Work Text:
It looked wrong.
Scaramouche had rubbed his hands raw again, and now the little cuts looked wrong. They were ugly and plentiful, a constellation of red nicks and discolored skin. He tried to ignore the growing discomfort in the back of his mind, the task of finding a suitable show to watch forgotten. A pair of the cuts were right next to each other, close together—too close, too wrong. He swallowed hard, shut his eyes, letting the TV remote drop to the couch cushions. He wanted to wash his hands again.
When he opened his eyes again the urge to fix it didn't go away, his right hand twitching as he stared at his left. He clutched at it, hoping simply suffocating it with his grip would be enough (it never was). He looked away, trying and failing to focus on anything but the tiny cuts. It didn’t work.
Decisively, he picked at the twin cuts with his right hand, his nail digging into the wounds with little regard for the pain. It hurt, of course it did, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, too busy trying to eliminate that awful feeling of wrongness firing off in his brain. He didn’t stop even when the wounds reopened, even when thick scarlet painted his finger (I want to wash my hands), even when the pain made him feel dizzy. It still felt wrong.
Large hands wrapped around his own, disregarding the blood that stained them. Scaramouche looked up, fighting off the distress pulsing in his chest, taking over his heart. Dottore's intense gaze met his own, his lips curved into a small frown. The distress twisted into fear, his pale eyes searching the doctor for something he couldn't place. Was Dottore upset with him? Did he think Scaramouche was pathetic?
"Your hands are quite bloody, doll. What a mess," Dottore said as a way of greeting, his hold slipping down to Scaramouche's wrists.
Scaramouche almost said he was sorry, but the words died in his throat. It would be a lie, he didn't regret doing it. Dottore sighed when he stayed silent, lightly squeezing his wrists as if to chastise him. Scaramouche lowered his eyes.
"I'm going to get a rag, don't make it worse," Dottore warned, leaving him alone again.
Scaramouche shut his eyes. If he didn't look, he wouldn't be able to see the messy, gnarled mess on his hand, the cuts that still looked wrong, wrong, wrong. He peeked his eyes open, unable to fight the feeling in his gut, unable to stop himself from making it worse. He worried at his bottom lip as the pain coursed through his hand, unphased by the metallic taste that coated his tongue. This time, the hands around his wrists were far less gentle.
"What did I say?" Dottore scolded, but his voice just sounded tired. He knelt on the floor in front of the man, letting go of one wrist in favor of focusing on the other.
The rag the doctor had brought was damp with warm water, the feeling of it on Scaramouche's hands rough and uncomfortable. The grotesque crimson was washed away, and yet he still felt dirty, still felt sticky, still felt the need to scrub his hands raw all over again. Dottore must’ve sensed his discomfort, because he was quick to rise—quick to press a kiss to Scaramouche’s forehead. He leaned towards the taller man when he pulled away, craving him, his lips, his touch. He was always a welcome distraction when Scaramouche got like this, and now was no exception.
Dottore disappeared down the hall for no longer than thirty seconds, returning with a roll of bandage. He was pleased to find Scaramouche’s hands unbloodied, kneeling down beside him once more. Scaramouche watched in silence as the doctor wrapped his hands, effectively blocking him from mutilating himself. It made him feel worthless, like an animal with a cone, like–
“You’re thinking too hard, doll,” Dottore’s smooth voice cut through the quiet, through Scaramouche’s too loud thoughts.
“Sorry,” Scaramouche mumbled, but there was nothing genuine about it. He never meant it with things like this, and Dottore knew it.
“Let’s just move on, shall we?” he suggested, taking the empty spot next to his lover. “You were trying to decide on a show, yes? How about we–”
“You’re disappointed in me,” the smaller man blurted out, and he regretted it almost as soon as the words left his mouth. He’s disappointed, he’s angry, he hates me he hates me–
“. . . I can’t say that I’m not, but we’re all bound to be disappointed when we set our expectations too high,” Dottore replied, eyeing Scaramouche curiously. He wouldn’t look at him. “I promise you, I’m not upset.”
Scaramouche took a deep breath, steeling himself to look at the doctor. He was met with that same neutral expression that Dottore always wore, impenetrable and indecipherable. He decided to test his luck by leaning into the other man’s side, letting out a soft sigh when he was caged in by a safe arm.
“It’s just. . . ,” Scaramouche tried, attempting to sort out the jumbled mess in his brain. “. . . It’s hard. It’s so hard.”
“I know,” Dottore whispered, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head. “Nobody said this would be easy.”
Scaramouche wanted to laugh, or maybe cry—maybe a muddled combination of both. Getting better wasn’t easy, and continuing on like this wasn’t easy. Nothing felt easy, not even existing. Sometimes he wondered if simply stopping would be easiest, but Dottore always shut him down when he brought it up.
He hid his face in Dottore’s chest, curling into his warmth as negative thoughts ate at him. Dottore didn’t comment on his avoidance, wordlessly picking up the discarded remote and scrolling through the options. He picked a horror movie—he always did—and turned the volume down a little, content to merely sit with his doll as he sorted out his emotions.
In the end, Scaramouche ended up falling asleep, the ever present need to wash his hands nagging at his mind.