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Ignis’ head rolled sideways onto his shoulder, and he jerked awake. 

The first thing he was greeted with was a wave of pain, shuddering along his spine, neck and the back of his skull; Ignis dearly hoped he hadn’t broken anything, because even the King’s magic struggled with injuries such as those.  

The second thing was a strange emptiness in his chest. 

Ignis lulled, drifting right on the edge of consciousness for a moment as the pain in his back resided. Where…? 

There had been a crash. He could remember the terrible sound of rending steel and shattering plastic, the crack of the airbags expanding. They had been on the way back to the Citadel— Noctis. 

Ignis’ eyes snapped open and he groaned, fire shooting up the length of his spine. He remembered Noctis’ little gasp of shock as he’d been grabbed from behind; Ignis could see, like a blurry photo in his mind, his friend’s wide eyes through the shattered window of their car as he had lost consciousness. 

After that, it was black. 

His head swam for a moment, but he forced himself to breathe normally, and keep as still as possible while he gauged his injuries. The pain in his neck and throbbing in his skull, combined with the strange half-memories of the crash, led Ignis to believe he had some form of whiplash. Possibly a cut or bruise on his forehead, by the itching, scratchy feeling of dried blood there. 

His back was sore, but not it was not tingling and he had no trouble breathing— he had also thankfully not lost control of his bladder— so he ruled a spinal injury out. 

Now for the next steps. 

It only took a couple of seconds for Ignis to know for certain that Noctis and Gladio were not by his side. He glanced up, peering around the rest of the room in less than his normal clarity 

Someone had taken his glasses then. 

Unfortunately— even in his less-than-optimal vision— the room presented very few clues as to his whereabouts. It was dark, stank of several various types of mould and an unpleasant amount of other foul substances, and water oozed from the ceiling, trailing down the walls in algae-stained rivulets. 

There was also still no sign of Gladio, or of Noctis— and Ignis swallowed down that terrible cloying feeling in his chest. Anxiety would not help him now. It would only make his hands shake and his mind too loud, and they were things that Ignis could not abide by. 

Anxiety was not befitting of him. It was a weakness he had worked hard to cauterise from his mind. 

So he banished it from his thoughts, and focused on the moment. Noctis was his first priority. 

Ignis shifted his shoulders, hissing out a breath as they pulled, aware now of how his hands were bound awkwardly behind him. He pulled his hands apart as much as possible, testing the strength of the bonds around his wrists. They clinked at his movement, cold against his skin. Metal then. Handcuffs, perhaps? 

A chain snaked away from the pillar he was pressed against, and Ignis tipped his head back in a wry moment of humour. Manacles? What, from the middle ages? This shall be easy.

Ignis reached for that spot in his chest; then shuddered as he was met with a dark pit. His connection with Noctis had been all but extinguished. 

Something prickled along the back of his neck as he reached for it again; Noctis was still alive, thank the Gods, but something was cutting off their bond. The Armiger sat at the corner of his mind as usual, but it was as though someone had dropped a black veil between his mental command and the objects within. 

Ignis really did try, falling back on all of the little tricks the King and the Glaive had taught him when he was first learning: imagine the object in your hand, feel its weight. Picture it in your mind, and your own hand reaching out to take it. Close your fist, and will it to be there. 

Ignis gritted his teeth, the headache flaring into life behind his eyes as he strained to pull a dagger into his hand, Gods even a paperclip, anything that could be helpful. 

The headache spiked and Ignis felt something warm drip down over his lip. He tore away from the Armiger, recoiling. 

The Marshal would’ve cuffed him over the back of the head and sent him on a six kilometre run if he’d seen Ignis do that. 

Ignis swallowed. His mouth tasted awfully of copper. 

The Armiger is a no, then. Time for plan B. 

Being the Prince’s Advisor and one of the Citadel’s staff with constant contact and proximity to His Royal Highness, Ignis had had to go through extensive training for situations such as these. Ignis, also being Ignis, always had some supplies on his person: some in the pockets of his waistcoats, and some in his boots and socks just in case his outer clothing had been stripped from him. 

As it had today. 

Ignis twisted to the side, letting his weight rest on his left leg as he shuffled his right foot closer to his bound hands. It pulled at his shoulder terribly and his neck burned, but he just clenched his jaw and kept moving— both heartily cursing the years of modified gymnastics he’d had to take and appreciating their value. Soon, painfully and slowly, his foot was close enough that he could brush the leather of his boot with his right fingertips. Ignis stretched even further, a breath of pain escaping him despite his restraint, and scrabbled for the pin tucked into a tiny pocket by his ankle. The tip of his forefinger just grazed the metal, before his shoulder spasmed and his hand jerked away. 

Ignis cursed, long and black and utterly internally, then reached out again. Brushed once, twice— 

There!

The pin fell into Ignis’ palm and he relaxed, pulling his leg back into a position that didn’t threaten the dislocation of his femur. Now for the somewhat tricky part. 

He rolled the pin along the inside of his palm until it was up near the ends of his fingers— his heart jumping into his throat as it almost slipped from his fingers— and spun it into a firmer grip. 

The picking of the lock was a tedious and frustrating process, but one Gladio and Ignis had been trained in and had hammered into their heads; the fake kidnapping had been a little bit of fun, especially when Ignis had been blessed with the opportunity to watch the Marshal kick Gladio in the side while Noctis watched on, covered in tomato sauce. 

So the lock was easy enough; the old mechanics of the ancient manacles were a lot simpler than the fancy police cuffs Ignis had practised on previously. Ignis allowed himself a moment of relief and celebration when, with a click, the manacles opened. The clatter as they hit the ground was almost deafening in the quiet space; Ignis held his breath, straining to hear if anyone was coming to investigate. 

Luckily, their captors didn’t seem too bright. 

Ignis pushed himself to his feet, almost groaning as every joint from his toes to his head cracked and clicked back into place; making him sound a lot older than his twenty years. He rubbed at his wrists as he stepped forward, once again taking stock of the room from a different angle. 

Now he was standing, he could see the steel door to the right, tucked into a little alcove; once upon a time it would have been a feat of engineering— with an impressively narrow seal between the door itself and the frame— but time and water had warped and corroded it into something much less admirable. 

