Work Text:
It’s always the same - no matter how many times he had woken up like this, that pervasive sensation of being full always struck first. And - if he was being honest, struck wasn’t even the right word. It settled over him like a blanket; so different from the gnawing hunger he remembers for years on end until it felt only like a black hole in his gut, desperate for anything to fill it until he met Ravenous. The rest of him hasn’t caught up just yet, and Red finds himself basking in the sensation, like he always does; lashes fluttering open to blink and squint at the light above him - pale, early dawn, or late evening - and shakes his head, pushing himself into a sitting position when dizziness doesn’t threaten to consume him. Unconsciously, his tongue runs over his bottom lip, and that - that’s when it kicks in. The taste .
He’s never been able to accurately describe it. Never been able to get rid of it, either; some bitter sharp, metallic gore taste that sits on the back of his tongue. A keening sob rips its way out of his throat and Red doubles over, a hand lifting to his mouth and the other curling over his stomach as it turns. Gore is splattered there, too, he knows; but his eyes are squeezed shut to avoid the sight of it. The stench lingers, however; coppery-iron and horror and disgust as he heaves and gags against the cup of his palm. Like always, nothing comes up. Like always, Red does it anyways; more instinctive revulsion than anything else by this point. He leans forward, further, until his forehead can rest against the floor beneath him, and Red realizes he’s back in the Lighthouse; back in the sanctuary of his room. In his thoughts, Rav purrs a welcome to the unoffered thanks, and Red shoves at him, presses his hand firmer against his mouth as he gags again. There’s a shuffling at his door that has Red falling silent - or, as silent as he can, shuddering breaths against his palm as the door opens and a figure slips inside.
“Red?”
Emmrich , his mind - Ravenous - supplies, And Red swallows down revulsion again.
“Fine, fine - Good morning, Emmrich-” His mouth waters, the indication of another gag coming on, and Red swallows desperately, but it’s no use. He curls over with the force of it, stomach clenching beneath his hand, and he can faintly hear Emmrich murmur out an ‘Oh, dearest,’ before the man’s hands are on him, and Red shies away.
“No, no,” he moans out, shaking his head against another gag; “I’m- I’m alright, Emmrich. No need to worry about- about me,”
But Emmrich isn’t listening. He’s already got a hand under Red’s elbow, the one to the hand at his mouth, tugging him up onto his feet with slow, sure guidance.
“Come along, dearest,” Emmrich says gently, and Red - he’s so tired . Tired of waking up like this, coated in gore, tired of waking up full only on the lives of others, tired .
Red follows. Emmrich leads him to a bathroom that the Lighthouse pulls out of the fade, a large tub that Red has never seen before, and the shower he’s more familiar with hidden behind the curtain. Emmrich makes a face at it, but Red is already moving away, shucking the pieces of his armor and clothes off that Ravenous had left him in in a trail to the shower.
“Red,” Emmrich calls, and Red stops, blinking as he turns a gaze over his shoulder at Emmrich. The question must be evident on his face, because the other man smiles at him, beckons him back. Carefully, like one might a wounded animal, Red turns, inches back to Emmrich’s side. It’s then he realizes that the Lighthouse has provided a basin against the wall by the door, large enough that he can dunk his hands and face into if he wanted, and Emmrich is standing just slightly in front of it, waiting for Red’s approach. Still confused, though perhaps reaching an understanding, Red comes to a stop next to Emmrich, and the man offers him another smile; sleep-mussed , Red realizes - or perhaps he hadn’t slept at all? Who knew how many times Red had wandered around at night himself, only to come across the professor wide awake and speaking in low tones to Manfred, or lounging by the fire in the main library of the Lighthouse, a thick tome in hand. He’d never quite looked so disheveled, however, and Red feels a pang of guilt. Had he woken him up from his sleep by being too loud? Or - perhaps, had Ravenous woken him up?
The Demon offers no answers when prodded. Red watches, breath bated, as Emmrich’s fingers press and pass over the runes on the spigots hanging over the basin, and watches as it fills with water that steams just enough. Again, Red moves forward, prepared to dunk his hands into it and be done with it, but Emmrich’s hand against his chest stops him in his tracks.
“Allow me,” Emmrich says - could almost be a question, if it weren’t for the way he reaches for the rag and soap, dunking both into the water and scrubbing it over the rag before setting it aside, and taking Red’s hand into his own, and - oh.
Oh . Gently, Emmrich swipes the rag over the viscera on his hands, staining his skin, and Red’s breath is caught in his chest; heart the fluttering hum of a bird’s wings. Ravenous is - not quite sated , but content, and this - this is just his. Just theirs . The water turns orange and then brown, and Emmrich pauses only long enough to drain and refill it, before he goes back; meticulous in the care he shows the grooves of war-worn hands like Reds, and he feels a prickle of heat behind his eyes again.
“Ah- thank you. Emmrich.”
“Not a worry at all, dearest.”