Archive of Our Own ^beta

You know, Adam’s first thought is that he guesses he should be good at this shit. He remembers locking his bike at the garage, remembers opening his locker, already tired to the bone, and someone’s hand shooting out to grab his arm. There’s a struggle, because honestly Ronan would never let him live it down if he didn’t, and Adam remembers a sharp pain in his head, and then black.

Adam’s second thought: this is going to oh so quickly undo oh so many hours of therapy.

He’s in a dark room, that much he knows, can’t feel his wrists because the dumbasses tied them above his head to the radiator. So, there’s that. He’s just glad the radiator isn’t on.

He wonders if Ronan knows, by now, that he’s gone. Adam was supposed to work late, but it’s long past when he was supposed to meet Ronan to drive to the Barns. Adam feels guilt bubble in his chest; he doesn’t want to be another skull bashed in for Ronan to find. He can’t think about what Ronan must be thinking, but he knows if he wants to stand a chance of whatever the fuck is coming his way he needs to figure out how to scry. But there’s no light, no water, no nothing that’s going to do the trick. Fuck.

Suddenly, there is light.

Adam’s eyes slam shut, and it takes him everything he has not to throw up on himself with the sudden nausea and pain in his skull. When he manages to open them again, there’s a face right in front of him. It’s not one he recognizes, pale and with dark, beady eyes.

“Hello, Adam,” he says, his voice deep and rough. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No,” Adam croaks, and is met with a slap to the face. It’s like they’re not even trying. Adam just gives them a toothy smile. He hopes this is all they’re going to throw it to them.

“We want the Greywarren,” the man whispers. “And you’re the best way to get him to give it up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking—” Adam is cut off with another hit, this time with a closed fist. He spits the blood out of his mouth without ceremony. The other side of his face feels the next hit.

“We don’t want information. We already know Ronan Lynch has it. He just won’t fucking give it up,” the man continues. Adam feels his breath hitch in his chest… this is worse than he thought. He needs to fucking scry, needs to get on whatever fucking page Ronan is on so he doesn’t make this worse. He knows Ronan, and Ronan is going to want to go in immediately; his hamartia is being unable to watch other people hurt, and he’d burn cities in retribution for a bruise. It’s fucked up, this whole thing is fucked up, and Adam is just trying his best to breathe through punches, to will himself not to see Robert Parrish in this man who looks nothing like him.

“Then why do you need me?” Adam asks. Another hit. There’s a flash of a trailer in Adam’s vision. Wait until his therapist gets a load of this shit.

“Persuasion.”

Adam is left alone in the dark again.

Ronan is about to punch a cop in the face. He’s been here for hours, trying to explain that Adam’s goddamn missing, but no one wants to hear it. They don’t care that he’s still seventeen, that he didn’t make it home after his shift, that Ronan hasn’t seen him since he dropped him off at school that morning.

“Why aren’t his parents reporting it?” is asked at the same moment Robert Parrish is brought into the drunk tank, swearing and slurring. That’s fucking ironic. Ronan blocks the Alanis Morissette from his brain, his lips twitching up into a smile involuntarily.

“Because that bag of shit is his father, who he has a restraining order against. He lives with me,” Ronan says through gritted teeth. He wishes Gansey would just fucking get here, but he was in DC this weekend—he doesn’t know how much longer he can sit through this before he goes mad.

But it’s like his words have summoned Robert Parrish’s attention, whose face goes redder at the sight of Ronan.

“The fuck are you doing here, you lil’ fucker?” Robert asks, and Ronan just scoffs. “Did my piece of shit boy finally piss off for good?”

“Yeah, that’s why his parents didn’t report,” Ronan reiterates to the police officer, as Adam’s father vomits on his own shoes.

“Okay. We’ll get some people looking into the security tapes and traffic cams around Boyd’s. May I ask your relation to Adam?” The officer’s voice is suddenly softer, and Ronan just looks Robert Parrish in the face and answers truthfully.

Robert Parrish lets out a roar.

“We need Ronan Lynch’s phone number,” the man says the next time he enters Adam’s room. Adam’s decided to call him Shitface, for no other reason than to stop associating him with Robert Parrish.

“I thought you said you didn’t need information,” Adam says, and gets a kick to his ribs for it. He lets out a wheeze, but nothing else. Shitface doesn’t laugh, but he does crack a smile. “Also good fucking luck. He doesn’t answer his phone.”

“He will. He’s already reported you missing, and it looks like Richard Gansey is trying to get his Congresswoman of a mother involved. But it’s not going to change anything,” Shitface says, and Adam wonders why they’re telling him so much. Shitface has two friends with him, this time, and they’re quick about releasing Adam from the radiator in one direction and dragging him down the hall to a seperate room, where Adam is quickly cuffed to a table.

“I’m not fucking joking. Ronan doesn’t use his phone,” Adam tries, because as good at he is at taking hits, he’d rather avoid whatever they have planned if Ronan doesn’t answer his phone.

“Very well then.” Shitface doesn’t look convinced, and with a simple nod one of the burly men unlocks one of his wrists and holds it immobile on the table, the rest used to restrain Adam. Shitface strikes quick, something metal and hard hitting the knuckle on the base of Adam’s first finger with enough precision that there’s a crack Adam feels and hears simultaneously.

He lets out one gasp.

“Let’s try that again. Ronan Lynch’s phone number?” Adam lets out a muffled cry. He knows what the smart option is: just tell them. There’s two plus sides—Ronan will know what’s happening, and they probably won’t mangle Adam’s entire hand. But then Ronan is going to know, and Adam’s not going to let Ronan put himself in this much danger.

Adam doesn’t respond quickly enough. His middle knuckle gets the same treatment.

Fuck it.

Adam spits out the digits, and Shitface immediately dials the number. Ronan doesn’t answer.

Adam’s ring finger is broken at the knuckle. Adam is trying not to cry out at the pain, so much so that there’s a few tears leaking out of his eyes and he’s biting his own lip bloody. It’s agony, and Adam knows they’re not going to give him something to splint, that he’s not going to be able to grab anything with that hand.

The second time, Ronan picks up.

“I believe I have something of yours,” is what Shitface starts with, and Adam can’t hear what Ronan says. “Give up the Graywarren, and we’ll give the boyfriend back. You have three days.”

“Ronan don’t do it—” Adam gets out, yelling, until one of the faceless thugs has a hand against his mouth. Adam bites down hard, and when he’s released he takes advantage of not being cuffed to anything but one table leg and lifts it. But by the time he’s completely free, he can only make it a few steps before there are arms around his middle, and he’s lifted from the ground. Adam tries to kick back, out, anywhere, yelling both in hopes someone can hear and from the pain in his hand, but it’s useless. Adam is forced to his knees, and there are hands holding him down, holding him so that he can’t even fucking move his neck.