Ignis strode over to the door— wincing as his hips clicked with vengeance for a few steps before settling back into their normal function— and tested the handle, without much hope that it would be unlocked. 

He was not surprised when the door rattled in on its hinges, but didn’t open. 

Right.

There was no lock on the inside, a clever tactic for holding someone prisoner, so Ignis was either going to have to break the door down, or find another way out.

Ignis gave the door one more push; then took a step back, gritted his teeth, and slammed his shoulder into the door. The steel shuddered and Ignis had to bite down harder as his neck throbbed, but the door still hadn't shifted.

Twice more.

He rammed the door again, and once again, still with no results. And now his shoulder was bruised as well. 

Not for the first time, he sorely missed Gladio. 

He rubbed at his shoulder as he stepped back, appraising the gods-locked door with a little bit of bitterness. Time to look for another way out then. 

Ignis instinctively reached for the Armiger to pull out a flashlight— then froze. The Armiger was still out of reach, as that was entirely Noctis’ own and they simply shared it, but the second connection he shared with his Prince was magic. He hadn’t noticed it before in his groggy state, but there was a sliver of a thread that joined him somewhere to Noct— and by extension, Gladio. 

Ignis’ own magic was strong, comparable sometimes to a few of the King’s Glaives, which only multiplied when he was granted access to some of the Crystal’s power— through Noctis of course. His introduction to that new, vast power had wiped him out for almost a week as his magic was tripled; Gladio, damn the man, hadn’t nearly had the same reaction, instead getting up the next morning claiming a headache and a strange tingling in his chest. 

What was important however, was that the second connection was a little different to the Armiger, deeper and more innate. It wasn’t as concealed, even with Noctis far away and out of commision. 

Which meant he might just be able to…

Ignis reached for that thread, pulling on his own magic more than he had in a while; he hadn’t realised how much he relied on the Crystal’s power to fuel his spells. It was tricky, because he was tired and injured and there was only the tiniest amount of spark coming from his Prince, but Ignis just gathered enough to give his idea a go. 

He stretched out his magic, following the line to Gladio. Once he’d gotten enough of a grip, he pulled, fueling the breaking of space with the power in his own body. Reality split and he held out a hand, taking Gladio by the arm and pulling him through to his side. 

Ignis very nearly didn’t complete it. 

His vision stuttered black for a moment as the spell drew a little too much from his core, all of the heat his body needed to work leaching from him as he slipped to his knees— then a warm hand was on his wrist and he was pulled back from unconsciousness as the magic completed its course, washing both he and the Shield with healing light.

Gladio’s breathing was raspy, but he sounded well enough. “Shit, Ignis,” he wheezed just as Ignis found the energy to open his eyes again. “‘You alright?” 

Ignis nodded, pulling his hand out of Gladio’s grip. The Shield looked a little worn, but his gaze was bright and focused. “Quite, Gladio. Was Noctis with you?” 

A crease formed between the Shield’s eyebrows as he glanced around, searching the corners for a Prince that wasn’t there. “Nah, he wasn’t with me. I thought he’d be here with you?” 

Ignis shook his head. “I couldn’t sense him when I reached out to bring him here— which means he’s been cut off from his magic somehow.” 

Gladio seemed to understand what that could mean. 

Gladio pushed himself to his feet, reaching out a hand to help the Ignis up as well. Ignis took it gratefully, trying not to let the Shield see how shaky his legs were. “Hey, I’ve gotta thank you for pulling me out like that. I was pretty close to breaking my left thumb, so I appreciate it.” 

Several different questions flashed through Ignis’ head as he processed that statement. The only one that managed to come out of his mouth was:  “Why were you about to break your left thumb?” 

Gladio rolled his shoulders a few times, a wry grin twisting his mouth in that particular way it did. “Oh, y’know, mostly for the fun of it. Shall we go get our Prince?” 

Ignis frowned, but he decided not to push it. Something to discuss later. “Yes, let’s.” 

He led the way back over to the door; Gladio’s eyes scanning every inch of the room as he followed.

Once they had reached the stubborn sheet of steel once again, Ignis appraised it once again with only a little bitterness. “I couldn’t get it open by force, so unless you can, I’m going to try fire.” 

Gladio chuckled, then cracked his knuckles. “Just give me a sec.” 

The Shield stepped away, bounced twice on the balls of his feet, then pushed forward, ramming the door with a considerable amount of strength. The door shook in its frame, powered rock dusting from the hinges as the steel groaned. 

Gladio stepped back again, and slammed into the door another time. Ignis almost felt like cheering when the steel buckled under the blow, twisting even further out of shape. 

“Once more, Gladio,” he said instead, watching the door closely. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll weaken the hinges and you can try again.” 

Gladio grinned, a feral sort of thing that Ignis wasn’t quite sure if he liked. “That won’t be necessary.” 

He spoke the truth. When the Shield rammed the door for the last time, something critical in the frame failed and the steel was ripped free from the hinges, the door crumpling to the side— and providing enough space between the frame for them to slip through. 

Gladio stood up straight and rolled his shoulders, the grin becoming more of a smirk. “Let’s go get the sons of a bitch.” 

Ignis might’ve pulled him up on the language if he didn’t agree with the sentiment. 

Their location became clear to Ignis the moment they were out in the corridors beyond. The pieces had clicked together in his head, surprising him enough that he snapped his fingers without thinking and proclaimed: “I know where we are!” 

Gladio had looked over at him, obviously disconcerted by his volume. “Yeah?” 

“The Delcoln dam; those sorts of steel doors are particular to structures like these. Not to mention the water on the walls. Gods, I should’ve seen it before!” 

Gladio had only hummed in agreement, continuing to lead the way further down the corridor. There were only a few doors leading into rooms off the hallway; they stopped and hammered on each one, calling out Noctis’ name, with Ignis checking that little faint thread to see if they had reached their Prince. 

But each one had revealed no clue to Noctis’ whereabouts, so they continued on. 

It was after their eighth door, as Ignis’ head was becoming light again after the use of magic and the corridor was finally coming to a corner, that Gladio snapped out a hand into his chest and forced him to a halt. 

Ignis stumbled, but recovered quickly, allowing himself to be pressed against the wall. “What?” He murmured, rounding off the ‘t’ so the sound didn’t snap sharp into the air. 

