Chapter Text
The first cut feels like an ice cube dragged down your chest, and then starts to burn, and it makes him sick to the stomach that he knows that (he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be unsick after all of this).
He has intimate knowledge of the exact sensation that comes with having your guts pulled through a hole (gaping wide but still too small, never not too small, as tissue rubs raw nerves on the way out) and gleefully consumed. He knows the smell of a room that looks too sterile for the filth it holds, and the feel of rough sheets made to cover, not comfort. He knows the sound of a phone ringing, and a television flickering, and the unbearable weight of a futile choice; play along or suffer and cause suffering.
He knows suffering.
For all he does know, however, he does not know where he is, or if he’s alive. All he knows of his current situation is it’s cold, and there’s something wet on his face, and his insides feel like they’re in, but only the loosest definition of “in”, as the sensation of cool air settling into a steaming chest cavity is not an easy feeling to forget. Maybe he is alive; he was never told that death was so painful. Wasn’t it supposed to end pain? Shouldn’t it have been better than the kitchen he ran from, and the operating room he left in pieces?
Why is he still in one piece? Or close to one piece, he assumes, too exhausted and frail to sit up and get a look at himself. Where is he? And would whoever is making that offensive keening sound please quiet down, he has a headache.
Somewhere under the low droning of the mysterious whine, he hears droplets splattering against fallen leaves, and below that, distant but approaching steadily, he hears footsteps. Quick and heavy, squishing in the wet mess, and his first delirious thought is that whoever it is should slow down, they might slip and fall. For all he knows, the approaching entity could be hostile, or god forbid a singing object , but concern for the wellbeing of others is embedded in him much sturdier than his own organs.
The sounds of smashed leaves taper off beside him, and he can almost sense the presence looming over him like a heavy cloud. If whoever it is does mean him harm, he certainly hopes it gets it over with quickly. He’s almost not in pain anymore, a combination of responding endorphins and shock and the cold, cold air starting to numb him from the tips of his claws to the edges of his wound to the lids of his barely cracked eyes. Really, he’d just like to be done with this.
The figure kneels down, and he wonders if maybe he doesn’t want to be done with this, if maybe he wants to survive, to live, to go home. Not home to the kitchen where he made his last stand, or the living room where his rationalizations were silenced with rude shouts. Home where he and his friends lived, and played, and watched their shows, and were happy. They had been happy once, hadn’t they?
Friends. Two friends once, he remembers now. What was missing?
The wet leaf covering his face is brushed aside, and though the light in the wood is dim and diffused through clouds and cover, he has to blink the raindrops and tears from his eyes. Even ripped open like a treat packet and bleeding out on the muddy ground, temporary blindness is a vulnerability he can’t bear, and he struggles to focus on the blurry figure hunched over him. A warm hand brushes his forehead, smoothing the wet and ruffled feathers, and fighting the growing knot of dread, he opens his eyes, tilting his head to look.
Funny how he had forgotten him, and still missed him. Funny how he had forgotten the name, and the face, and the deeds, but still missed the person. Still noticed the empty hole in life, where three had become two without so much as a goodbye. He knew something was missing, someone was missing, and even if he couldn’t put a name or a face to him, he knew someone so very important wasn’t there anymore. So when he sees those eyes, wide as he’d ever seen them, framed by red dripping in the day’s downpour, he doesn’t need an introduction. It’s like forgetting the words and rhythm of a song, and going back to the first verse; everything clicks into place.
God, he wants to start screaming, start crying, or cursing. He’d like to say anything, really. Sorry. Why. What is this. I missed you. But he’s just so tired . He closes his eyes, and sighs deeply, a rattling motion that shakes his small body more than he can really stand.
The warm hand leaves his forehead, and that’s almost a punishment worse than he’s ever endured, and then he feels movement near his open chest, and he realizes how little he knows of punishment. Even with the gentlest touch, his friend’s attention feels like heated skewers prodding at the abused wound. His back is lifted slightly, and something soft and familiar slipped underneath, and he tries his genuine best to calm down as he comes to understand that his injury is being wrapped up, but by god it hurts.
If time is really an illusion in his mind, he wonders what the hell is wrong with him, to stretch what must only be a minute at most into hours of well-meaning agony. By the time it’s over and done with, and the soft fabric shields his open wound from the rain and dirt, he misses being numb. All the same, the burning agony almost seems muted now, like music pounding at full volume several doors down. And the squirming mass of fear in the pit of his belly has dissipated, breaking apart and slithering back off into the little anxieties he’d always have and never be rid of.
Red had always had that effect on him. God, he’d missed that security almost as much as the man himself.
The deed done, he catches his friend drawing back out of the corner of his eye, and he tries to feebly protest, terrified that he’ll leave him again, but a second later one furry hand returns to take his wing, lightly squeezing it, an affirmation. He calms down, and tries to turn his head and see what’s happening. Before it can register, he’s got two arms under him, lifting him up and to the side, one under the small of his back and the other supporting his head. The sudden movement startles him, and he gasps in shock. Before he or his injury can protest, he’s again flat on the ground, this time separated from the chilly forest floor by warm, soft material. Red carefully lifts one side, draping the length of fabric over his small friend’s body, then repeats with the other, wrapping the bird in a warm expanse of safety. The tall beast sighs, and pats one big red hand against Duck’s head.
“We’re going to be alright. You can stop now.”
The latter half puzzles him, and he tries to speak up, maybe ask the low keening sound to please pipe down so he can speak…
Oh. It’s him. He’s been whining this entire time.
Well then. Explains why it was so hard to talk.
He sucks in a deep breath between his gritted beak, gulping down his fear and the bile that’s been rising in his throat throughout the entire experience. He glances up at his housemate apologetically, and gets a gentle pat in response. “I’m going to pick you up now. I have to get you out of the storm and somewhere I can help. It’s going to hurt probably; I’m sorry.”
He chokes on the rattled words rising to escape his throat. “I’m ready.”
He leaves the ground, still swaddled in the soft fabric (a jacket, it seems, one he’s maybe seen before?), and it does hurt. It burns like fire, even more so as he goes from flat as a board to a semi-fetal position in the taller creature’s arms, pressing and tugging at the opening in ways he hasn’t experienced yet and hopes to god he never will again.
But god, he’s warm. The brilliant red fur is just so warm.
“Not very long now. I’ll be able to help you there. You’ll be alright.”
He knows he will, and that’s why, with an open chest bleeding a darker red than the cherry hair carrying him out of the woods and through the rain, he allows himself to fall back into a light, restless sleep.