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You can’t help but remember what it felt like when you were still a player. When you still had the constant tick tick tick of time passing, as ever present as your heartbeat and consistent in a way your heart never was. You hated it back then - of course you did. The constant hypervigilance of every second passing, the voice in your ear whispering that every tick was a step closer towards the death of the only person you had left, that every second wasted was one you were never getting back.
But… fuck if you don’t miss it sometimes.
On nights like these, when your chest feels hollow and your room is oppressively silent, and all you can do is lie in bed and stare into the dark - well. At least you’d be able to know how much time you’d wasted just lying here, trying to sleep.
Seriously. How goddamn stupid is that? You can’t sleep. You’re more tired than you’ve ever been in your life, and there’s nothing to keep an eye out for (and that just feels wrong, silence and stillness in place of puppets and traps and strifes. Like another planet.) and you can finally relax, and yet here you fuckin’ are. Lying in bed. Wing crushed awkwardly under you. Counting the cracks in the ceiling that you can barely see in the dark.
One of them looks like a dick. Nice.
God, your eyes hurt. Your chest hurts. Your wing hurts - both of them, really; the one pinned under your back and the shitty useless stub left after Harley’s hound from hell tried to turn you into a dog toy.
Fuck, how long has it been since you changed the bandages over? Too long, probably. Definitely. Actually, shit, yeah, the last time you changed them would’ve been the last time you left your room on the battleship. Which you… can barely remember.
So. Definitely too long, then. And with how awkward it is to bandage the fucked up stub, that shit’s almost definitely fallen off by now. So you’ve just been… bleeding all over the bed for god knows how long. Great.
Whatever.
Little bit of blood never killed anyone, and it barely looks like blood anyway. Shit’s bright yellow - no one’s gonna walk in, see your blankets covered in yellow and assume they walked into a ridiculously overdrawn crime scene.
(No one’s gonna walk in here at all.)
Actually, fuck - yellow is probably the worst colour a mysterious bed stain can be, isn’t it? God damn, that’s embarrassing. Everyone get a load of this asshole, pissing the bed like a dumbass because he can’t be fucked changing his bandage. …Diaper? Is that where you’re going with this?
Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not. The bandages are a diaper, and your blood is piss, and you really need to shut the fuck up.
God, you hate this time of night.
Your mind always does this after a certain point. You stare into the darkness for long enough and your mind just does an acrobat fuckin pirouette into the deep end, coming back with the most insane shit like a cat dragging a dead bird to the door- hm.
Is it weird to make analogies about dead birds? Is it any weirder than your regular braindead analogies? Is there any chance of your brain shutting the fuck up?
Your wing hurts.
You groan, rolling over and somehow managing to crush it even more under your side. Fuckin’ whatever. Burying your face into a nearby pillow and coiling your tail up tight - and its still so fucking weird that you just… have a tail now - you decide to just. Close your eyes and hope your mind will shut up for long enough to let you sleep. It’s how nights like these always go, and it never works, but hey, who knows. Maybe this time you’ll finally get it.
You know you won't, but a guy can hope, right? Even if it's just on a purely ironic level. You'd wish on a fuckin’ star if there were any out here.
Who are you kidding. Even if there were, it wouldn't be worth the effort.
You sigh, take a deep breath and press your face into the pillow, almost praying it can muffle your thoughts. The silence stretches out around you, heavy and dark and suffocating, and you try to shut your eyes more to block out the non-existent light-
And the door opens.
A blade of light and noise cutting through the silence, shattering your illusion of safety and you should've known, you should've fucking known- your back is to the fucking door and everything, like you're begging to get another sword through your spine and you're panicking now, scrambling upright, tail caught in the blanket- fucking look at you, a month without him and you're already a fucking failure-
The shadow in the doorway shifts and you fumble for your sword but only find cloth tearing under your talons - fuck, fuck that's right you stopped keeping it there, couldn't keep it stabbed through where your heart should be when John gave you that look every time he saw it- and now you don't remember where it is and you're panicking and-
"Davesprite?"
And speak of the fucking devil. There he is, and there it is, that same look as he stands in the doorway - part concern, part sadness, and part something you can't name that makes the hole in your chest ache.
Neither of you speak. He just stands there, staring at you, and it takes you far too long to realise that you’re staring back. He just… god. He looks tired. He’s nearly completely silhouetted by the light of the hallway, but you can see the exhaustion in his face, the way he sways slightly for a moment before catching himself on the doorframe.
Shit.
There’s a part of you, deep, deep down, that hurts at the sight, that just wants to wrap him up and bury him in softness and safety and sleep - and you push it as far back as it’ll go, bite back the strangled chirp that tries to force its way out of your throat. Fumble for your shades tangled in the blanket and quickly push them back on, plunging the already dark room into a void and turning John into an unrecognisable silhouette.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” The silhouette shifts slightly, leaning forward for a moment before falling back against the doorframe. “Are you… okay?”
…What?
“What? Dude, I’m-” Even through the shades, you can’t look at him. “C’mon dude, you’re really gonna blame me for flipping out because some asshole barged in here while I was catching some z’s? Seriously, man, no one ever teach you how to knock? I would say you must’ve been raised by animals, but as someone who’s part animal I gotta say that shit is pretty fuckin’ offensive - we aren’t monsters. Shit, even woodpeckers know how to knock. You really dumber than a woodpecker, man? Really?”
He at least has the decency to snort at that, albeit half-heartedly. “Sorry. I guess I was just too tired to think properly. That’s not what I meant, though - I was kinda talking about, y’know, all the uh… blood everywhere?”
You… ignore that last part, unconsciously twisting a fallen feather between your talons (where the hell did you get that from?) “Dude - how long has it been since you’ve slept?”