Gladio just touched a finger to his ear, then made the Crownsguard hand-sign for voices. Now that they had been pointed out, Ignis could hear them too.

“Shit— quick, Gabe, he’s waking up.” 

A scuffle, then the sound of something heavy slamming into something else. Gladio rumbled a growl, low in his throat. 

“Evan, get your ass over to the other two, if this one’s waking up, they might be too—” 

There was the sound of a chair scooting over stone, then the sound of hurried footsteps. Gladio and Ignis’ eyes met. 

The Shield tipped his head in the direction of the way they’d come, signing backup, no sound in quick succession. Ignis moved immediately, ghosting back a little way and readying himself. 

There was the sound of a door opening— so there must be a room just around the corner— and a slim figure appeared. Gladio was on him in a flash. 

He grabbed the kidnapper around the chest and pulled them into a headlock, covering their mouth with a spare hand; Ignis jumped forward and grabbed the person’s legs and feet, stopping them from kicking and alerting the others around the corner. 

There were a terrible few seconds as the kidnapper struggled, jerking like a fish on land in their combined grips, but their movements were getting weaker and weaker as Gladio tightened his grip— and it wasn’t long until they had ceased entirely. 

Ignis helped Gladio lay the person silently down on the ground, then reached forward and pulled the black beanie—with eye-holes cut hastily into the weave— off the kidnapper’s head. 

Gladio’s demeanour soured tangibly. Ignis felt a wash of a strange pity. 

Their captor was just a kid. 

A boy of maybe sixteen, seventeen, with a mop of brown hair and the glint of braces on his teeth. The shirt underneath the black raincoat was printed with a character from one of the shows Ignis had seen Noctis watching a couple of weeks ago. 

What in the Six were highschoolers doing kidnapping the Prince and his two most well-known staff? 

There was a rough rasping as Gladio scraped a hand along his face, then scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “Well. Fuck.”

For the second time that day, Ignis forwent the correction of language because he found himself agreeing too much. 

“We still need to get in there and get Noct,” he murmured, reaching down now to search the boy’s pockets. “Despite their age, they have still committed high treason, and Noct’s still in danger.” There was very little of interest in his pockets: a tissue, what looked like a Caramello bar wrapper, a wallet that contained three coins and no driver’s licence or ID, and— there! Ignis pulled free a Swiss Army knife, in surprisingly good condition.

Gladio hummed at his words, stepping back to the edge of the corner and peering around. Ignis got to his feet again, finding nothing in the way of a phone— or even a pager— to contact the Marshal, and went to join the Shield. He held out the Army knife. 

Gladio shook his head. “You’re better with knives than I am. Keep it, I’ll find something else if we need it.” 

Ignis would’ve insisted that Gladio take it, if they had been in a less stressful situation. But time was of the essence and it should not be wasted arguing. 

So Ignis pocketed it himself. It was a pitiful weapon, but better than nothing. 

They crept closer to the door, Gladio letting Ignis peer through the tiny gap— thank the Gods that the boy had left it slightly ajar— and get a lay of the room inside. 

It was a sight to behold. 

Ignis began signing as he scanned, passing on the information he deemed Gladio would find most vital. Small, square, no decent cover. Target unconscious/incapacitated. Centre. 

Seven opponents. Five visible weapons, guns. Agitated.

Ignis paused, fingers uplifted as he squinted at something in the far corner, cursing bitterly his less-than-perfect eyesight. The black box at the end of the room was shaped sort of weirdly, with a reflective screen to the right…

Ignis clenched his fist, then signed observation. Then fall back, deliberate. 

Gladio moved the moment Ignis’ fingers fell still, heading back around the corner with Ignis on his tail. 

“Observation?” The Shield murmured. “What do you mean?” 

Ignis glanced once back at the door. “They’re filming Noctis. I can only assume they’re taping a request for ransom.” 

Gladio’s jaw spasmed. “The assholes. What’s the plan?” 

Ignis hesitated, mind terribly blank. It was almost an impossible situation— two still-somewhat injured captives armed only with a Swiss Army knife and Crownsguard training against seven scared but bold teenagers with guns. The only advantage they had over Noctis’ captors was the element of surprise. 

“I am confident they’re going to be hesitant to shoot us face-to-face, unless surprised,” Ignis said, closing his eyes to get a better picture of the room. “They’re only kids and I suspect they are a little out of their depth.” 

“It was a well-planned ambush though,” Gladio said. “They knew where we were going to be, how to stop the car and get all three of us to another location before any Crownsguard turned up.” 

Ignis inclined his head, eyes still closed. “You’re right there. But there is an ocean of difference between good timing and a well-executed plan and the courage to pull the trigger on a person you have talked with. We should know that better than most.” 

Gladio hummed. “So they may be following their plan, hesitant to actually kill, but going to be a little jumpy.” 

“Exactly.” 

There was a pause, both of them formulating furiously. The guns are going to be the hard part— we both have been trained by the best at hand-to-hand combat, but there is little one can do against a projectile without protection. Bursting in will be a dangerous course of action, as they might start firing without thinking. 

Gladio broke the silence. “Are you feeling up to a little more magic?” 

Ignis opened his eyes, frowning. “I have a little more in me yet. What were you thinking?” 

Gladio scratched at his jaw again. “You said there was no cover, right?” Ignis nodded, confirming the Shield’s words. “And they’ve got guns. It doesn’t take a genius to know that barging in without cover is stupid. So, what if we brought our own?”

Ignis’ frown deepened as he tried to figure out the Shield’s line of reasoning. There was nothing on the sides of the corridor, nothing they could have taken from the room beforehand… then it clicked. “Gladio, you’re brilliant!” 

Gladio grinned, crooked to the right. “I’ll always surprise you. Now, you do your magic thing, and I’ll hold it up.” 

It was difficult, as Ignis— despite how he’d reassured Gladio— had very little left to give, but he managed to produce a flame on the tips of his fingers. He stoked it, pulling heat from his own limbs to fuel it and if Gladio glanced over at him in concern as he started to shake, Ignis ignored him pointedly. 

He managed to get it burning blue-hot— though he needed to move quickly. 