“This one is your fault alone,” Shitface says, and snaps Adam’s pinkie and thumb like it’s nothing. Adam lets out a single sob, his eyes looking at his hand for the first time. It’s already bruising, and it’s swollen so much that it’s going to be useless. But Shitface isn’t done; he grabs the hand and squeezes. It’s so much pain that Adam sees stars, and he knows he screams. “We’ll discuss the full punishment later.”

Adam doesn’t even fight as he’s hauled back to the empty room. They still chain his wrists above his head, and Adam doesn’t register the tears falling down his face until one touches his split lip.

He hopes Ronan didn’t hear him scream. He hopes Ronan has a plan.

He needs to scry.

When the call goes dead Ronan immediately runs to the bathroom and vomits. Gansey is a few steps behind, he knows it, but Ronan is too focused on the sound of Adam’s voice, the sound of his scream. Someone is torturing Adam to get to Ronan.

Ronan has barely started retching before Gansey is at his back, rubbing circles as Ronan white-knuckles the toilet.

“Adam,” he gets out, in between dry heaves. “They… they…”

“Ronan, you have to explain what’s happening. Take your time,” Gansey says, leaning Ronan back against the bathtub. “Take a breath.”

Ronan just shakes his head, wretches again. This time, when he peels himself away from the toilet, his eyes are red and wet.

“Someone took him. They want the Greywarren, and they know I have it,” Ronan says in a single breath. “They hurt him.”

Ronan closes his eyes, unable to watch what looks like grief in Gansey’s face. Instead, Gansey’s arms crash around Ronan, holding his best friend tightly. Ronan clings back, his hands on Gansey’s back like if he holds on tightly it’ll be like nothing is wrong at all.

“I don’t know… I don’t know what to do. Do we tell the police this? I can’t… I can’t…” Ronan can’t get the words to leave his mouth. It feels like his entire body is squeezed tight, down a slide that’s dark and never-ending.

“We should talk to Dean,” is all Gansey says. “My mom is all over the police already. We’ll let her handle that, and we’ll work on a plan.”

“Do you think Adam can scry where he is? Has he been trying to catch me that way?” Ronan tries, but he knows it’s a stretch at best. They probably don’t have Adam anywhere near a ley line. But he can try.

“I wouldn’t count on it. How long did they say we have to procure the Graywarren?” Gansey asks, helping Ronan to his feet.

“Three days.”

“Well, we better talk to Blue.”

Adam doesn’t scry that night. He can’t; his mind is too focused on the sharp shooting pain that periodically comes from his right hand, and without a good object to scry into, it’s impossible to shut the pain center of his brain off. Or his anxiety center.

So he waits in the dark.

In the morning, when the door slams, Adam is finally dozing. There’s something cold dumped on him, and Adam feels his lungs clench, unable to draw in oxygen for a terrifying moment. Adam finally draws a loud breath, but the two goons waste no time in moving him down the hall. The feeling of blood flow returning to his hands is agonizing, and Adam is wheezing through the pain, even as his hands are re-tied to a hook on the table. He’s alone for a few minutes, and then Shitface is back.

“We need to discuss last evening,” he says, sitting down delicately at the other side of the table. He’s wearing almost the same thing as yesterday, an equally clean black number only distinguishable from the last by the cut of the collar.

“Dunno what you want to talk about,” Adam gets out, and his split lip starts bleeding after Cronie #1 takes another swing at his face.

“You seem to require… harsher methods than my associates are used to,” Shitface says, because Adam doesn’t even flinch from fists flying. “But I looked into you, Adam Parrish, and I know why.”

“I know how to take a hit.” Adam spits the blood from his mouth onto the table. “Not that special.”

“Yes, your father taught you well. I wonder if you’re used to this particular punishment,” Shitface says, and then the chair is kicked out from under Adam. His torso crashes into the table, and part of his weight is thrust upon this wrists, and Adam hears a mewl of pain he realizes comes from him.

Adam’s shorts are ripped off of him, and his shirt follows suit.

“You could have at least saved them. Now I gotta buy—” Adam starts to quip, but he’s cut off by the a cracking sound and the familiar pain of leather on skin.

He doesn’t know when he starts screaming, or when he starts crying. Adam loses everything, feels Cabeswater appear at the ends of his vision, trying to push away the room and the trailer competing for his attention. Adam reaches out for it, but it curls just out of his reach. Cabeswater feels like Ronan, feels like home, but it won’t let him go away completely.

It lets him slump against the table, after the buckle bites his shoulder, his ribs, his thighs. Lets his brain float just out of reach, but not the feeling.

“Smile for your boyfriend,” Shitface says, and Adam tries to hide his face in his arms as his bloody back is catalogued forever. They throw him back into the room they’re keeping him in.

One of the guards hesitates with the handcuffs.

“He’s not gonna be able to sit like that,” the guard mumbles, and the haze of pain clears just enough for Adam to feel a second of gratitude. “It’s not like he’s gonna run, or he’ll make it far. Just attach his ankle to the radiator.”

One of the sets of hands on Adam forcing him to the floor is gentler than the other, and Adam knows why. The guard is right. The few seconds Adam has to sit on his bloody and stinging thighs for the guard to latch his ankle to the radiator is agony. As soon as they start to leave, Adam curls up on his side, ignoring the pull from the open wounds.

He doesn’t think they broke his ribs. That’s all that matters.

They leave him there all day.

Adam just thinks of Ronan. He can’t think about his hand, because then he remembers that it hurts, can’t think about his back or his thighs or his ribs or he’ll feel them, too, can’t think about how he hasn’t had water or food in too long, or his lips will crack again. He tries to picture the Barns, as he stares at his forearms in the darkness, but his vision keeps sliding out of focus.

His vision keeps sliding out of focus.

Adam lets himself scry, doesn’t think he cares if he doesn’t come back from it, this time.

Adam doesn’t show up in Ronan’s dreams that first night. Ronan tries, waits in Cabeswater for what feels like hours, but eventually he has to leave. Gansey and Blue and Henry and Mr. Gray are making plans, a fake exchange that requires Ronan to dream something. Ronan comes back empty-handed, but the bedroom smells suspiciously like Adam’s body wash, anyways. The meet up is tomorrow, and Ronan only has one more shot at it.

Then they send him the picture.

Ronan’s hands drop the phone, shaking too hard to be able to hold anything. He wants to vomit again, but he hasn’t been able to eat anything, so it’s a moot point.

Someone is picking up the phone.

“Don’t… don’t look,” Ronan gets out, but it’s too late. Blue gasps, and the phone is passed around silently. Ronan slumps in his chair. “I’m going to fucking kill them. All of them.”

“He’s going to need a hospital. We’ll need police on the scene, in the aftermath,” Dean Allen says, his voice plain. “This changes some things, if we want to avoid questions.”

