Chapter Text
Henry doesn't think being a chauffeur is in his job description. He isn't exactly sure how he even ends up driving, other than a whirlwind of complaints about delays and Hans insisting that Henry was the help, and that it was his ‘duty’. It definitely wasn't, but who was Henry to argue?
All around, it was odd. Henry had never once seen Hans be on time for anything, ever, but for whatever reason he'd been very insistent on leaving for Trosky early. Neither his actual chauffeur hadn’t even been ready, but Hans had absolutely insisted that they must be on time for his meetings, even if that meant setting off ahead of everyone else.
And now here Henry was, behind the wheel of an unfamiliar car that probably cost more than he made in a year, driving on thin, dusty backroads as the sun rapidly set. The radio struggled to pick anything up, flickering in and out of local stations with little snippets of music. Mutt snoozed in the backseat, curled up on a towel. He was, according to Hans, too dirty to lay on the upholstery. Henry was too thankful that he could bring Mutt at all to argue.
“We should start looking for a place to rest,” Henry prompted eventually, about half an hour after it started to get properly dark.
He risked a glance over at Hans, the dying remnants of light streaking his face in gentle color. It was easy to feel like they were friends, road-tripping across the country. Henry supposed that there were worse ways to spend his time, even if Hans was a total passenger princess and also an abhorrent backseat driver.
“I'm tired. And hungry,” Henry added, fixing his eyes back on the road. “I saw a sign for a motel a few miles back. We have enough time to stop and rest, I reckon.”
This was going to be an important meeting. It was the first the Hanush had ever trusted him to take on his own, and he had made it clear in absolutely no uncertain terms that he had to get this right. They had a deal that they had to make - getting von Bergow to sign on with Hanush would be enough to guarantee nearly ten years of steady income. It was a deal Hans' father had been trying to make for years before he'd died, so Hans knew how important it was.
Henry's nonchalance about driving and his apparent frustration with having to do what Hans thought was the most basic of his duties was frustrating, to say the least, so he'd yelled, and he wasn't exactly decent, but it got them on the road on time, albeit with that horrible Mutt in the back seat.
Each time the radio started cutting out, Hans would reach out to fiddle with the dials, switching stations to find something that worked, but would inevitably just cut out again as quickly as the last one had, each and every time. Still, as many times as Henry insisted that nothing would work, Hans insisted it would, and he kept on flicking through the stations.
Hans noticed Henry glance over, and he looked back, his eyes meeting Henry's baby blues. He raised his brows and motioned towards the road, interjecting to say, "look at the road, Henry! Christ! I'd like to make it there alive!" With a roll of his eyes, he looked back at the road ahead. He hadn't seen that sign for the hotel, and it wasn't necessarily that he didn't believe Henry, but, well, he didn't.
"No, Henry. We're close enough. You can keep driving, we'll be there by midnight and you can get all the beauty sleep you want, then. If I'm not there by tomorrow morning, I won't be the first person there. Do you understand how important it is that I make a good impression? But I'll make it up to you! We'll go out for drinks, maybe a bit of dancing, if they've got anything in this backwater..."
A sigh built up in Henry's throat, a spark of annoyance flashing in his eyes. He didn't exactly want to keep going. Hans could nap in the cozy passenger seat all that he wanted, but Henry was growing drowsy, and he knew himself well enough to be wary of dozing off at the wheel. Instead of voicing that concern, though, Henry just huffed, “I am looking at the road.”
His tone was a touch indignant, despite his best efforts. Henry had been in enough tiffs with Hans to know that, really, there was no winning with him. Sometimes if Henry was lucky, he could make some headway by sucking up. But it’d cost him his dignity, and he also wasn't exactly in the mood to kiss Hans’ ass at the moment.
“I don't know, sir, I just-” Henry attempted again, after ten minutes of contemplative silence. Sometimes, arguing just made Hans dig in his heels even more, and Henry still wasn't sure what exactly it was that set him off. “I’m not used to driving so late, and it looks like it might rain. It’s already hard enough to see the road, I don't want to…”
He trailed off again, chewing on his lower lip indecisively as they passed by the motel. Part of him wanted to just pull over anyway, but the smarter part reminded him that he very much so needed this job, and that risking Hans’ ire wasn't worth it. And so the motel faded away behind them.