Ignis stepped forward and pressed the flame to the hinges of the door, using his left hand to steady his right. Gladio stood just behind his shoulder, supporting the door as one-by-one Ignis melted through the metal, freeing the door from its restraints. 

And if Gladio almost had to decide between catching the door as Ignis finally severed the last one and Ignis himself— Ignis more stubbornly ignored the little twitch of the Shield’s hand as he swayed. 

But there was no time for hesitation. 

The split second between the door coming free, Gladio’s hand twitch, Ignis dismissing the flame and their charge into the room was the important breath they’d had to take in a long while. 

Their own lives, and the life of their Prince relied on it. 

So Ignis took that breath and howled with a ferocity that tore at his throat and burned in his chest— and charged after Gladio. 

*

Ignis' yell sparked something in Gladio’s blood as he hefted the door. It was just on the far side of feral for the normally restrained advisor, and Gladio found himself roaring too, pushing into the room with a little bit of abandon. 

His limbs were on fire, coiled tight for the anticipated fight. This was his element. 

Ignis had been right about the room’s occupants. The moment they realised that their door was moving, the kids-with-guns started firing, the bullets pinging of the door-shield like hailstones as Gladio charged forward, running right towards the closest teen. 

Gladio slammed into them, the door shuddering in his hands as the kid was thrown to the ground. Ignis was moving in an instant, staying just behind the shield so he wasn’t shot full of crap, searching the kid’s pockets for anything else that could be useful. 

It must’ve been absolutely nothing, because Ignis picked up the boy’s semi-automatic; it was weird as shit, the advisor holding a gun. Gladio had seen him handling weapons every other day, but there was something very different about a gun.  

The other kids seemed to have realised that the shoot blindly technique wasn’t really working and, having lost one of their number already, were starting a new one. 

One of them kept enough pressure on the door, randomly spitting bullets so Gladio and Ignis had to remain behind their cover, unable to see shit.

“They’re moving, Gladio,” Ignis hissed, head tilted slightly. Gladio pushed the sound of the bullets aside, trying to catch what the advisor had heard. There. A slight scuffing, like sneakers on concrete. Ignis was right. 

“We have to get Noct, before he gets hit by something stray,” Gladio rasped, arms starting to shake a little under the weight of the door. 

“Start moving to the right,” Ignis said, risking a quick glance around the edge of their cover. “He’s still strapped to the chair in the centre.” 

Gladio grunted and hefted the door up again, shuffling with Ignis to their right. The kids clocked onto their tactic almost immediately. 

“I think it might almost be time to drop the door,” Ignis commented as the fire changed direction, forcing Gladio to haul ass to cover them again. 

“And get shot full of slugs?” Gladio said, grimacing as his arms spasmed. “No thanks.” 

If Ignis had had the opportunity to pin him under one of his withering glares, Gladio knew he would’ve. “That’s not particularly desirable to me either, but we’re basically blind while we hide!” 

Gladio didn’t say anything as they continued their painfully slow shuffle to where they thought Noctis might be, Gladio occasionally forced to shove the door to another angle to halt another line of bullets. Ignis had to fire his acquired gun twice, stopping the kids from trying to flank them. 

After a few moments of aching steps and not enough oxygen, Ignis said— too thoughtful and quiet for a situation like this: “Do you think we can throw it?” 

Gladio coughed out a sound of disbelief. “What, the door?” 

Ignis made a sound in his throat, firing another few shots into the floor to the left before ducking back behind cover again. “Throw it forwards, attempting to knock down and incapacitate as many as possible.” 

Gladio let the door drop to the ground, his arms giving out with a rip of pain along his shoulders. “Shit!” 

Ignis’ head snapped to the side, and before Gladio could blink, the Swiss Army knife was in the man’s slim fingers and spearing out towards one of the kids; one that Gladio had completely missed. You’re getting tired and stupid, Amicitia. 

The knife spun perfectly end over end and slammed into the girl’s leg with a nasty squelch. She screamed, knees buckling, her rifle clattering to the ground as she fell to the side. 

Gladio, deep down inside, somewhere, felt a flicker of guilt. Until something smashed into his right shoulder with an agony so intense Gladio almost screamed himself. 

Ignis was already moving to take down the kid that had shot him as Gladio pressed himself against the door, holding it upright with now his only good hand. He didn’t really register the three shots Ignis took and the cry of pain from the teenager. 

Holy fucking shit. 

The bullet wound in his shoulder burned as though it was on fire, rippling pain along his spine and arm. He didn’t have time to stop though. 

Ignis was already back by his side, one gloved hand on the back of Gladio’s neck. His voice swirled dangerously with the rest of the room as the pain redoubled, threatening to knock Gladio on his ass. 

“—adio! Gladio, can you hear me?” Bullets pinged off the door again. Ignis’ face swam in his field of vision, the light reflecting off his glasses in the most peculiar way. 

It was then that Gladio realised he was nearly fucking delirious. 

“Gladio!” 

“Iggy, you can stop shouting.” 

Ignis looked like he was one step away from laughing hysterically. “Are you okay?” 

Gladio nodded, because he could compartmentalise, that was his one job— take a hit and keep going until either his Prince was safe or he was dead. 

His Prince wasn’t safe, and he wasn’t dead. 

“I’m alive,” Gladio grunted, shoving aside the agony in his shoulder and nailing into a little box at the back of his mind. “We gotta get a move on.” 

Ignis, for the nth time that day, seemed to put aside further comment and focus back on the situation. “Do you think you’ve got it in you to throw this door?” 

Gladio really wanted to say: I was just shot and I’m gonna bleed out in the next half hour, so what the fuck do you think? But instead he gritted his teeth, stapled that thought to the side of the box and nodded. 

Ignis' gaze rested on him for a fraction of a second, then the advisor dropped his stolen rifle and grabbed the other side of the door. “Alright then. On three?” 

Gladio responded by shifting his grip, adding more nails to the box. “On three.” 

“One.” Gladio tensed, crouching slightly to use his legs for more power. 

“Two.” There was a kid coming around the side, probably wondering why they had stopped moving—

“And three!” Gladio roared as he lifted the door up and pushed it away, Ignis yelling in a similar manner just to his right. It was fucking heavy, but they managed to get pretty good distance. 

Two more of the teenagers screamed as the door collided with them, throwing them back with a loud crack and pinning them for the moment. 

