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Mark is standing in the kitchen when something hits the ground. It isn't loud. But he hears it. Thump. It's coming from Ashe's room, and echoes from under her door. She's probably fine- she dropped something or got out of bed or anything. But he still walks over, shuffling his feet against their disgusting carpet, before knocking on the door.
"Ashe? You alright in there?" His voice is still scratchy- he just woke up. It doesn't reassure him when he doesn't get an answer.
"Ashe?" No answer. She might just be listening to her music or just doesn't hear him but- "I'm gonna come in now. You wanna say something or…?"
That's when he hears the breathing. It's raspy. And pained. He strains his ears and that breathing- laboured and hitching and-
He hears that laughing. Giggling. He remembers that. He doesn't have anything on him- he wouldn't fight either- so he grits his teeth as he creaks open the door.
He's never thought of Ashe as very physically strong. She stays inside too much- he can suggest whatever but she'll stare out from her blankets and nod no. He gets why now- weak muscles and the fatigue. So that's why it's surprising when she lunges past him with the speed of a cheetah and suddenly there's a burning in his side.
He doesn't even hear her move before there's clattering from the table and he feels cold, sticky blood run down his hip. He turns around fast enough- hand pressed to the growing redness- to see Ashe.
It's not Ashe though. Her posture is too crooked- the wings are sprayed out and guard off the kitchen- and the runes on her face are alight.
They're the same bright red as the blood on her hands. They're more like claws- talons. And she stares at him like a animal- rabid. Mark doesn't like that. He remembers the Trickster- he's not going to let it happen again.
"Ashe."
There's barely even recognition in her face. That's what breaks him. He can feel panic in his chest and he can barely keep himself from yelling and fighting and getting her back but- she just stares.
She just stares at him. Bloods started staining the table where she's perched and she just stares. Until she doesn't. There's the bristling and creaking of muscles before she lunges again- and this time he sees it.
He wishes he didn't have to do what he does next. It pains him. She lunges and her claws almost scrape the skin of his throat and all he can do is put his hands around her shoulders and keep her there- splayed out and his hand is around her throat now.
She screams as he holds her. She thrashes and yells- it echoes through the hallway and he just keeps holding- does she need to be knocked out? Does he trust himself enough for that? Should he wait- Ashe needs to come back.
Ashe needs to come back.
The wings hit against his body- his side and his face- and he holds on even as she scratches and push them both to the floor. He doesn't do much more then hold her.
And she still screams. She screams for what feels like forever before- she stops. She goes slack in his grip and slumps down- and he can feel her hands come loose from his arms, drawing blood.
The runes are fading, and all that's left is the red swirls from under her neck and the light in her hands. Her wings go limp and her breathing evens out, and he waits until-
"Ashe?" He tastes iron in the back of his mouth when he speaks, and he doesn't think she's there until her breath hitches- in and out and in and out- and in the smallest voice he's ever heard-
"…Mark?"
He lets himself breath- it's so, so shaky but he sighs and pulls her in closer and- she has that surprised look in her eyes before he hugs her.
"…what happened? You're- you're bleeding-" She sounds tired.
"It's fine-you- something happened. You just- have to rest now. Okay? I'll tell you later." His voice softens.
"Dad- What happened-"
Oh. Ashe looks so, so scared and- he can't lie to her. She's not a little girl anymore.
"…the Trickster. He came back, Ashe."
She's stares at him and she's shivering. It's not cold in this house. It's never been cold in this house. Her hands are covered in blood and she sits there- her chest heaves and she just… starts to cry
Mark Winters is not a man who cries easily. He's glad for that sometimes. It takes everything to hold her tight and shrug off his jacket, pulling it around her. He can't even feel the wounds or hear anything over the static in his ears.
He knows what shock looks like, so he just sits there, silently. Until she stops crying. Until she falls alseep and he can carry her- wings heavy- back to bed.