“How are you so fucking calm about this?” Ronan asks. “I’ll fucking go. I’ll go tonight. You can get me out. Adam needs… oh god his hands,” Ronan says, once the phone is back in his own hand.

“No. I know who he’s working for; he cannot get his hands on you,” Mr. Gray says. “And Adam wouldn’t want you to give yourself up.”

“Fuck that. He’s hurting.” Ronan’s voice cracks as he said that. “You can’t tell me he’s going to be okay if we wait another day.”

“He will. Parrish is strong,” Cheng tries, but his voice is soft, too.

Ronan looks at the picture again. Adam is cuffed to a table, his chest slumped over it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His face is shoved into his arm, like he’s trying to hide it, but Ronan can recognize those sandy almost-curls anywhere. His hand is swollen, bruised, distorted, stuck in a half-claw shape. Ronan can’t even think about Adam’s back; blood is covering most of the damage, but he can see where the welts will be raised and where the buckle bit at points.

He thinks about two years ago, when his father did the same thing to him. Ronan had set him up on the couch at Monmouth, disinfected the wounds and let him sleep there all day. It had taken weeks for him to be able to lay down without feeling the welts.

“If we’re doing this tomorrow, guess I better try again,” is all he says before he takes his phone and walks back to his bedroom.

He knows Gansey follows, is scared of what Ronan will bring back.

Ronan falls asleep in minutes. He sits around in Cabeswater, hoping that Adam will show up.

Right before he’s about to give up and work on the dream creation, Adam materializes.

His face is bruised and swollen, his hand still mangled, still half-naked and cold, but he falls into Ronan’s arms like he can’t feel any of it. Well, he probably can’t feel it.

Ronan holds him close, sits them both down on the floor of the forest.

“I tried to scry last night, but I couldn’t. It’s hard; there’s not a good stabilizer. I’m just staring at my arm in the dark,” Adam says, his voice muffled and apologetic, seemingly unable to lift his head from Ronan’s shoulder. He sounds exhausted. “Somehow it’s easier when I’m half out of it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ronan gets out, his breath harsh as he holds Adam as tight as he can. He needs this, so much, needs to see Adam in person and know that he’s okay.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can stay, Ronan. Or if they’ll notice I’m scrying,” Adam says. “What’s the plan?”

“Tomorrow, they’re gonna bring you somewhere. Gansey, Henry, Blue, Mr. Gray, and I will be there. We’ll take care of the rest,” Ronan says. “They said I couldn’t… they don’t want you to know, in case they hurt you for information.”

“I guess that makes sense. Listen, Ronan, I’m going to be fine. It’s not as bad as it looks,” Adam says, his good hand searching through the tangle of limbs for one of Ronan’s.

“Just stay here for a little while longer?” Ronan asks, ducks his head so Adam won’t see that he’s crying.

“As long as I can.” They sit in silence for a few minutes, Adam between Ronan’s legs, his back against Ronan’s chest. “When you get me, we’re getting a fucking burger. I’m hungry.”

“They haven’t been feeding you? It’s been two days,” Ronan says, his arms tightening over Adam’s stomach. Adam doesn’t respond, but his fingers grazing Ronan’s arm is an answer enough. “We’ll go to that good place. Outside of Henrietta, with the sweet potato fries.”

Adam manages a smile. He leans up to press a kiss to Ronan’s jaw, but it’s like Adam vanishes in his arms.

Ronan tries not to panic, but it’s enough of a motivator to finally convince Cabeswater to give him what he needs.

“I don’t know the fuck the kid was doing, but he wasn’t blinking and it was creepy as fuck,” is what Adam returns to, when he heaves a ragged inhale. It’s always a shock to return to his body, but it’s worse when Shitface is standing above him.

“What were you doing?” Shitface asks, dragging Adam up to a seated position by his hair. “What the fuck were you up to?”

“Nothing,” Adam croaks out. “I just zoned out.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” Adam hears the danger, the promise in that voice, and he has to push the fear back down his throat. He’s slipping into survival mode, wondering what the hell he can say to make this all end. “You weren’t blinking. The guards said you started deliberately staring at something, and then you just went completely limp.”

“I…” Adam starts, but the words catch in his hoarse throat. This seems like a Robert Parrish game, where no matter what you say you lose. So he cuts himself off, refuses to play.

“We’ll deal with this in the morning. Just figure out a fucking way to stop this shit.” The second part is spit at the guards, and Adam feels anxiety swell in his bruised chest.

Maybe the exchange will be early enough that he can escape the punishment.

Adam slips in and out of consciousness the next few minutes, while the guards argue about what to do. He feels Cabeswater begging him to come back, hissing in his deaf ear so loudly that Adam thinks his skull is going to explode from the pressure, and he thinks about how soft Ronan’s hands felt, about how much he just wants to go home.

Eventually, the guards come to a decision. They decide there’s two problems: Adam being able to stare and the fact he was staring at his arms, and their decision on how to fix it is so ironic Adam would laugh if he weren’t one second away from a PTSD-induced panic attack. Adam’s arms are tied behind his back, his eyes covered with a tightly- bound cloth, forcing his eyes closed.

They leave him to fester in his anxiety, and they have no idea what they even did. Adam isn’t in the room—he’s in the back of Gansey’s car, he’s listening to Ronan gasp and choke on the black liquid pouring from his ears and nose, he’s fighting against the demon twisting his hands and rolling his eyes around in the sockets underneath a cloth. He isn’t in control, he’s trapped, he has to shove the urge to kill and hurt and he hates himself.

Adam doesn’t care if crying hurts his ribs. He can’t stop it, can’t stop the panic from spilling over the top as he lays there, unable to do anything but struggle. It’s impossible to tell who is in the room; he can’t see, can’t move, can’t feel, and they’ve tied him so his hearing ear is pressed against the floor. It’s isolationism at his worst, and they don’t even know that they’ve done it. He can’t see beyond

Cabeswater is at the edge of his vision, beckoning him into the trees again. Adam lets go.

“You’re not going,” Mr. Gray says the next morning. “Ronan, I understand you’re worried, but we’re not putting you at risk. You’re the prize here.”

“It’s my fucking dream object, and it’s Adam. I’m going,” Ronan argues back, his voice full of fury. “I have to go.”

“With the object, and if we want less questions from the police, it’s best if I handle this,” Mr. Grey continues, looking at Gansey. “The rest of you can be near the scene, in case backup becomes necessary, but Ronan shouldn’t be there at all.”

“With all due respect, go fuck yourself,” Ronan spits, pushing the chair out from behind him. “You didn’t see him last night. He’s scared, he’s hurting, and if you think for one second being swarmed by police officers is gonna be better for him than us, you’re—”

“They want you, Ronan,” Gansey says quietly, his eyes full of guilt. “We can’t risk it.”

“Fuck you, Gansey,” Ronan says without hesitation. He’s about to storm out of the room, get to the spot first, but Blue stops him. “This is my fault. Let me fix it.”

