Work Text:
you see things.
horrible things. nameless things. things that would splinter your consciousness like chipped glass, that should do that, but that make your head roar and your eyes leak dark, thick blood from their corners instead.
you see them and you turn them away.
you see them and you turn them away and then you go home to griff.
--
he's real.
it's the only way you can describe it. he's solid and he's normal and he sweeps you into your house off the stoop when you come home bloodied and staring blankly. he's warm and alive. human.
he'll guide you to your favorite chair and brew that bitter, steaming tea with a splash of cream and as much sugar as he can add to mask the taste before wrapping your pale, dirtied hands around the teacup.
" ash."
he murmurs and you take a sip and you feel a little better. a little more like yourself.
there's a routine. tea. sitting. reliving. processing. then you half stagger and he half leads and you make it to the bath together. he undresses you and you're conscious enough now to feel how his eyes pull over your body. he's making sure you aren't hurt. there's that edge to his stare and that set in his jaw though because you know and he knows that what you see so rarely leaves a physical scar.
you sink into the bath and you. don't. think.
the next thing to register is bed. you're never quite sure when that happens if it's because you fell asleep or if you just forgot walking here. but you're here. you're here, nuzzled into griff's chest, and the hammer of his heart in your ear makes something besides blood and ichor trickle down your cheek.
he's so afraid. he's always so afraid for you.
it's better this way.