Work Text:
Caduceus did not remember making the tea.
To be honest, he didn’t remember coming inside either. Or what it had looked like outside while he was there. Or setting himself down at the table either. He looked at the steaming cup between his palms, was dimly aware of the warmth touching them. It could have been a few minutes ago that he came in, maybe hours? He could have come inside days ago though, it all blended together. Not that it particularly mattered, the time would probably keep passing either way. Like the steam to the ceiling.
Oh.
The tea.
Since it was already here he may as well drink it. It smelled nice at least, maybe it was the Frazers, that would be nice, he liked that blend. Or maybe he didn't? Maybe it was a different one? He couldn't remember, but it probably wasn’t important.
He took a sip.
His eyes widened and his tail thrashed as he swallowed, everything going sharp as it burned on his tongue. Burned down his throat, into his stomach. It hurt. Hurt bad. Sharper than anything else. He gasped for breath as soon as it was down, looking around as he tried to settle himself, tail still thumping into the chair leg. The tea must have been quite recent then. His throat hurt.
He looked around the room and it all seemed brighter, everything in it cutting a sharper edge than it had before. His tongue burned against his cheek. He saw the mess for the first time in ages; things left out, the thick dust gathered across unused surfaces.
The dishes had piled up.
Huh.
He poked his tongue gently with a finger. It hurt more to the touch. Breathe. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the rest of his body, remembering the shape of himself again. He could feel the chair underneath, the hard press of it against his butt and thighs. His forearms against the table. He had edges.
He had edges?
He wasn't drifting. He took another sip. He wasn’t sure why, but it was searing down his throat before he processed it. The same, immediately, awareness becoming sharper at the edges, colors brighter, and his chest hurt. He could see the sun coming through the window, the sparkle on the dust floating undisturbed in the beam. The long dead and dried flowers in a vase on the counter that he didn't remember harvesting and he certainly didn't remember decaying.
It all suddenly felt real in a way it hadn’t in a long time, but this wasn’t good. This wasn't right. His mouth hurt and the house was a mess and it must be midday by the sun and he's holding his mother's favorite mug and his mouth hurts.
This wasn’t right.
He set the cup down and squeezed his arms, rubbed his aching shoulders, fingers catching matted fur. When did it get so matted? When was the last time he brushed? When was the last time he bathed? Why did his shoulders ache? His hands were shaking. Breathing was good. He was breathing. He was good at that, fingers still dragging and catching and pulling. The breaths were coming a little too quick, a little too shallow, hands shaking as he tugged at his fur.
Stop.
He let go and reached for the cup again, taking another sip, flinching as it went down.
Right. Still hurt. Still matted. Still alone.
His stomach rumbled. When did he last eat? Everything was suddenly so real and he was here and he was alone and he was a being in a body and apparently had never stopped being one. When did he last eat? Why couldn't he place it? Why was he so matted? So sore? He scratched again, and again, tugging at his fur. Everything felt so sharp, so real and alive and more solid than they had in who knows how long. He hated it. He craved it. Everything was nothing and nothing was everything. It was too much and it wasn’t enough all at once. His tail was probably bruised from whacking against the chair.
He kept scratching and ripping, unable to stop. His hands were shaking. It hurt to have a body, to be real, but it was something in this sea of nothing. Something that kept him here. He took another sip from his mother's mug, trying to center himself on that burn instead of the mats. He took a deep breath in and released his fur as he let it out, eyes widening at the blood under his nails as he pulled away. That was not good, he knew that. Could place that this wasn’t healthy, but he felt real. He felt alive. He was here and he hadn't floated away and he didn't want to disappear again. He couldn't. He wouldn’t. His hands shook.
Stop.
He set the mug down. He stood up from the table and his knees almost buckled out from under him. How long had he been sitting there? He grabbed the edge of the chair and took another deliberately slow breath. He was shaking. That wasn’t great either. But this was more present than he’d felt since he burnt his hand on the stove, back when the air was warm. Or when he stayed out in the snow too long and lost feeling everywhere. He felt his fingers tighten against wood, felt the joints protest. His feet against the ground, pressed solid and grounding. He might have been smiling? He was definitely shaking.
There was blood under his nails.
Dimly, he was aware this wasn’t great, could hear his mother’s gentle scolding. Could almost feel her pulling his hands away, holding them in her own and squeezing. Her touch was always warm and firm. But she wasn’t here, she left and never came back.
They all left.
Left him.
Alone.
He snatched the mug off the table and downed the last of it in one gulp, nearly spilling it in his haste. It hurt in a different way than an empty house, felt real in the way life didn't anymore. Brought him so close to the surface, he felt like he could almost breathe again. Maybe it wasn’t great, but there was no one left to stop him, hadn’t been in years. Not even She spoke to him much anymore. Silence all around. Cold breezes that felt empty and mournful. His hands shook and his throat burned and his breath was ragged.
He only noticed he dropped the mug when he heard it shatter. Staring at the shards on the ground. Not great. That was not great. The shatter echoed in his ears. It was a lot. It was too much and not enough. His hands shook. There were so many shards on the ground. They looked sharp and angry.
His mother's favorite mug.
He could still hear it shattering. He made himself take a few steps back, away from the shards, leaning against the counter. There was blood under his nails and his tongue burned and his stomach felt like it was trying to find a way into his throat. He held the counter as tight as he could, fingers slipping against the wood.
Stepping into the shards would be a step too far. He knew that. He didn't know where his bandages were. He held onto the counter. The light from the window glinted against the sharp remnants of his mother's favorite mug.
On shaking legs he sunk to the floor, back against the counter, pulling his knees to his chest. He took a trembling breath. His joints popped and ached as he moved, resting his cheek on his hands, over his knees. He was trembling. There were ceramic shards all over the floor. His mouth hurt and he wouldn't step on them.
He wouldn't.
He’d clean them up.
Not now, but soon.
Later.
He was pretty sure he was crying.
He might have been smiling.
There was blood under his nails and his mother's favorite mug across the floor.