Henry did his best to tamp down any worry. He could push through, couldn't he? Maybe Hans was right, and they would arrive soon. Hans had been the one giving him directions, so surely he'd know? Though Henry did sort of doubt Hans’ ability to estimate how long it’d take them to travel. And the roads were so dark and windy, and Hans’ headlights weren't exactly the best. If it did start raining, it’d only amplify the issue. Henry grimaced, but said nothing.
Hans didn't even notice Henry's annoyance. He didn't even think to look for it. He'd decided they were driving on, and he expected Henry to agree. Even if he did argue - which he did far more often than Hans would like - it wouldn't change his mind. They were close. At least, there were only three or four more turns left in the directions he'd printed. He didn't really look how many miles were left. He wasn't driving.
"Oh, relax, Henry. You'll be fine. You drive all the time, it's not like it's difficult." Hans says with a shrug.
He's pleased as they pass the motel. It looked disgusting. Half the windows had bars on them, the white painted walls were stained with god knows what, and the doors on the rooms seemed like they'd break if too strong a wind blew through. "Oh, Henry! That's where you wanted me to sleep? I'd rather curl up in the dirt..." No, of course he wouldn't, but he'll be happier if they reach the hotel he'd booked before they'd left.
Hans finally looked at Henry again, noticing, finally, the vague anxiety on his face. "Henry!" He sounds far too cheery, and he punches Henry's shoulder - affectionately. Mostly. "You're fine! It's just driving. Maybe another hour..." He lifts up the directions and flips through them, then looks back up at the road, watching out for any signs. As soon as they finally spot a motel - an old, worn out thing that sits crookedly, he opens a map and flips on the overhead light so he can find their location. He mumbles to himself for a minute, and then says, "Okay. Maybe two or three... That's nothing." He flips the map shut, but leaves the light on as he goes flipping through the radio again to find a station that works, again.
“It's just a motel,” Henry retorted, unable to help himself. His mother had told him, on more than one occasion, that someday his mouth would get him into trouble. ‘Someday’ seemed to be everyday that Henry spent around Hans. “It's not that bad. It looked… er, cozy to me.”
It honestly didn't. But Henry often felt that he had to defend things from Hans’ utter disdain for anything that he deemed lesser, which was… well, just about anything. Some small part of Henry always felt like he was being jabbed at in a way. He'd grown up out in the middle of nowhere. It felt like his duty almost to defend it.
“Two hours- three?” Henry sputtered back in echo, a clear indignation in his tone. He flinched slightly to the side as Hans’ map flapped around way too close to his personal space, grating on his already frayed nerves.
“Won't you stop it with the radio? It's not going to work. The static makes my head hurt,” Henry added, because apparently any mental barrier between his brain and his mouth had completely broken down by now. The first splatters of rain were hitting the windshield, not enough to be a proper downpour but enough to mist over the road. “And don't leave the overhead on, for Christsakes!”
Later, Henry won't remember at all what happened next. It all happened so quickly that even in the moment he can hardly process it. He reached out to push Hans’ hand from the dial before reaching for the light, taking his eyes off the road for only a moment to find the unfamiliar switch. When he looks back to the road, the stag is already there. The majestic sort, antlers fit to be a trophy hanging on the wall. Henry isn't quite sure if he has a moment to think at all before he's trying to slam on the breaks, but it's really no use. The road is slightly slick, and the stupid stag is right in the middle, and Henry panics.
Before he can even think, the car is no longer on the road. He thinks he might be screaming, but then the airbag is exploding into his face, and everything goes briefly and brilliantly empty.
"Some of the stations do work, Henry!" Hans argues back. "And if I don't find something that does work, all you'll hear is static, anyway. Think about that." Hans' voice is sharp, arguing back all too eagerly as soon as Henry tries to assert himself.