“Go to Foxway. Explain to Opal what the fuck is happening, and meet Adam at the hospital. You’re right. He’s going to be scared, and it’s gonna get worse with the added stress of the doctors and everything,” Blue says, her voice dangerously calm. “We’ll tell you as soon as we have him back.”

“This isn’t fair.” Ronan’s voice cracks, and he has to look up at the ceiling and bite his lip to stop the tears from falling. He hasn’t slept, besides the two dreaming attempts, and he’s exhausted and stressed and anxious and five hundred other things.

But the battle is won. Ronan Lynch has never been so easily cowed, but he thinks of Adam and forces the anger back into the bubbling mess of emotion already eating away at his gut.

Adam doesn’t come back to himself until the blindfold is yanked off. He’s in a different room, this time, with a meat hook hanging from the ceiling and nothing else. Adam’s hands are untied, bound with rope to the meathook so he hangs, his feet barely touching the floor.

“You’re in luck. They want to make an exchange this afternoon,” Shitface says, but Adam is still struggling with the sensation of being back in his own body. All the pain feels fresh, and he can only make a weak noise of pain when Shitface digs his nails into Adam’s shoulder. It brings black flashes of being face-first on the trailer floor, his dad holding a belt above Adam’s back, flashes of hands on him when the demon running his body only wants to hurt them.

“Not so clever now? Who knew all we had to do was cover those pretty eyes for you to lose it completely,” Shitface says, his spit hitting Adam in the face. Adam hold his gaze, but he knows his eyes are tired, red, watery, showing everything he’s tried to hide. “Now I’m really curious about more of Daddy’s trauma.”

“What more do you want from me?” Adam croaks. “They’re making the trade. You got what you want.”

“See, that’s what I thought, but then you had to pull that shit last night. I want to know what you were doing,” he says, and Adam’s heart drops to his stomach. This is information he can’t give up.

“I told you. I was just out of it,” Adam tries, and Shitface just laughs.

“You really can’t do anything the easy way, can you?” he says, turns around and pulls something out of his pocket. Quick as a viper, he turns and swings. Adam sees a flash of metal and hears a crack from his ribcage, a dull wheeze from himself, and his ribcage burns. “I’ll ask you again. What were you doing?”

Adam just looks at him.

Another hit, and Adam realizes it’s a wrench. Doesn’t do anything to stop his ribs from breaking. By the time Shitface gives up, Adam is screaming, crying, begging for him to stop.

“Please… stop… please,” Adam gets out, tears streaming down his face as he struggles to draw breath. “Please.” He’s so ready to just give up, to stop trying and hurting every time he inhales, dizzy from the pain and lack of oxygen and hunger and thirst and exhaustion.

Shitface just laughs, digs his fingers into the bruises on Adam’s face.

“Get him ready for transport.” Then he’s gone.

Adam is still wheezing as they get him down from the meathook, duct-taping his wrists behind his back, wrapping thick strips around his thighs and calves, rendering him immobile.

“If we cover his mouth is he gonna be able to breathe?” One guard asks the other.

“Boss said to cover it,” the other one responds, and then a strip of tape is over his mouth, too. The wheezing sounds stop, but the first guard is right. Adam’s chest is heaving and his breathing is so labored that after five minutes of laying on the floor Adam passes out.

“Fuck,” is all the guard says, whips the bandana back out and trades the duct-tape for a gag.

Adam’s eyes flutter open a few seconds later, glazed and unfocused with the pain of being on his back. He manages to look down, and sees the way his rib cage is concave in places.

He passes out again, right as the guard is warning him if he tries to make a sound they’re going back to the tape.

Mr. Gray stands alone at the meet spot. He chose it because there’s no cameras within a quarter mile, but it’s also almost half an hour from the hospital. Compromises, right?

Gansey is talking in his ear, and now he really regrets agreeing to wear the earpiece.

“There’s a van coming your way,” Gansey comments, and Mr. Gray steels himself. Sure enough, his target exits the van, but according the the heat signatures Gansey ran as it drove past them, there’s two accomplices in the back with Adam.

“I was expecting Mr. Lynch,” Krugman says, and Mr. Gray spots the specks of red at his collar. “Not that it’s not good to see you, Gray.”

“Just like your employer sent you, my employer sent mine. It’s sad to see you’ve stooped to extracting information from teenagers,” Mr. Gray shoots back, his voice the picture of politeness. “Now, the boy.”

“Show me the Greywarren first.” Krugman’s voice matches Mr. Gray’s. “I know how you operate.”

“An even exchange. I’ll show you yours if you show me mine.” After they both nod, Mr. Gray extracts the dream object from his jacket. It’s a small box, wooden and ancient-looking, intricately decorated with celtic symbols.

Krugman knocks twice on the back of the van, and two men emerge, dragging an unconscious Adam between them. He’s still only in his boxers, and in addition to the angry and still-bleeding stripes across his back, Mr. Gray notices that his ribcage has recently been fucked up. It makes him almost wince when Adam is thrown into the dirt, the dust working its way into the open wounds.

“Now, the Greywarren,” Krugman says, and Mr. Gray approaches slowly. “As you wish.”

As soon as the box touches Krugman’s palm, Mr. Gray draws his gun, fires two quick shots into both of the thugs’ heads. Krugman has also drawn at this point, one hand clutched protectively on the box.

“On your head so be it,” he says, opens the box at Mr. Gray. Immediately, black tendrils emerge, but they don’t go for Mr. Gray. He mentally remembers to give Ronan style points, though he imagines the dramatics more mirror Ronan’s nightmares than his own flair for the dramatic. But they do their job: they wrap Krugman up, drag him into the box to be safely stored. Mr. Gray quickly shuts the damn thing and pockets it. He’ll deal with Krugman later.

“I’m calling the police now. Clear the scene.” Mr. Gray says, and he hears relieved noises over the ear piece before he yanks it out of his ear. He does his best impression of a concerned civilian on the phone, placing his gun into the box as well, a perfect match for Krugman’s, untraceable back to him. Then he goes to Adam. Adam’s eyes are still closed, though Mr. Gray is unsure if that’s from unconsciousness or because they’re simply too swollen and bruised to open at all.

He taps at the kid’s face, releases the gag and starts unwrapping tape from his hands first, then the rest of him. Adam weakly struggles, even as Mr. Gray tries to talk him through what’s happening. Adam’s hands try to swat at Mr. Gray as he works at the tape around his legs, but his right hand doesn’t do much more than hang uselessly.

“Parrish, you’re safe. It’s Mr. Gray; they’re all gone,” he tries, one hand holding both of Adam’s skinny forearms together as the other continues to work. “Let me help you.” Adam just lets out another groan, tries weakly to escape Mr. Gray’s hold, but he’s not going to let the kid hurt himself just because he can’t process he doesn’t need to fight anymore.

