Work Text:
Bleeding.
From his nose this time, in addition to the gash on his eyebrow, seconds after a nasty blow when he'd made the mistake of talking back. He's fairly sure he heard something crack.
Shadows warping and bending, shifting around him like lead. He can't see through them, can't move them. But he knows there's someone there.
His stomach cramps cruelly with pains of ever-present hunger. Throat dry, tongue like sandpaper, it hurts to swallow. He looks down, and his hands are bone.
It's too dark. He hurts too much, and the voices...
Voices calling his name.
Distorted, echoing...
A grip on his shoulder. More voices...
"Winn!"
Winn jolts upright, soaked to the skin with his own sweat. His heart is beating ten to the dozen already, and there's a hand on his arm, and, fuck it.
Too many times Winn Schott has chosen flight. Not now, when he can still feel himself blinking blood out of his eyelashes, still feel the bruises and aches on his skin. Not this time.
He shoves his shoulder hard into whomever is next to him, taking minimal satisfaction at feeling their weight give way and away from him. Unadulterated adrenaline is coursing through his veins now, blood electrified, and as he scrambles out of bed, pushing the thin blanket off of him like it's suffocating him more than his own lungs, he kicks and scratches at his attacker and he thinks that this had better go the way he wants it to. The repercussions could prove fatal if it doesn't.
He lets out a heavy grunt as he forces his attacker to the ground, and he straddles their waist and grabs them by the throat to keep them pinned. He doesn't even realise he's crying until he sees his tears drop down onto their face, and he draws his fist back quickly, shaking so much it's almost embarrassing. Winn, for the first time, intends to hurt. Not to kill- to punch, to break, to feel the crack of their nose under his own fist, feel the blood on his hands. It scares him a little, if he's perfectly honest, but he'd chosen fight, and he intends to stick to it.
He intends to stick to it, until his eyes adjust to the darkness, and he sees Alex looking terrified underneath him.
Winn is holding Alex Danvers by the throat, fist still drawn back high, raised in attack. (Defence? Both?)
"Winn, it's me," Alex whispers slowly.
Even though he'd been staring at her, sweating and crying and breathing heavy, it's her actually speaking that snaps him out of it. He scrambles backwards, off of her, clutching his hands to his chest and nearly smacking the back of his head off the metal frame of the infirmary bed.
"Alex. Oh, God..."
"Winn... It's okay, I'm only here to help," she says quietly, but not moving forward and not making an effort to touch him.
"I'm sorry..." The tears are falling freely now, thickly down his face, and his whole body is shaking. It sort of hurts to breathe, but it hurts less than knowing he'd almost hurt Alex. Wanted to hurt her.
It's 2 A.M, and here they are, sitting on the floor in the medbay, crying together. Winn doubts that Alex is crying because he'd scared her. She's tougher than that. If he's to place his bets, he'd say it's pity, and that stings the most. He doesn't want pity.
He wants to not flinch anytime anybody moves near him.
He wants to be able to control the nightmares.
He wants the bruises to clear up already, so at least maybe the sorrowful, pitying glances he gets when people think he isn't looking will stop.
He wants to stop feeling like he wants to crawl out of his skin when someone lays a hand on him.
He just wants everything to go back to the way it was before. He doesn't want to be sitting on the floor, crying at 2 A.M because he'd almost murdered his friend. At some point, Alex takes his face in both hands and wipes away his tears, and he lets her wrap her arms around him tightly. It's quite nice, he realises as he hiccups around his tears, having something, someone, to hold in the dark.
She whispers things to him. Stories, reassurances. It makes him feel like a little kid again, but with the addition of proper comfort. He doesn't complain. His ribs hurt and her arm is pressed up against a painful bruise, but he doesn't complain. He drifts off again eventually, still soaked with sweat and sticky with tears, but he doesn't wake up screaming again.
He probably will again tomorrow, but not now. For now, he's asleep on the floor in Alex's lap, bruised and exhausted, but safe.
For now, it's not so bad.