It's not that he doesn't think Henry should assert himself... Well, no, it is. Henry is his subordinate, he works for Hans, and the least he can do is put up with driving for a couple of hours and listening to a staticky radio! It's not like it's any worse than whatever shitbox he drives when he isn't with Hans. In fact, Hans thinks he should be happy he gets to drive Hans' car. It's brand new, expensive and flashy. Freshly waxed and detailed, and worth more than Henry makes in a year - though Hans doesn't know that; his uncle Hanush signs Henry's paychecks, and Hans has never asked how much he's paid.
Hans swatted Henry's hand away from the dial, and he shouted at Henry, "look at the road, damn it!"
And then, as he looked back at the road after he yelled at Henry, it suddenly wasn't there. It was a blur of green and drops of water on the windshield. He was being thrown around, this way and that, and his head was ringing with each and every impact of the car in any of the roadside ditches and potholes. And then he couldn't see anything, because the airbags deployed. It was loud. So, so loud.
Then an impact, and Hans was thrown so hard into the seatbelt that it felt like his lungs might never recover. The world spun around him, over and under and around, again and again. And then it stopped. Everything was so completely and utterly still and quiet, except for the sound of rain drops falling on what was left of the glass in the car, landing on Hans' skin where there was no glass to stop the water falling, and the sound of the static issuing from the radio, crackling in and out of life as the car gasped its last breaths of life.
Hans gasped out for air, trying to fill his lungs, and they didn't budge. He could feel the seat behind him, and the metal of the frame on his right side. On his left, Henry's body was against his. He's heavy, and he won't budge when Hans pushes him. "Henry!" He tries to push him again, but he's in so much pain, and the car is so tightly pressed against him, weighing in on every inch of his body. "Henry! For God's sake, please!" If Henry responds, or shows any sign of life whatsoever, Hans can't hear him over his growing panic, and the horrible, loud ringing of his ears.
It takes every ounce of strength he has to unfasten his seatbelt and drag himself from the seat and into the back of the car. Every movement seems to make the car smaller, like it's tightening in a vice grip around his body, and each movement is harder than the last. When he finally makes it out of his seat, he has to climb across Henry and to the back. The passenger side door won't budge, no matter how many times he yanks on the handle and desperately kicks at it. It takes a minute of his panicked, desperate movements before he finally settles the panic in his mind enough to try the driver's side door.
It opens with a loud creak, and Hans is able to shove it just enough to drag himself out onto the damp grass. "Henry!" he groans, clutching at what he thinks must be a couple of broken ribs. No answer from Henry. He forces himself upright and crawls to the door. It opens easily, and he is just able to shove the airbag far enough out of the way to look at Henry. "Henry!" He shouts, desperation growing louder in his voice. "Henry, please! You have to wake up!" He desperately fumbles for his seatbelt, trying to free Henry so he can drag him from the car, but his hands are shaking so badly he can hardly find the button. When he calls to Henry again, his forming tears are audible in his voice. "Henry, please."
When Henry opens his eyes, he’s in Skalitz. Where else could he ever be? It's always Skalitz, when he closes his eyes. He's tired. Everything feels strangely heavy. The air, hot and oppressively muggy, reminds him of being in a sauna. This was the easy part. Predictably, things sour, as they always do every time he returns here.
It feels fresh every time, even though it's been years since the tragedy that left his small town in flames. By some miracle he awakens in bed before anyone else, early enough to escape. His door is blocked by a fallen beam, flames licking at the walls, the ceiling; it happens so quickly. He pries open the window, but the sill burns at his hands, and when he lands on the wet grass, his shoulder explodes into an unfamiliar agony, so sharp that it feels foreign to everything else. Even through the haze, Henry knows this is different.
He always imagines he can hear screaming, not just that of his neighbors but of his parents. In truth, he never heard them cry for help. He doesn't know if they'd even awoken in time to have a fighting chance. But in the dream world, where everything is sharper and crueler than reality could ever be, he can hear their voices rising together. They aren't just calling for help. They're calling for him.
“Henry!” It's relentless. It doesn't sound quite right, either. Is he forgetting their voices already? “Henry! For God’s sake! Please!”
