Chapter Text
Everything hurt. The dull ache of life stomped heftily through Arthur’s muscles, half-frozen and stiff from death. He stirred, coughing weakly; he recognized the weight of a blanket atop him, yet it did little to still the immediate wave of claustrophobia, and even that became drowned out as every movement sent terrible, feverish aches down his limbs. I chose this, he reminded himself. He would choose it again and again, but God above, he wished he didn’t have a body.
Arthur blinked his eyes open and, expectedly, he was blind. What he hadn’t anticipated was color.
The watery morning sun intensified the white walls around him. He could make out blurry movement near the foot of his bed—two figures, one short and pale with white clothes that melded into the surrounding room, one large and dark and oddly familiar.
Sound came next. The two shapes were, presumably, people, although one of them sounded like a rather irate thundercloud. The other—a doctor, Arthur realized—was firm and impatient, his composure an intentional insult to whomever he spoke to. Over the trill of tinnitus, Arthur heard a rich baritone spitting curses that he guessed were highly inappropriate for a medical setting. Affection and relief bloomed inside him. He’d know that voice anywhere.
“John?” he coughed.
“Arthur!”
Arthur tried to sit up; John was at his side hastily. “Easy, easy,” John urged, “You’ve– well, I don’t know what happened, but I…”
Arthur sighed and closed his eyes; his throat felt full of gravel and his head throbbed painfully. He reached out blindly, his knuckles brushing warm skin. His hand was quickly sandwiched between John’s palm and jaw, and Arthur found himself smiling deliriously, stretching his thumb to trace over John’s nose and eyelids. Distantly, Arthur heard a disgusted sniff and the click of footsteps walking away. He paid it no mind, only leaning closer to John.
“I… probably should’ve practiced what to say, hm?”
A weight sunk into the bed beside his waist and—oh, John was shaking. Arthur lifted his free arm, inviting John closer, and the man settled over his chest like a blanket. He gathered himself beneath Arthur’s chin and Arthur felt hot, wet tears seep into his hospital gown. He sighed, lovingly petting John’s hair.
Arthur had held John just once before. He recalled the static of John’s form, the way his hands sank through John just a bit; John’s arms were firm against him, but the core of him felt more akin to a condensed gale, spinning over on itself rapidly, creating something almost tangible. He smelled of ozone, back then, and Arthur had no idea what he looked like.
Now, the heavy comfort of John laid (albeit awkwardly) across his torso eased a great deal of his pain. He was soft in the belly but strong—from manual labor, perhaps? His hair obscured a great deal of his face but it was as black as the night sky and smelled of rosemary. This was his John; Arthur would know him anywhere, in any form he took, but this human was so solidly his friend that, for a moment, Arthur forgot how John came to be. The heart monitor audibly slowed to a relaxed tempo, and Arthur smiled.
“I missed you, my friend. How long have you been here?”
“Overnight,” John warbled. It was a miracle, feeling John’s words in his skin. He pressed his face into the top of John’s head.
“I talked to you,” John continued, “Did you hear me?”
“I’m afraid not. I don’t recall dreaming, either. Although…”
There was more Arthur remembered. More he could not yet say. The creaking rasp of one entity’s voice, furious and low—another, all too familiar, sarcastic yet fair. He didn’t remember exactly what was said, but he felt something pierce the edges of him and tug him back towards himself. The voices grew clearer and clearer. (In hindsight, he recognized them both, and realized sadly that he would never be able to repay his debt to the being who argued his case to the Dollmaker. Lillith was not his friend, but she valued his sacrifice towards stopping Kayne enough to scrape the remnants of him back together.)
Then, Arthur remembered the choice. Stay gone, or come back?
It was a decision made on instinct. Years ago he would have taken death above all else, especially in place of the agony that living brought. But now his soul sang with a desire to live, and so he had been unceremoniously dumped back into the mortal coil. So similar to Addison was it that he had lifted his palm to his throat, expecting blood. Alas, now all he had to contend with was hypothermia. A blessing, really.
“-thur? Arthur?”
John slowly untangled himself; both of them regretted the loss of proximity. Calloused fingers brushed a bit of hair off of Arthur’s forehead (the deep love that warmed his heart now matched the volume of his pain.)
“Hm? Oh?”
“You zoned out,” John pointed out around a yawn. “You must still be exhausted.”
“Hypocrite! You didn’t need to sleep in a hospital chair for me, you know,” Arthur commented, still smiling softly.
“What if you woke up and needed something?”
“Oh, John, that’s a job for the hospital staff. Really, it would’ve been alright–”
“Stop that,” John chided, “You would’ve done the same for me.”
Arthur huffed. “Yes, well… oh, you’re right. Thank you for staying. I-I’m sure you didn’t sleep very well, so make sure to rest when you get home.”
Arthur heard the door open once more; he squinted through the painful light, having to glance around John to see who entered. All he could make out was a brown overcoat.
“Doll, why’d I just get hunted down by a nurse who said you were almost…”
Parker? Arthur wondered briefly. But no, this voice sounded cleaner. Slower, a touch more gentle.
“Noel, h-he’s awake.”
“Noel?” Arthur breathed, his eyes widening with relief. “You’re alive! Oh, Jesus Christ, I-I… I didn’t even— I’m sorry, I didn’t even think you were…”
Arthur choked up, unexpectedly emotional at the sound of his friend’s voice. He heard the detective stutter and mutter something like good to see you too. Shortly after, he felt John leave his side with one last touch to his hand. They spoke quietly about him; from what little he could hear of Noel’s tone, the older man was clipped and wary, but acquiescent toward John’s much quicker words.
A moment of quiet passed. Then, Noel asked, “Think you can stand? We’ll take you home once they let you out.”
Could he stand? The blood that rushed away from his head as he tried to sit up told him no, but the idea of home was too enticing to give up on. He grit his teeth and forced his legs over the edge of the bed. That alone hurt so terribly that he nearly wept, but he stood nonetheless, a vice grip on the small guardrail beside him. His limbs were static, a consequence of being immobile for so long. He grunted in effort and took one step, then another, and the pain did not ease but Arthur found himself settling into it like one settles into an old jacket. He was familiar with pain like this. He found himself crossing the room towards where John and Noel stood. When he inevitably stumbled, John caught him and embraced him once again. God, the man was strong. His body perfectly matched the voice that Arthur had grown so accustomed to—strong and gentle, and he leaned into John’s chest as easily as breathing.
Noel stood by; he put a hand on John’s back and offered to fetch the doctor. Arthur sighed in solace, allowing John to hold him up.
“I can’t wait to show you our house,” John whispered. “Charlotte is going to love you.”
“Charlotte?” Arthur questioned, amused.
“Our dog!”
“H-hold on, you and Noel have a dog? Since when!”
Arthur then listened, enraptured, to John’s excited stories about his home, and gradually felt the space within it where John had set a place for him.