The moment the steel left their fingers, however, Ignis and Gladio were both moving in a silent, unspoken plan. 

Gladio sprinted over to Noctis, catching the Swiss Army knife as it slid across the concrete— Ignis rolled away from the girl who had had it embedded in her leg and lept at one of the only two who remained standing. 

Gladio didn’t stay to watch however, trusting Iggy’s work. Instead, he knelt down in front of Noctis, reaching up to cup a hand to the Prince’s face. 

“Hey, Princess. Can you wake up for me?” He asked, flipping the Swiss Army knife in his hand to get a better grip, added more nails to the box, and began sawing at the ropes around Noctis’ legs. 

Noctis stirred slightly at Gladio’s touch, the blood that matted his black hair starting to crack, flakes of it curling down to land on the back of his hands. “...Gladio?” 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Gladio said, keeping his voice carefully, dreadfully steady. “We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?”

“Head hurts.” Noctis mumbled, eyes flickering slightly as his head lolled forward. 

“It’s probably ‘cause you got whacked pretty hard, dumbass,” Gladio said as one of the ropes fell free and he started on another. 

“Iggy?” The Price asked, eyes finally stuttering open. 

“He’s alright, don’t worry. He’s over there, finishing off the last of them.” 

As if on cue, there was another scream and the sounds of pleading; and a very exasperated Ignis saying: “Calm down, I’m not going to kill you!” 

Gladio was drawn back into his now very cloudy head by Noctis reaching out with a recently freed hand and brushing at the ruined fabric around the bullet wound in Gladio’s shoulder. 

Noctis’ voice was a lot more coherent as he frowned. “Gladio, you’re hurt.” 

He shrugged, though the nails were starting to ping free of the box. “I’ve had worse.” 

Noctis shifted and Gladio’s heart immediately started pounding as his eyes fluttered closed again— but they snapped open after only just a moment, and the Prince held out an elixir. “It’s all I had in the Armiger, sorry,” He murmured, a wry grin twisting his mouth. “Teaches me to listen to Cor, huh?” 

Gladio took the elixir with a grateful smile, crushing the soft-spun glass in one hand and almost sobbing in relief as the pain drained away. He began again on the ropes with a renewed determination— now that his shoulder wasn’t aching. “What, the emergency contingency plans that he drills everyone on?” 

“Maybe he does actually know what he’s talking about.” 

Gladio cut through the last rope, and pushed himself to his feet, offering a hand to Noctis as he slipped the Swiss Army knife into one of his pockets. “He is the Marshal for a reason.” 

Noctis swayed a little— but, as though by some ancient and weird-ass magic, Ignis appeared at his side as though he was the one who could warp. 

“Noctis!” 

The advisor immediately began his on-brand fussing, reaching up to gauge the wound on Noctis’ forehead and the sores on his wrists from the ropes. 

Gladio turned away, content to let his partner do his thing as he did best. The Shield instead took stock of the room for the first time. 

To say it was a bit of a mess would be an understatement. 

Concrete lay in crumbled piles under pockmarked walls, bullets shining in little crumpled balls nearby. 

Blood lay in rapidly drying rusty pools, spattered in all manners of crime-scene. The camera in the corner had survive somehow unharmed, and was still filming happily, despite the carnage it must have recorded. 

One kid lay near the open doorway, blood plastering his face— the one he’d run into, he assumed. Three more were in various stages of consciousness, sporting carefully non-lethal bullet wounds. The girl who’d scored a knife to the leg seemed to have passed out in the interim, two were still pinned under the door, and currently unmoving, and the last was sitting up against the wall in the corner. 

He was sitting up against the wall in the corner, one hand straying towards the gun to his left—

He was sitting up—

Gladio watched the next second and half in a series of broken images, a stunted animation that was missing key movements. 

He couldn’t move, shout, blink as the boy very definitely raised the gun and fired directly at Ignis’ back. 

Gladio watched the frames of the bullet stuttering across the room as he staggered to get to Ignis in time, shove him and Noctis away from the danger— but he seemed to be stuck four frames too late, trapped in the past because the bullet was moving much much faster than he was—

There was one terrible moment where the animation froze, the fabric of Ignis’ shirt just stopping the metal shell that was about to rip into his chest. 

Then time resumed and Gladio couldn’t name the sound that came out of his mouth. 

Ignis staggered and gasped, a tiny little thing that seemed so very loud in the silence that followed the gunshot. Gladio barely registered the clatter of a gun behind them as presumably the boy passed out again as he tore forward, back to Ignis’ side. 

The advisor looked down from Noctis’ face to his chest, where a dark dark red was already beginning to bloom like some demented flower, staining the white cotton. 

Ignis blinked upwards again, mouth opening wordlessly. He frowned, one hand twitching. “It… It appears I’ve been shot.” 

And his knees buckled. 

Gladio just managed to catch him before he hit the floor. Ignis was already shivering, red staining the corners of his mouth. Gladio’s heart pounded in his chest, filling his ears with a rushing, roaring sound that didn’t help the panic that had reared its head. 

“Hey, Iggy, look at me,” He said, laying the advisor down on the concrete, trying not to think about how Ignis hated laying on the ground, because of all the dirt there, and how he’d have to clean his clothes even better later. “Iggy, look at me.” 

Ignis’ eyes were unfocused, but they drifted towards Gladio’s face at his words. “This hurts more than our practices, Gladio,” he whispered, blood bubbling at each word. 

Gladio was already dragging of his tank top and pressing it into Ignis’ chest, trying to stop the red that was pouring from the advisor’s lungs, staining his shirt, Gladio’s hands, the ground—

“I know, Iggy, I know.” Ignis’ eyes drifted away from his face again, straying dreadfully near to closed. Gladio’s throat tightened and he shook the advisor as gently as one could while holding someone’s life-blood in their chest. “Hey, Ignis, no, you gotta stay awake—” 

Ignis frowned softly, his blink very very slow. “I will try my best.” 

Gladio tore his gaze away from Ignis, and up to the Prince. Noctis stood frozen, face dreadfully pale, a few drops of blood dripping down his cheek— a perfect statue. 

“Noct, you gotta get a potion, or an elixir— anything! ” Gladio yelled. Noctis stirred slightly, but he still wasn’t moving. 

