Work Text:
York wakes her up at three in the morning. He's tossing and turning and shivering and clutching at the sheets like he's trying to gain purchase, like he's going to fall from some great height. When he opens his eyes, they're dull and strange. There are tears sliding down his face, but he doesn't seem to notice. He smiles when he sees Carolina, automatically.
"Come on," she says. She's standing there at his bedside in her star-patterned pajama pants and an oversized shirt belonging to South.
He follows her, when she heads for the kitchen. Of course he does; he always does.
*
Carolina drops a thin fleece blanket around his shoulders almost absently on her way to put the kettle on, and York burrows into it as best he can in his chair at the kitchen table. He closes his eyes and smells chamomile, hears the clink of a ceramic mug on the countertop.
It's gotta be a mistake that he's ended up here. That Carolina Church is making him a cup of chamomile tea at three in the morning. That he isn't huddling under horse blankets in a barn, or blustering his way onto a train to god knows where.
He opens his eyes, blinks at the kitchen window. It's gotta be a mistake that he's warm inside this kitchen while snow falls outside, layering the sidewalk below.
Carolina sets a mug in front of him without a word, and sits down opposite him with her own mug (a faded blue, with the silhouette of a unicorn etched into it). She looks calm. Peaceful. Like this is a normal, routine part of her day.
He wants to say thanks, or sorry, or hey, does it always snow like that in March around here? He wants to babble at her about chamomile and how did somebody get the idea for tossing hot water over it in the first place. He wants to rest his head on her shoulder and go back to sleep, and he doesn't want to sleep ever again in his life.
He lifts the mug to his lips and drinks. It's too hot. It scorches his tongue, burns at the back of his throat. He keeps drinking.
*
She can think of plenty of things to tell him. Don't drink so fast. Stop being so quiet; it's weird when you're quiet. And stop looking at me like you're afraid I might hurt you. Stop being so transparent. It's ridiculous.
She wants to say I won't hurt you. She wants to believe that's true, that they aren't falling too quickly into something deeper than friendship but too cautious to be anything else. She wants to believe that they have a choice, that she could pull away at any moment, but he blinks at her sleepy-eyed and she can feel all her choices being stripped away.
And it doesn't bother her. It should bother her. But it doesn't bother her at all.
"Your hair's a mess," she says, her throat dry. She hasn't touched her tea.
York blinks at her again, like he's startled at being spoken to at all, and then grins. "Maybe I like it that way," he answers, reaching up to feel the random assortment of spikes atop his head.
"You look like an anime character," Carolina says flatly.
The grin widens. It shouldn't fit on his face. How does he go so quickly from lost puppydog to grinning idiot? "Maybe that's what I was going for."
"Congratulations." Carolina lifts her mug, and he lifts his at the same time. For a split-second they hesitate, and then she leans forward to clink her mug against his.
"A toast to regrettable hairstyles?" he offers.
"To whatever you want," Carolina answers, and takes a long drink from her mug.
*
It's Carolina who moves to the couch first, just stands up and strides over, York trailing behind her.
"Y'know, I keep trying to figure it out," York says lightly. He's still huddled under the blanket, gripping the too-hot tea mug in both hands. "Where I'm...y'know. Where I'm going. Or whatever." He sounds stupid. He knows he sounds stupid.
Carolina cradles her mug close to her chest. She doesn't look at him. A thin tendril of steam rises and drifts past her face. "Sometimes," she says, "you just go on."