they lifted, reaching for Curly’s head. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as he ran his fingers through the blond's hair in slow, repetitive motions. The act wasn’t born of affection or intimacy—it was mindless, yet something about it felt oddly tender. His head tilted again, resting against Curly’s shoulder as his hands moved to trace the line of his neck, lingering just at the collar of his sweater.

“Curly,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, soft and breathless. His arms wrapped loosely around Curly’s neck, his lips brushing faintly against his jaw as he leaned closer, his movements unintentional but close enough to feel intimate. His breath was warm, shallow, ghosting against Curly’s skin as he spoke again.

“Pick me up...” Jimmy said, his voice flat but strangely sultry in its softness. “Take me to the bed.”

The static hummed louder, but Jimmy didn’t notice. He pressed his forehead against Curly’s cheek, the motion slow, languid, as though seeking warmth he couldn’t feel. His body was pliant, entirely dependent on Curly’s, his fingers clutching faintly at the fabric of Curly’s sweater as he waited for him to move. There was no urgency, no intention... just submission coated in an unsettling quiet that hung heavy in the cold room.

He was such a good boy, the way he so obediently remained in his arms. Curly’s rough hands continued to roam over his body, up under the sweater, gently caressing his skin. His breath was hot against Jimmy’s ear, hearing him repeat his name had that same dangerous glint appear once more, something about how dependent he had become on him was so arousing. But he remained calm, as if taunting Jimmy in some way. Unlike him, he could control himself, or that’s what he thought—what he told himself at night. Jimmy deserved this. In some twisted way, it was a cruel lesson being taught to him.

But Jimmy no longer was any threat, luckily—Curly often observed him, the way his body seemed to sway, how heavy his eyes looked. He’d often think back to when he did it.

The way the man beneath him squirmed and flailed, pleaded and begged Curly not to do it, even as he held the hammer and orbitoclast in his hands, there was a pitiful look on his face. “I’m sorry, Jim,” he whispered softly, his free hand resting atop his forehead and pulling his eye open. He could feel him continue to freak out.

Curly had decided to climb on top of him, his legs straddling either side of his body, using his entire weight to keep him from getting up. All Jimmy could do was kick his legs and scream profanities and apologies. It hurt the Captain, hearing him and seeing him like this, but in his own twisted mind, this was the right thing to do.

The sharp tip of the needle hovered there for a few moments, an audible gulp leaving him. “I’m sorry, Jim,” he repeated. It took him a minute or two—Jimmy had calmed down now but still had this look on his face—one he had only seen once before, only after turning up at his doorstep when they were teens, after his father had beaten him bloody. He felt his heart sink, but it was enough to push him to do it. Sure enough, he had now inserted the needle. He looked away for a moment, his heart thumping—he didn’t want to see him like this. He didn’t.

The sounds of pure agony that left his best friend killed him—the ear-splitting cry, the way he seemed to continue to beg, even as he pushed it further and further until he felt the tip nudge something.

He raised the hammer—there was a beat. His hand shook slightly, feeling his skin run cold, but he felt he just had to get it done—there was no turning back now. The needle was already in there.

Then, there was a loud, repetitive clinking noise, mixed with the symphony of Jimmy’s cries of pain. Each time the hammer came down, the stronger Curly’s grimace became. He felt himself becoming frustrated with Jimmy. “Please... this isn’t as easy on me as you think, Jim. Please just... let me do this, for you,” he whispered softly. That gentle tone was eerie in this situation. Eventually, he seemed to have hit the spot—and the screaming dulled out to pained, soft sobs, then—nothing.

Curly felt his body go numb as he watched Jimmy become limp, the blood that pooled from the wound beginning to fall onto his clothing. He leaned back, trying to pull the instrument out as gently as he could. It certainly wasn’t as easy as those magazines told him it was. He settled the instruments down and climbed off of him. He gazed down, feeling sick. He ran off to the trashcan in the corner and let himself vomit, coughing and gagging as he tried to catch his breath. “What have I done...”

Jimmy remembered the moment the needle went in.

It was loud. So much louder than he ever thought it could be—like the sound of metal scraping against bone, like something breaking inside him. His whole body had seized in terror, his screams raw, animalistic, echoing off the cold metal walls of the Tulpar. His eye had been forced open, tears blurring his vision as he stared at Curly, pleading, the words spilling from his mouth in gasping sobs.

“Curly- PLEASE! I’ll fix it! You don’t-- you can’t!”

The moment the tip of the orbitoclast pierced him, he thought he’d black out. He wished he would’ve. But no—he felt it. The slow, impossible pressure of it sliding past his eye, deeper and deeper. A sound like grinding filled his head, sharp and metallic, growing louder with every inch. He screamed until his voice cracked, his head jerking back as far as the restraints would allow.

And then came the hammer.

The first strike rattled his skull, sending a hot stabbing pain through his forehead, exploding outward like a starburst of agony. His brain—it felt like it was being punched hard and mercilessly, each hit driving the needle deeper. He howled, words spilling out in a flood of hysteria, until they stopped being words at all. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Each strike seemed to shatter something in his head, fragments of his mind breaking off, dissolving, slipping away into the darkness. He felt his thoughts melt, drip from his grasp like water or blood through his fingers.

The screams turned to sobs. Then whimpers. Then… nothing.

When it was over, Jimmy couldn’t move. He could barely think. He didn’t remember where he was, or who he was, or why it hurt so much. All he knew was the sound of the static—soft at first, like a faint hum, and then louder, unbearable, filling the space where his mind used to be.

Curly had said something to him, his voice trembling and distant. But Jimmy didn’t hear it. He stared blankly at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face as the blood pooled at the corner of his eye and dripped onto his temple. He wasn’t Jimmy anymore... not really. He was something else. Someone else.