Ignis wasn’t really either anymore. 

“NOCTIS!” Gladio yelled again, dragging on his connection to the Prince with all of his might, trying to jolt him out of the shock he’d fallen into. “Noct, you gotta do something.” 

Ignis shifted under his hands, eyes half-lidded. “Gladio… Don’t yell.”

Gladio barely restrained a hysterical laugh— but his yelling had worked. Noctis jerked alive again, and fell to his knees on Ignis’ other side. 

“Ignis!” 

“Noct, do you have any potions in the Armiger?” Gladio said, almost hating how steady his voice sounded when his mind was almost static. “Anything with a speck of healing magic?” 

Noctis could only shake his head. “No. No, I’ve got nothing.” 

Ignis coughed and Gladio’s stomach churned as he felt blood bubble up under his fingers— the advisor reached out a hand for Noctis to take. “It’s alright, Your Highness.” He almost couldn’t watch as a trail of blood arced its way down Ignis’ chin. “You are safe, and that is all that matters.” 

Noctis shook his head again, violently, vehemently. “No!” 

A sound caught Gladio’s attention. It was faint, but there: a crash and a yell, words that almost sounded like—

“ Noct , the Crownsguard are here,” Gladio hissed, relief burning through his chest hot enough to hurt. “You need—” 

Noctis was already on his feet, warping towards the door.

Ignis stirred again as Noctis left, that little frown returning. He looked like he wanted to say something, but blood filled his mouth again, dribbling out and staining his lips. The frown faded into fear as Ignis jerked a little under Gladio’s hands as he failed to draw breath, the awful red clogging all of his throat and lungs and—

Ignis didn’t take that breath. Gladio’s heart stopped. 

No. No, no, no, no, no—

Gladio threw his blood-soaked top to the side, jaw very tight and eyes smarting. “Don’t you dare Ignis. Don’t you fucking dare.” The concrete was tacky warm as he knelt up, lacing his hands together and placing them once again over Ignis’ chest. 

And he started compressions, the motions hammered into his brain from years of first aid training— a third of the chest, thirty compressions, two breaths, if the ribs break, it’s better that they’re alive with broken bones—

Gladio had never had to do it on an actual person before. He had never needed too—

He had never felt someone’s rib cage flexing in such a way. Apologies were falling from his lips in a constant stream, pausing only when he leant down to force air into Ignis’ already liquid-full lungs, starting up even faster the moment he resumed compressions. 

The advisor’s blood was on Gladio’s own lips now, and his mouth tasted of iron, his stomach roiling black. 

“Come on, Iggy!” He choked out, each jolt of the compressions threatening to spill the tears that had gathered in his eyes, blurring his vision. “Don’t you die on me—” 

Ignis still hadn’t taken another breath, and when Gladio quickly checked his pulse while leaning down to give another two breaths it was less than a flutter. 

If Noctis didn’t get back soon, it would be too late for even a Phoenix Down. 

Another thirty. Two breaths. Another thirty. Two breaths—

Gladio couldn’t find Ignis’ pulse. 

He stopped his compressions for the barest of moments, searching desperately under the advisor’s chin for that perfect spot, expecting to feel even a little hint of a beat; but there was nothing. No movement under Gladio’s fingers. 

Nothing at all. 

No. 

Ignis— Ignis, he can’t—

His mind didn’t really register as he resumed compressions again— his body working through the movements entirely on muscle memory. 

His thoughts were black static. He can’t— he can’t die. 

A rough hand came down on his shoulder and started to pull him away from his fallen friend, but he fought, tearing himself free of the stranger’s grip, desperate to force some life back into Ignis— he shouldn’t look like that, all pale and still and bloody. The hands came back, another set of them now, tucking under his armpits to drag him away; Gladio howled at them, words incoherent even to his own ears— because Ignis could still be saved, just another thirty and another two and he’d be back on his feet with that sly little smile that he reserved only for his closest friends—

“Gladio, you need to stop!” a voice yelled in his ears as they dragged him to a stop and pinned him there. “It’s going to be alright; he’s going to be alright!” 

Gladio struggled, trying to rip his arms free. “He’s not, can’t you see?” 

His captor’s face finally swam into view— the hard lines and unforgiving eyes that were way too soft of Cor. The Marshal took him by the shoulders again, blocking his line of sight to Ignis. “Gladio, you need to pull yourself together! We’ve got a Phoenix Down, Ignis is going to be fine!” 

Gladio’s throat felt tight enough to split in two— and the tears that had been gathering in his eyes finally spilled over. He couldn’t find any words. 

Cor smiled, a sad twisted thing that Gladio hated and cupped a hand around the back of Gladio’s neck. “It’s gonna be alright.” 

*

Ignis was first aware of a fire in his chest. 

It was terrible and wonderful at the same time, burning lines of flame through his limbs, bones and blood. 

It hurt; if Ignis was able he would’ve torn into his own flesh with his fingernails to gouge the lava out, let it drain onto the floor and burn there instead. 

But he couldn’t move. His limbs were flipping between seized tight and spasming, his teeth ached as his jaw clenched ever tighter— 

“Ignis, you have to breathe,” a voice called from beyond the wall of the fire-lightning storm that shrouded his mind. He hadn’t realised he wasn’t breathing. 

The fire swirled, dragging up from his limbs and pooling in his chest again; Ignis felt every line of his back stiffen, his spine arching into the air as his clenched fists stuttered against the floor— there was a cool hand on his shoulder and his knees and his ankles and the voice was wobbly when it said: “Ignis, it’s gonna be okay!” 

But— but I’m burning alive?

His elbow smarted as it slammed against the ground, sending a different kind of fire along his limbs; one of the voices cursed, saying: “You gotta hold him still, he’s gonna break something—” 

It felt like he was about to break, not unlike a charcoaled branch in the middle of a bonfire finally scorching through. 

“Iggy, can you open your eyes for me?” The first voice asked, and Ignis finally put a name to it: it was Noct, of course it was Noct— how had he not recognised his charge—

Ignis peeled his eyes open, and Noctis’ face smeared across his vision. 

“That’s it! Just focus on me, okay, Iggy?” 

Ignis didn’t dare open his mouth; he was unsure of what might come out of it. Not that he would’ve been able to unclench his jaw. 