Adam is wheezing, breath whistling through cracked and split lips. “Ro… Ro… nan,” he gets out, eyes opening to slits.

“He’s gonna meet you at the hospital. You’re safe, kid,” Mr. Gray says, and he sighs in relief when he hears the ambulance in the distance. “Okay, here’s the deal: you need to remember two things. One, don’t fight the paramedics. Two, the story: I was going by and saw the bodies and found you. Got it?” Mr. Gray explains, and Adam just looks blankly. “Adam, I need to know you understand.”

Adam makes a noise, and honestly Mr. Gray can’t tell if it’s affirmation or just pain. It’ll have to do; it doesn’t seem like the kid is gonna be responsive for the paramedics anyways, so someone can remind him later. When both agencies pull up, Mr. Gray stands, gives the rushing EMT workers space to do their damn job. He answers the questions the police ask, and they let him go fairly quickly. Mr. Gray makes the mistake of glancing back towards Adam on his way to the car.

Adam, it seems, is panicking. He’s barely drawing enough air to remain conscious, lips slightly blue, and his breath is coming out in a combination of a wheeze and whistle, but he’s clearly mouthing Ronan’s name. His muscles are taut and straining, and the paramedics are trying to move him, but every time they try, his mangled hand goes to protect his ribcage. The paramedics are moving quickly, talking even faster, about getting Adam’s back cleaned and immobilizing his hand and oxygen intake and dealing with Adam’s unhindered terror. Mr. Gray wants to go with him, but that will raise questions. Ronan is going to be waiting at the hospital, so Adam just needs to keep his shit together until then. Considering the kid’s entire life, Mr. Gray has faith that it’s a task Adam can manage.

Mr. Gray turns back towards his car right as someone jams a syringe into Adam’s thigh, and the kid’s muscles relax almost comically quickly. From there, it’s easy to maneuver Adam’s almost-unconscious, completely limp form onto a gurney and packed into the back of the ambulance. Mr. Gray knows it will be a few minutes before they leave. They’re going to have to get the kid some oxygen, splint the fingers, and do prelim disinfection of the back before they can start getting him some real help.

He drives away.

Adam blinks his eyes open only to stare up into a bright light. Immediately, there’s a face he doesn’t recognize above his own, and he feels her hand graze over his own.

“Try to relax, Adam,” she says, as Adam lifts his left hand to feel whatever is on his face. She stops him, the soft touch becoming firm as she presses the limb back against the mattress he’s on. “Leave it be; you’ve got an IV line in that arm.”

Adam just passes out again.

The next time Adam blinks open his eyes, he recognizes the fluorescents flashing by. There’s too many people talking loudly, and Adam is transported back to where he was kept, to guards dragging him through the hallway. It’s mixing with memories of hands at his arms, when he was too dizzy and too concussed after his head hit the guardrail to walk straight, the same bright lights sending the same shooting pains through his eyes. His chest starts to heave, and he can feel the panic rising in his throat, and his eyelids slam open as far as they can go.

“Adam, you’re safe,” one of the voices says, but they don’t stop moving him. “You’re in Mountain View Hospital. They can’t hurt you,” she says, a hand on each of Adam’s shoulders to keep him against the surface he’s laid against. Adam still tries, but he gasps at the pain in his ribs and tries to wrap a hand around them, but someone stops him.

“Wha…” Adam starts, but he can’t even hear himself say it underneath the mask. “Ro… Ronan,” he gets out, because he needs Ronan. He can’t handle all of this noise, can’t handle the hands on him, can’t handle how fast the fucking bed is moving.

“Adam,” the same voice says again, and Adam tries again to sit up, to show that he’s fine, but there are more hands on him now, keeping him laying down. “We need you to stay laying down right now, okay?” Adam just blinks, her face swimming above him. “Your ribs are badly broken. We don’t want them shifting around.”

Adam lets out exactly one sob.

That single sob releases the flood. It doesn’t matter whatever they’ve pushed into his system to try to calm him the fuck down or immobilize him or whatever, because Adam feels the anxiety roll through his body, and his back arches off the bed in attempt to draw any kind of oxygen; the mask is smothering him instead of helping him breathe, and now the bed has stopped. There are so many people above him, holding Adam’s arms to the bed, and there’s yelling and Adam feels the warm tears rushing down his face, now.

The room is tilting and spinning and Adam is seeing Shitface, seeing Robert Parrish, seeing the Third Sleeper, seeing Ronan being unmade right in front of him. Adam’s stomach flips, and it takes exactly one painful dry heave for him to remember there’s nothing in his stomach to throw up, but now the hands are sitting him up, taking the mask off and shoving something under his chin just in time for pure bile to land in the dish. Adam continues to heave, continues to sob, continues to feel pain blossom anew in his chest, across his back as his muscles tighten and roll with his stomach, in his hand as he tries to clench his fists against it all. He’s begging for Ronan, pleading through the tears. He asks for him over and over again, doesn’t listen to the chorus of words telling him he’s okay.

He’s not. He’s not. He needs Ronan, needs to know that all of this was worth something, that Ronan is okay, that Ronan is there to keep it all the fuck away from Adam.

(“Someone go try and find this Ronan. I’m not restraining him, not with the ligature marks on his wrists, but we need to work quickly. Hopefully Ronan can calm him down.” A doctor’s voice.

“I know who he is.” One nurse’s voice wavers, because the kid is a few years older, but he remembers guiding the boy on the stretcher down the same hallway when he’d been unable to hold his own weight up after his father deafened his left ear. “I’ll go.” He wonders if Adam Parrish is ever going to catch a goddamn break. )

As they’re forcing Adam to lay back down, something is injected into his IV line that eases his muscles, makes them heavy and limp, but it doesn’t stop the tears streaming down Adam’s face, or the way his hands are shaking without his control. When he starts wheezing again, the oxygen mask goes back on.

(“Ronan?” The nurse’s voice is stressed, but hopeful, in the waiting room. Immediately, a kid that looks like bad news stands up; he remembers, without a doubt, that this is the right Ronan. “Come with me.”

“What’s going on? Is Adam okay?”)

They get Adam into the intended room, still talking too fast for him to understand. A few seconds later, just as Adam’s lifting his head to try and get an idea of what they’re going to do to him, Ronan is there. If Adam’s limbs weren’t so heavy, he would have sat up and crawled straight to Ronan. Instead, he has to wait while one of the people in scrubs talks to Ronan, unable to bypass the hands that keep him horizontal. He has no idea what they’re saying, but Ronan looks like he’s standing on the edge of infinity. There’s always a point, Adam thinks, right before a function will fall off the ledge, skyrocket towards the stars if you move just one nanounit closer; it’s quiet there, with the possibility to fall back into nothingness or take the leap, and where Adam backs away Ronan dives headfirst. It’s the same concavity point of a fist being raised before a punch, the breath before a kiss. Adam isn’t going to back away, not now. He gets out Ronan’s name, again, reaches out. Ronan gently grabs Adam’s hand. Adam thinks briefly of galaxies.