It takes him far too long to respond.
“...A couple of days, maybe? Can’t have been longer than a week.” He laughs awkwardly, adds, “Sorry I couldn’t just hole up in my room and sleep for two whole weeks like some people.”
And there’s something there, some carefully buried vulnerability to the words that somehow managed to slip through, that makes you quietly say, “Me too. The uh, sleeping thing. Just…” You shrug. “Can’t do it.”
You don’t look at him as you say that, gaze fixed on the feather in your hands, which means you don’t see John getting closer - at least until he pokes your shoulder out of fucking nowhere and you barely manage to force back a squawk of alarm (although you don’t go for your sword this time. Hell yeah.)
He unceremoniously drops down on the bed beside you, poking your shoulder again. And again. And- you grab his wrist before he can go for round four, scowling at him - god, this close you can see his face again, even through the shades. “What.”
He rolls his eyes, tugging his hand free. “No duh you can’t sleep! You’re bleeding everywhere, dumbass. Your body is probably just trying to make sure you don’t bleed out in your sleep or something dumb like that.” He tries to poke your shoulder again, and you perform a tactical flop back onto the bed to dodge, flipping him off smugly.
“Nah.”
Ow, fuckshit- you fell on your wing again. Shit’s practically folded in half under you like some fucked up origami now, and it’s a hell of a lot more painful than normal origami. As casually as possible, you pull it free with a wince and let it half unfold over the bed, praying John somehow didn’t see.
…Goddamnit. He’s giving you that look again, and before you can even say anything, he’s cut you off with a “Dude!”, grabbing your wing to gently unfold it fully- and holy fuck, apparently someone touching your wing feels hella relaxing?
Well. That’s something you’re just… never going to think about again. Jesus Christ.
You finally tug the wing away again with a “Dude!”, only slightly mocking John’s. “What the fuck- you can’t just go around grabbing people’s wings, man. That ain’t cool.”
“And you can’t just use them as a pillow!” John scowls, pokes your wing again, and you have to fight to not shove it into his hand. What the fuck. “Seriously, do you take care of these at all? They’re all bent and crooked and- is that blood?”
“What?” Propping yourself up on one elbow, you stretch your wing out over you to look and… huh. Yep. That’s blood. Tiny little spots of it scatter the wing, and… fuck, you never realised how bad your feathers actually were. They’re a goddamn mess.
Seems fitting, honestly.
You shrug, lie back down and let your wing fall over the bed. “I don’t know, man. They’re fine. You think birds out in the wild constantly have fuckin spotless wings?”
“They definitely don’t look like that!” Before you can say anything, he adds, “Come on, dude. Just let me fix them.”
That… gets you to shut up for a moment. What?
“Let you… what?”
“Fix them! Like, the stuff birds do to their wings to actually take care of them.” He frowns at your blank stare. “Dude! Did you not look this stuff up?”
“Uh. Why would I?” You quickly correct yourself. “Wait- did you seriously look that shit up?”
“Yeah, dude! What else are you supposed to do when your best bro becomes all… birdy?” He says it like it’s the most obvious shit in the world, and you just… you have no fucking clue what you’re supposed to say to that. What you’re supposed to do.
…Apart from the obvious.
You’re completely still for a moment, studying John, before silently sitting up and shifting so your back is to John, wing outstretched.
You barely have time to begin overthinking everything about this before he gets to work, and holy shit- you can feel yourself relax immediately, shoulders slumping and head leaning forward as your wing fully unfolds and practically shoves itself into his hands.
You try to focus on what he’s doing, but all you can pay attention to is the warmth of his arm braced gently against your back, his hands on your wing, so agonisingly careful as he brushes through the feathers that it makes the hole in your chest ache. There’s a few pinpricks of pain here and there as he straightens bent feathers or accidentally knocks a few loose, and even though you can barely feel them, he still whispers quiet apologies every time, and its-
Fuck. It’s really fucking nice. You’re more relaxed than you’ve been ever, and your wing doesn’t hurt anymore, and John’s there and he’s being so careful and so, so fucking kind, even though its just you, just the spare, and it’s- you don’t deserve this.
You don’t. You know you don’t, and he knows you don’t, knows what happened in the old timeline, and- and he’s here anyway. And you don’t know why. Tears sting your eyes, and you barely try to fight them, trusting your shades and the darkness. Trusting John.
It takes you a moment to realise that John’s stopped working. It takes you a moment longer to figure out what that warm weight against your back is - John, slumped against your wing, looking about five seconds from passing out.
You can’t help but snort quietly, flicking him with your tail. “I thought it wasn’t a pillow?”
“Mm- shit-” He blinks blearily, forces himself upright with a yawn - and fuck, there you go again, being the world’s biggest asshole. Christ, he looks exhausted. “Shit- sorry, dude. I can-”
You shake your head, flick him lightly with your tail again. “Dude. We both already know I don’t give a shit about using it as a pillow. You’ve just gotta do it right.”
Even through your shades you can see the blank stare he gives you. “...What?”
You roll your eyes, wrapping your wing around John before flopping back onto the bed, dragging him down with you. To his credit, he seems to figure it out fairly quickly - he lets himself be dragged down, almost immediately attaching himself to your side, one arm flung over you and face buried in the feathers around your neck as his breathing evens out.
You’re doing this for him. That’s what you tell yourself as you fold your wing around him, completely cocooning him. That’s what you tell yourself as you loosely coil your tail around his legs, let your arm fall over him protectively. That’s what you tell yourself as you finally let yourself relax, the warm weight pressed against you gently pulling you down into sleep.
It’s always been for him, hasn’t it.