Ignis kept his eyes locked on Noctis’ face, finding it easier than the blackness behind his closed lids, though the tears that dripped along the sides of his face were humiliating. 

Noctis reached out and wiped one of them away, as though the Prince had read his thoughts. “It’s alright, it’s going to wear off soon.” 

Ignis convulsed again, though the hands kept him from cracking anything else against the concrete floor. “Noct— Noct—” His jaw was determined to abort every word, spasming enough that he feared for his tongue. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Noctis said, his words so close to shattering into glittering crystalline shards. “I’m here, don’t you worry.” 

Ignis’ breath hitched, and Noctis’ eyes widened— but through some feat of pure determination, Ignis forced his lungs to resume their proper duties and gasped out through the fire in his chest: “‘You okay?

Noctis actually laughed, a wet ugly sound. “Yeah, Iggy, I’m okay! You’re the one we’re worried about.” 

The lava in his veins was starting to cool now, leaving black stone in its wake. “You— you d-don’t need to be w-worried about me.” 

Noctis smiled, and it was so impossibly sad Ignis wished he hadn’t at all. “Whatever you say, dumbass.” 

Ignis might’ve pulled him up on the language, saying that those sorts of colloquialisms were more suited in the mouth of one Amicitia, but his eyelids were impossibly heavy and the fire in his chest had finally smouldered out. So the words were never said, falling through the cracks in Ignis’ rapidly failing consciousness. 

Noctis noticed and he squeezed Ignis’ shoulder with another little smile. “You can rest now, Iggy. We’ll see you in a bit.” 

Ignis was never one to ignore an order from a Prince. So he let go, allowing himself to fall back into that blissful blackness without fire and blood— and rest for just a moment. 

*

Ignis passed out, and Noctis was glad for it. 

He hated the tightness in his friend’s every movement, the terrible seizure-like thrashing that the Phoenix Down had caused— the magic was powerful and was on the line of doing more damage than healing. 

He hated how his hands and face itched with Ignis’ blood, how the concrete around his knees was still damp with it. 

He hated how red Gladio’s eyes were, and how careful Cor’s movements were. 

He hated it all. 

These men, his friends, knew their duties. They knew that they could full-well die for him— in Gladio’s case, that was his entire life’s purpose. They knew that Noctis was the first priority. 

Noctis would do just about anything to be free of it. 

Ignis would look almost peaceful now, if it weren’t for the blood staining his entire shirt, running down lines from his mouth, or the slight tension under his eyes. 

Noctis pushed himself to his feet, letting the Crownsguard who had held Iggy through his seizures do their job— the paramedic amongst them barking orders, getting his advisor onto a stretcher and ready to move. 

He staggered over to Gladio and sat down by the Shield’s side. 

They didn’t need to say anything. They both knew what was in their heads. 

So when Gladio leant over closer, drawing Noctis into a one-armed, side hug, Noctis didn’t mind letting the accumulated stress and grief and pain finally spill out. 

He wasn’t going to say anything if Gladio’s breathing felt a little shaky against his back either. 

The Citadel Recovery Wards stirred up all sorts of memories as Noctis scuffed his way over to the room Ignis was in. His father had made sure to keep him busy for the last four hours, running Noctis through all sorts of random royal crap that he was gonna (probably never) have to use sometime in the future; his back ached as he pushed open the door into Ignis’ room and slung his bag onto the floor, 

Iggy looked up from his book as Noctis slumped into a chair, a small smile on his face. 

“Long day?” 

Noctis grunted a mostly affirmative sound and tipped his head back until it collided with the wall. “Dad had me doing half the Prince’s Handbook.” 

Ignis chuckled, closing his own book with a soft snap. “That sounds like quite the ordeal.” 

Noctis dragged his head upright again, and glanced Ignis’ way. “Yeah, a bit. How are you doing?” 

Ignis tipped his head in a universal motion for so-so. “Much better than yesterday. At this rate I should be up and resuming my normal duties by tomorrow.” 

Noctis would have to speak to the doctors themselves about that one; but he let it slide, not wanting the half-argument that would definitely happen if he objected. So he settled on a much safer topic. “Anyone come to visit you today?” 

Ignis smiled, pushing his glasses up with one hand. “Gladio was here for a fair bit of the day, despite my insistence that I would be quite alright alone, but he just left— something about a development in the case. Prompto also came by this morning— though how he was not late for school, I have no idea.” 

Noctis raised an eyebrow, settling more comfortably into his chair. “Prompto came by? What for?” 

Ignis’ eyes twinkled, in that conspiratorial way they did when the advisor shared choice tidbits of gossip. “He said it was so I could give him a hand with a question for his legal studies class, but I suspect that was a thinly veiled excuse. We only talked about bureaucracy for a couple of minutes, in the end.” 

It was Noctis’ turn to smile now. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” 

“He was quite sweet,” Ignis said. “He even asked me about my own reading, though his eyes did gloss over rather rapidly as I began to talk about it.” 

Noctis snorted. “Also sounds like him.” He leant over to get a glimpse of the cover of Ignis’ book, and had to contain a second snort. “Though, honestly, I can’t blame him. That’s what you chose for a hospital stay?”

Ignis sniffed, tapping the bridge of his glasses in a mock-imperious manner. “The Snow-Aderan theory of economics is light reading, I’ll have you know.”

“What, the stuff they made you study for third year economics in uni?”

“It was assumed knowledge at that point. I know for a fact that you did it in college, because I clearly remember you grovelling on the couch for my assistance with your homework.” 

Noctis gasped, clapping a hand to his chest. “Grovelling? I would never! A Prince never grovels.” 

Ignis raised an eyebrow. “It seems you have been learning something, then.” 

Noctis slumped lower into his chair again. “Just get on with your book, Specs.” 

Ignis chuckled softly as he picked up the textbook again and flipped it open to his previous page. 

A silence lulled for a moment, Noctis content to listen to Ignis’ steady breathing and the occasional shwip of a page being turned. It was peaceful, in a way that Noctis definitely didn’t associate with hospitals— so it wasn’t long before he found his eyelids getting heavy. 

Gladio interrupted them. 

The Shield stumped into the room, saw Noctis in the chair, seemed to consider terfing him out for a moment; then sat down on the end of the bed as Ignis closed his book again and patted the blankets. 