(“We need you to keep him calm. We don’t want to sedate or restrain him, but we need to take care of his back and re-split his hand before we can get him into surgery.”

“Okay. Where am I not going to be in the way?”

“By his head. That way he can see you.” The nurse that brought him in gives him a cautious smile, and Ronan stumbles over to Adam. )

Then Ronan’s hands are running through his hair, and grazing his temple, and dusting across his forehead. There are tears in both of their eyes.

“Ronan,” Adam murmurs, goes to pull the mask down, but after a look to the nurse Ronan returns Adam’s hand to the mattress before he can manage it.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” Ronan promises, presses a kiss to Adam’s forehead. “Can you help them get you onto your stomach so they can take care of your back?”

The nurses make quick work of flipping Adam, and he finds his ribs are pillowed on towel-wrapped ice, which burns for a few seconds before everything pleasantly goes away. He sighs, relishing the numbness. Every time the nurses need to adjust Adam, Ronan is asking Adam to do exactly what they need in a soft voice, their foreheads close together. He can read, just from Adam’s face, if it’s something he can do, or he’ll tell the nurse it’s going to hurt to much to move that way. He grips Adam’s good hand, lets Adam squeeze it as hard as he wants when they disinfect and stitch up his back, whispers things that only Adam can hear that seem to keep him both lucid and calm. The nurse thinks this boy is a juxtaposition, hard edges gone the second Adam needs them to be. He’s glad Adam has someone like that.

They give Adam a few seconds to breathe before they resplint his hand.

“We can give him some pain medication preemptively,” the nurse suggests, and Ronan nods. Adam’s breathing has picked up again, because he knows that pain is coming. The look on his face is the same one he used to wear when Ronan dropped him off at Antietam Lane.

“Hey. It’s okay. They’re gonna fix it,” Ronan says, but he looks at Adam’s mangled fingers and he wants to cry. Adam’s hands are beautiful, the fingers meant to be long and elegant and thin, not clawed and swollen and bruised.

“No,” Adam all but moans, but Ronan just taps Adam’s face, leans close to him.

“I’m right here, Parrish. It’s gonna hurt, but you can squeeze my hand as hard as you need. I can take it,” he says with a watery chuckle. Adam manages a small smile underneath the mask. “It’ll be quick.”

Adam nods, his eyes drooping slightly as the pain medication kicks in. His fingers scramble for Ronan’s when the nurses hold his arm flat, and Adam cries out when they straighten his fingers, force them into better splints, tears silently streaking down his face.

Ronan gently wipes them away, kisses Adam’s forehead.

“See? You did amazing.” His voice is so gentle, and Adam just brings their intertwined fingers to rest on the mattress. The nurses and doctors look at Ronan with a new kind of appreciation, but there’s no time to waste.

“We’ve got an OR cleared to operate on his ribs and hand. Can you stay while we prep him for surgery?”

Ronan does. There are nurses adjusting IV’s and patching up Adam’s smaller cuts and scrapes, stitching his lip back together, pulling his hair into a net, and Adam looks at Ronan with wide eyes when he realizes what’s about to happen.

“Hey, Adam, it’s okay,” Ronan says, his hands brushing along Adam’s less-bruised cheek. “You’re just going to go to sleep for a little while. You’re doing incredible, you’ve been so good. Just a little bit longer,” he says, his voice gentle in a way the nurses can’t imagine him being in real life. His hands linger in the space behind Adam’s ears, fingers kneading Adam’s hair underneath the net.

“M’ scared, Ronan,” Adam manages, beneath the mask. “It hurts.”

“I know. I promise it’ll feel better when you wake up,” Ronan says, and Adam reaches his left hand up to touch Ronan’s face. “Watch the IV, shithead.”

“You’re okay?” Adam asks, and Ronan lets out a chuckle, entwines his fingers with Adam’s and slowly lowers both of their hands back to the bed.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re safe.” Ronan’s voice is hoarse. A nurse is giving him a look, and that means they must be ready to go. “I love you, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you,” Adam gets out in return, before his eyes start to slip shut. The nurses hadn’t given him anything extra, but Ronan can imagine that all of it was exhausting for Adam. His cheeks are gaunter than Ronan can remember them ever being, his lips cracking and bleeding at the slightest change in position.

Ronan makes his way back to the waiting room.

It’s a sharp pain through his heart that breaks him, so strong that he barely makes it to the seat next to Gansey before he’s crying as hard as Adam was. His head is between his knees, and he’s sobbing. At the same time, he’s trying to explain, explain to Gansey and Blue and Henry how fucking bad it was, how scared Adam is, how hurt. They’re taking him into surgery. He was barely breathing. He was reopening wounds on his back. He fucked up the splint on his hand.

When Ronan finally returns to himself, Blue tugs Ronan to his feet, before her arms are around him. Her hand has to reach up to cuff the back of his neck, but she hugs him fiercely and protectively. He melts into her, feels his arms wrap around her small frame, and then he’s clinging to her.

“He’s going to be okay,” she says, arms finally letting Ronan go. “It just seems bad right now.”

“I’ve never seen him that scared.” Ronan’s voice is hoarse. “Never.”

“What did you find out, medically?” Gansey asks, as Ronan sits back down. “Also, Declan is in from Logan. He’ll be here in an hour.”

“As soon as he found out, he was trying to get a flight,” Ronan says in a monotone. Things have been better, this summer, but he can’t imagine Declan coming back from business in Boston just for Parrish. And yet it’s happening. “There was a lot going on. They already cleaned up his back; I was there when they were stitching it up and bandaging it and shit. It’s the ribs and hand they’re worried about, though. I think they said something about pins or wires, and something about a possible pneumothorax.”

“How many ribs did he break?” Henry asks.

“Four on one side, three on the other. He’s having trouble breathing,” Ronan says. “Every finger on the right hand is fucked; they said the fucker must have hit him right in the knuckle to cause damage like that.”

Gansey heaves a deep sigh. “This is going to take a while.”

Adam wakes briefly, his vision blurry. Someone is speaking softly to him, and there are beeps and hisses and it’s hard to force his good ear to hear what they’re saying. Breathing is painful, and he can’t remember why.

Someone tells him to go back to sleep.

He does.

The next time Adam wakes up, it’s much slower. First, he hears the compressed oxygen as its urged into his nose, then the slow beep of the heart monitor. Next, he feels the sting in his right hand, the only thing he can feel beyond the ache of the rest of him.

Someone is rubbing that hand.

Adam realizes his eyes are still closed. He’s trying to open them, but they’re so heavy, and he knows there’s something about what he’s waking up to that makes him hesitant. But the grip on his hand is gentle, soothing, and he knows that person wants him to wake up.

The room is dim when he opens his eyes, but the lights from the hallway are bright enough that he can make out Ronan’s face.

“Hey,” Ronan says, his voice soft. “Don’t try to talk.” Without saying anything else, Ronan grabs the cup from the side table, gently pushes the oxygen mask down to Adam’s chin, and pushes the straw against Adam’s lips.

It isn’t until after the first sip of blessedly cool water that Adam remembers how thirsty he is. He starts to drink it greedily, but then Ronan just pulls it away.

“Slow down,” he says. “Or you’re gonna get sick. You’re dehydrated as fuck.” He gives Adam a look, but he gives the cup back, and Adam drinks. Slowly. When he finally releases the straw, muscles going lax against the bed, Ronan readjusts the mask to be on Adam’s face.

Adam looks down, and he takes a breath so deep it sends a sharp jolt of pain through his entire being. His left hand is carefully elevated, and there’s no plaster, but there are wraps binding the fingers together, and wires sticking out of his skin; his chest is bare, but bandaged tightly, and he feels the pull of stitches on his front and back as he tries to shift.

“Take it easy,” Ronan says, intertwining his fingers with Adam’s. “You need to rest.”

“My hand,” Adam says, stares at it, almost sobs the word. “My hand.”

“It’s gonna be okay. That’s just so they heal right, just for a few weeks,” Ronan promises, gently guides Adam’s chin with his own fingers to look at him, not at the bruised and mutilated fingers. “You’re okay.”

Adam knows, intellectually, that he’s going to be okay. Broken ribs are a bitch, so are welts and broken fingers, but it’s nothing time isn’t going to heal. But he can’t help but flash back to that dark room, to laying cold and alone and hungry and hurting, stuck to a radiator. He feels worse, now, with the tightness of the stitches and the pain of breathing, because he can focus on that instead of the undiluted fear from the room.

“How bad is it?” Adam asks, because he’s honestly not sure if he looks worse than Ronan. The circles under Ronan’s eyes almost reach his cheekbones, as dark as the bruises on Adam. His eyes are rimmed red, and he’s trying to hide the shaking of his hands by holding on to Adam’s.

“You’ve got a lot of metal inside of you right now. There’s the wires in your hand, to make sure the bones heal right, and you’ve got some pins and wires in the ribs that separated when they broke. You have an impressive seven broken ribs, by the way, and a pneumothorax to top that shit off. Some of the cuts on your back were infected, but they’ve started antibiotics and cleaned it up,” Ronan summarizes. “So you’re gonna have some trouble breathing for a while. That’s why they gave you the good shit. And the oxygen.”

“Drugs?” Adam asks, his head lolling more towards Ronan. “M’ fine, Ro.” But as he says it, Adam winces in a sudden pain from his hand. Ronan doesn’t miss it, and he just reaches over Adam to press the red call button.

“Yeah, you’re really not. Your doctor is gonna wanna tell you shit, and then the police are going to ask a bunch of useless questions. Remember what Mr. Gray said?” Ronan’s eyes are searching, and Adam’s face creases. He doesn’t remember much after he passed out the first time, just flashes of the back of the van, the dirt, the sky, gunshots.

“Mr. Gray?” Adam asks, and Ronan just sighs.

“He was the one who did the fake exchange. He told the police he saw you while driving by. The working theory is the kidnappers had an internal argument that lead to a shootout. Don’t contradict that story,” Ronan says, and watches Adam swallow.

“They’re all dead? Even Shitface?” Adam asks, his eyes glassy and wet.

“Which one did you call Shitface?” Ronan responds, lets out a chuckle.

“One who only wore black,” Adam answers, his lips twitching into the approximation of a smile. “But… they’re all dead?”

“Yeah. Gray got them all,” Ronan assures him, and Adam lets out a shaky nod. There’s no time to unpack any of that, unfortunately, because that’s when the door opens, and Adam’s doctor, along with two nurses, enter the room.

“Hello, Adam,” the doctor says, taking over the rolling chair and maneuvering herself close to Adam. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Adam responds, and winces at the hoarseness in his voice. It also sends a flare of pain through his ribcage.

“How bad is the pain? When you draw a breath?” Adam hasn’t tried drawing a deep breath, but he guesses he’ll give it a try. He doesn’t even get halfway through before the pain seizes him and he ends up coughing harshly, both hands going to wrap around his stomach, before he remembers his hand and Ronan stops that, anyway, before it can actually move.

“Parrish, what the fuck,” Ronan spits out, ignoring the look the doctor throws his way.

“Okay, a significant amount then. We don’t want you moving that hand, because there’s no hard cast on it,” the doctor says, giving a look to the nurses. “You’re due for more pain medication, and that should help make breathing easier.”

“S’ fine,” Adam tries, but he ends up coughing again. “When can I go home?”

Ronan coughs harshly, the grip on Adam’s hand tightening. “Cool your jets, Parrish.”

“Ronan is right,” the doctor says, even as she starts to peek beneath bandages and looks at the bruising on Adam’s chest. “Apart from the pneumothorax, which clearly hasn’t completely dissipated, your ribs and hand haven’t stabilized yet. You’re still dehydrated, even though we’ve been pushing fluids since admission. It’ll be a few days until we feel comfortable releasing you.”

“It’s taken care of, Parrish. Don’t flip your shit,” Ronan says, because he recognizes that look on Adam’s face. “You gotta take this shit slow. Pushing yourself is just gonna make it longer.”

“There’s also the matter of the circumstances of your admission. The police would like to speak with you as soon as possible. Are you feeling up to it right now?” The doctor asks, and Adam manages a tight nod. He just wants to get it over with.

They make Ronan leave the room.

Adam tries, he really tries, to keep his shit together, but he has to relive every second of what happened, remember not to give up the secrets, and keep his ribs from exploding against the building pressure. It’s like the pain medication is trying to smother it, but the more Adam panics, the less it can do. By the time it’s finally over, the officers have filled papers with Adam’s worst horrors, and they leave paler than they entered the room. One tells Adam to get better soon, and that they have guards in case someone else tries to come back.

Adam is still trying to force Cabeswater and flashbacks from the edges of his vision when Ronan comes back, this time flanked by Gansey, Blue, Henry, Opal, and Declan. Declan is physically holding Opal back from jumping on Adam.

“Chill it, brat. You can’t jump up onto broken ribs,” Ronan says, but Opal still huffs, settles for touching Adam’s nose once before retreating to the couch, and to Declan. She and him really get on like a house on fire, no matter how much Ronan tries to stop it.

“Hey, Adam,” Blue says, wrapping her arms around him gently.

“What the fuck did I just say, Maggot?” Ronan asks, and Blue just shoots him her dirtiest look. Gansey settles for a smile and a squeeze of his left hand, and they all leave the chair by Adam’s left hand open for Ronan.