Gladio then scrubbed a hand along his face and sighed. 

Noctis exchanged a glance with Iggy. 

“You said there was a development?” Ignis said patiently, as Gladio just sat there, saying nothing at all. 

Gladio’s expression was grave when he finally did speak. “Yeah. They broke pretty easily under interrogation.” 

“They were very young,” Ignis murmured. Noctis’ jaw clenched, almost of its own volition. Those kids had been the exact same age he was, give or take a year. 

And they’d captured a prince, shot both his retinue, killing one— though thank the Six and luckily for them, not permanently. 

If Noctis was allowed to visit them, there were several things he would quite like to do to them. Which was probably why Clarus had said he probably shouldn’t. 

Gladio sighed again. “Dad got a full confession out them, including an actual explanation as to why the fuck they thought it would be a good idea to kidnap a prince. Apparently they thought it would be fun .”

Ignis’ left eyebrow shot up. “Fun?”

Noctis didn’t say anything, but the hot anger in his belly flared alive again. 

He hadn’t feared much for his own life during the kidnapping: through his extensive (and forced, both learned and— once— experienced) knowledge of kidnappings and other such ‘detainings of his person’ meant that he was mostly likely not gonna be killed. As the heir to the throne of Lucis, Noctis was infinitely more valuable alive. 

He hadn’t feared for his own life, because he was protected— ironically and painfully— by the Crown; and the money it could provide. 

He’d feared for Gladio and Ignis’ lives, because kidnappers tended to have no such qualms about killing a lowly servant, as stated bluntly and truthfully by Cor. They were bargaining chips in that sorta situation, nothing more. 

The anger churned, sitting heavy in his gut. Fun? They had the balls to say they thought it would be fun? 

Gladio nodded. “As it turns out, they’re the band of criminals that have been annoying the Lucis police for about a year. You know the museum that got broken into a couple of months ago?” At a nod from both, Gladio tipped his head to the side with a wry smirk. “That was them.” 

“You’re saying the teenagers that captured us were the ones who stole that Bain painting?” Ignis asked, with more than a touch of incredulity. “The one that the gallery estimated was worth about a million dollars, and appeared to have been stolen by professionals?” 

Gladio shrugged one shoulder, clearly still unsettled by the information he’d gotten. “I can show you the tapes later, because it's straight up freaky. The leader admits to a whole list of other things they’ve done— one of which was stealing from a bank— and when he’s asked why they did it, he says ‘we liked the adrenaline rush.’ The police were pretty weirded out by this, ‘cause you know, usually people go skydiving or something like that, but the kid followed it up with ‘because the drag car racing wasn’t giving enough kick anymore, so we thought we’d try something harder.’” 

Noctis felt like he was going to punch something and barf, maybe at the same time. 

Gladio leant back on his hands, Ignis tucking his legs to the side under the covers so his ankles weren’t crushed. “They said that they’d started with a home robbery, liked the thrill and moved up from there. Apparently, they were having a conversation about a month ago, and one of them suggests they try and kidnap our lovely Princess here, see if they could get a ransom. If not, they’d ditch Noct and run before they could get caught.” 

Ignis ran his thumb over his bottom lip, eyes thoughtful. “I assume that means they weren’t expecting our presence then.” 

Gladio barked a cold laugh. “The upstart asshole said that ‘yeah, we knew that the Prince’d probably have some sorta bodyguard, so we planned a crash to try and knock out as many of them as possible.’ The bit that really makes me mad is that it worked.” 

 Ignis made a noise in his throat, still staring at the far wall. 

Noctis ground his teeth together, wondering again if Cor would let him into the Citadel cells to have a one-on-one chat— he was just about to ask Gladio if he would talk to his dad, maybe get him some leeway when—
"IGGY, I need your help— ”  

Prompto skidded around the corner into Ignis’ room— then froze. The sheet of paper in his right hand curled and flopped over his hand as he stepped back, mouth dropping open. 

“Oh. You guys look busy. I can— I can come back later.” Prompto was already making for the door again when Ignis stopped him. 

“Prompto, come in! We were just finishing up as it was. What can I do for you?”  

Prompto took a few hesitant steps in, glancing at Noctis with eyes that were still too afraid. 

Noctis had reassured the other teen that Gladio and Ignis did like him, and didn’t just tolerate his presence, but it never quite did seem to stick. Neither did Noctis’ insistence that both were not that scary, it was just their jobs to be, especially on Gladio’s part. 

So he gave his friend the tiniest of nods, just enough that Prompto would see— and Ignis and Gladio would see and purposefully ignore. 

Prompto’s sunburst-bright grin flashed into existence, and he hurried over to Ignis’ bedside, carefully scooting around Gladio’s legs. “You know how I came this morning to ask you about my homework?” 

Ignis nodded, then glanced at Gladio meaningfully; the Shield groaned and shifted along the bed to provide enough space for Prompto to sit down. “Yes, I do. Did you need an actual explanation, seeing as we never did quite get to that?” 

Prompto beamed a thank-you-smile at Gladio, then perched on the bed, straightening out the sheet of paper again. “Yeah, well, I got that bit— but our teacher pulled out this on us today and I think I’m going to cry.” 

Ignis took the piece of paper from Prompto as the smaller man offered it out in desperation, straightening his glasses with the other. “Ah, you’re starting the finer points of the Lucian government, I see. An extremely exciting, if daunting endeavour. Where shall we start?” 

Prompto scrubbed at the back of his knuckles, a sheepish smile creeping across his lips now. “At the beginning?” 

Ignis’ lip twitched, but he took it in stride. “I’ll begin with the Higher Governing Council; which I attend every second Tuesday. It is comprised of seven elected governmental officials—” 

Noctis felt his eyes drift shut, smiling small and soft as Ignis continued his explanation, occasionally interceded by Gladio’s soft rumble as his Shield added another bit of information and the ‘ah!’ moment of Prompto as he finally got it. 

The hot rage in his gut had cooled somewhat, tempering into a steel-like ore that still sat heavy. It was an unease and anger that he would have to deal with sometime in the future— but for now? He was perfectly content to drift into a doze, comforted by the fact that his friends were close, alive and well. 

It was going to be alright.