“You okay, after all that?” Ronan asks, raising an eyebrow at Adam knowingly as he takes his place. Adam manages a nod, but Ronan doesn’t look like he believes him at all.

“They wouldn’t let the rest of us in, until you talked to them,” Blue scoffs, though the harshness is lessened by the fact that she’s curled into Gansey’s side on the couch. “Only Ronan.”

“Why just him?” That’s Declan. Adam looks at him, and he just gives Adam a tight nod. “Glad you’re okay, Parrish.” There’s more to it than the words; Declan and Adam have come to a number of understandings over the last few months, but the one that overshadows them all is simple. Protect Ronan.

There’s a lot of looks exchanged, and Adam may be letting the pull of the new multitude of drugs overwhelm most of the sensation in his body, but he’s with it enough to realize they’re avoiding a subject.

“What happened?” Adam’s voice is urgent, and he forces himself into a seated position, despite the hurried movements of everyone around him to stop it. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You were asking for me, when you got here. They let me back, let me help,” Ronan says, hoping that Adam is too tired to question it.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Adam murmurs. He thinks he remembers Ronan’s hands in his hair, his voice talking to Adam when he couldn’t register anything beyond the sensations and lights and voices being too much, but he had written it off as him hoping for something that wasn’t there. “Why would they do that?” He isn’t looking at Ronan anymore, but straight at Gansey. Gansey will always cave first.

But Gansey looks at Ronan, steels his jaw. All it takes is one glance back to Adam before he caves.

“You were distressed,” Gansey starts, and Ronan’s muscles go rigid. He’s begging Gansey to not continue with his eyes, but he should have known Parrish could make Gansey fold. It’s his goddamn superpower. “It was already clear that a surgery was necessary, and they had already issued sedatives earlier. They let Ronan because you were in danger of seriously injuring yourself if you didn’t calm down.”

Adam just nods, swallows harshly. He hears his breathing in his good ear, because the night is coming back in pieces, now. He remembers flashing lights, remembers hands on him, holding him down, remembers calling out for Ronan. He remembers the only thing cutting through unimaginable pain and terror being Ronan’s voice in his good ear.

Adam bolts upright.

“You were there,” he gets out, doubling over on himself. He’s trying to force his mind to quiet, to just fucking breathe, but before he can make any progress, Ronan is there. He doesn’t say anything, just uses one hand to support Adam’s back in one of the few places not covered in bandages or welts, the other to unfurl Adam’s chest. When he’s satisfied that Adam isn’t working himself into a panic attack, he takes the hand away from Adam’s stomach and intertwines his fingers with Adam’s.

“Yeah, I was. But we can talk about it later. You need to rest, Adam,” Ronan says, laying Adam back down. There’s a lot that Ronan knows needs to be done, that there’s going to be a lot of panic and anxiety and trauma for Adam to wade through, and he’s thought about asking Adam’s therapist to come to the hospital. But that’s a boundary he doesn’t want to cross, not yet, when the wounds are so fresh. He remembers when Adam first started going, how it all felt so much worse before it started to get better. Adam just isn’t in a place where he can let it get worse right now.

Adam knows he’s not okay, even as his eyes drift shut. He knows he’s only able to close his eyes because he knows someone will wake him when his dreams turn sour, that someone is there to make sure that he’s safe, and that’s all levels of fucked up. He can’t think for more than thirty seconds without panicking, can’t handle the thought of being alone, and it just… it feels like such a huge slide backward. He had been working at this shit, on undoing the hidden scars Robert Parrish left, and now it’s all fallen to shit.

But Ronan is next to him. He’s still there, even after all that.

Adam allows himself to give in to oblivion, just for now.

Eight days later, Adam is in Ronan’s bed. It’s been a few days since he was released from the hospital, but not much has changed. Adam’s ribs are still killing him, still can’t use his dominant hand. But here, Ronan isn’t scared to lay down with Adam. He’s currently playing with Adam’s curls, Adam lying mostly in Ronan’s lap.

“You hungry?” Ronan asks, when he realizes Adam is awake. “You should eat.”

“Nah,” Adam says, reaching up with his left hand to brush Ronan’s cheek. “M’ comfy.”

“Yeah?” Ronan says, his hands moving down to Adam’s neck. “I could make you something to eat here. A smoothie or some shit. Better yet, I’ll make Declan do it.”

Declan has stayed the entire week, and once Adam had started to get better, Matthew had joined them. He claims it’s to to help Ronan with the farm, but he’s mother-henning in a way that should be annoying as fuck but just ends up being endearing somehow. Ronan supposes some of that is just how the Lynches work; protecting your own is something that Declan values more than most things. So now Adam is under Declan’s protection, too.

“Don’t be a dick,” Adam mumbles. “Don’t wanna move.” Ronan just pats Adam’s head, goes to move, and Adam groans, limbs clinging to Ronan.

“Stop it. You need more ice for your ribs, and your meds, and you can’t take your meds without food. So we have reached an impasse,” Ronan says, swatting at Adam’s arm. “I’ll be back in like five minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Adam bargains, and Ronan allows himself one harsh laugh. “Come on, Ronan, I’m fine.”

Something changes at the words. Ronan tenses, extracts himself from Adam.

“You’re not.” Ronan’s voice is quiet, shaky. Adam’s face immediately falls, and he pulls himself to a seated position, only wincing a little. “You’re not, Adam.”

“I know, I just…” Adam forces himself to take a breath. He doesn’t want to do this, not now. “I wanted to pretend, just for now.” He’s got not just one, but two appointments with his therapist next week, and he knows it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse very soon. He’s been too exhausted to dream, but the nightmares are there, waiting to pull him back to the new worst moments of his life. “I know it’s bad, but I… I just…”

Ronan’s arms are around Adam in an instant. “Hey. It’s okay.” Ronan waits for Adam to relax into him before he continues. “I just don’t want to make this shit worse by pretending it’s not there.”

“I promise, it’s not. I just know once I start… addressing… this shit, it’s going to be bad,” Adam explains, one hand fiddling with the hem of his worn t-shirt. “And it just feels like it started to get better, and I don’t want to let that go, yet.”

“I get that. You know that I’m here, right, even when it gets bad?” Ronan’s fingers ghost over Adam’s forearms, hold onto Adam just a bit tighter. He buries his nose in Adam’s curls. “We’ll get you through this.”

Adam just nods. He doesn’t want to start a fight, and he knows Ronan mean what he says, but everything is so precarious that he can’t help the burn of emotion in his gut.

“You’re comfy,” is what Adam ends up saying, because he really doesn’t want to move. The pain medication has largely worn off, and everything is stiff and sore and painful to move.

“Yeah, fuck off,” Ronan says. “You think you could eat something? I still owe you a burger.”

Adam lets out a laugh, low and gruff and beautiful. Ronan lets himself think, just in that moment, that things are going to work out all right.