Henry’s head pounds, as though someone's taken a hammer to it. There’s nothing he can do. He's paralyzed on the grass, watching the flames grow around him. He isn't breathing - why isn't he breathing? - and his lungs burn with the need to be somewhere else, perhaps back inside his home to burn like knows he should have.
“Henry, please! You have to wake up!” Wake up? Henry’s brow furrowed. He should wake up, shouldn't he? The world is melting around him, sickeningly. He can't… he shouldn't be-...
Henry was used to having nightmares. What he wasn’t used to was waking up to something even worse. When he suddenly jolts, gasping and coughing and spluttering out a soft cry for his parents, it's obvious that he hardly thinks he's awake at all.
Nothing makes sense. Everything hurts, a physical agony he's never known. His ribs, his head, his shoulder. His mouth is filled with blood, metallic and disgusting. The scent fills his nose. Henry attempted to move, but something was holding him in place, without any give. Seatbelt, he thinks distantly, but the thought leads absolutely nowhere. Of course, it isn't just the seatbelt keeping him here. A bit of metal, from God knows where, had impaled itself into his shoulder.
He tried again to shift forward, towards the hands and voice of what he can only assume to be something that has come to collect him. His roaming gaze finds Hans’ panicked blue eyes, right in front of him, and for a moment he's very certain that this absolutely must be an angel, because if one ever came to earth, it surely would take the form of Hans Capon.
Only, the Hans in front of him is battered and bloody, and his hands felt very, very real. Still, it didn't stop the words from tumbling out of Henry’s mouth, in a horrified mumble. “Are you-... am I dead?”
Hans is so panicked, so completely and utterly terrified that Henry won't wake. He's dead, his brain keeps saying. He's dead and it's your fault. You caused this. It was you - with the music, and the map, and the stupid overhead light... And not stopping at that stupid motel. You killed him.
He blinks, trying to focus, trying to at least clear the tears from his eyes long enough to be able to look at Henry, but they don't clear; they only fall, landing with the rain on Henry's lap. His hands only seem to be shaking worse, feeling along Henry's hips to track the line of the seatbelt.
Then, finally, Henry wakes. He sputters and he sounds terrified and desperate, calling for his parents, but he's awake, and Hans' tears flood from his eyes, cutting a line through blood still pouring from a laceration on his cheek. "Henry!" His voice is so relieved it's palpable.
His hands find their way up Henry's chest and along the line of his neck until he's cupping his face, holding his cheeks in both hands, looking over his face for any injuries. "You're not, Henry! You're alive! You're alive. You aren't dead. You're alive." He's saying it more for himself than he is for Henry. Each repetition, each reassurance that Henry really, truly is alive settles his hands enough that he can drag a thumb across Henry's cheek, a quiet reassurance. "Henry, we have to get you out of here, okay? You're hurt, but you'll be alright..." He leans back, releasing his grip on Henry's face so he can fumble with his seatbelt again, and that's when he sees his shoulder.
He goes still, his face a perfect picture of horror. It seems so massive, the mangled, twisted metal hanging from Henry's shoulder. He stutters for a moment, stumbling over words to try to say anything before he finally manages one sentence; "your shoulder, Henry... We'll need to get you out of here. Come on."
He steels himself, clenching his jaw and fighting back panic as he reaches for Henry's seatbelt again, and mercifully, he's finally able to unlatch it. He holds it tightly with his still-shaking hands, lifting it up over Henry's shoulder to be sure that it won't catch on that horrible piece of metal, and then finally lets it go to let it dangle, weak and limp now with its job done, catching stray raindrops.
He blinks hard, clearing tears from his eyes once again as his left hand makes its way to Henry's chest. He needs to get this out, doesn't he? Surely it can't stay there... not while he's pulling Henry from the car. It could do so much damage, and... No, it needs to come out.
He places his left hand at the base of it and presses hard, pinning Henry's shoulder in place. "On three. One, two..." He pauses, forcing air into his lungs and trying to clear his spinning head. It won't. The panic, the fear, the dizzy racing of his thoughts around and around in his skull, taunting him and reminding him the blame is on him - it won't budge, none of it. He can only inhale sharply, say "three!" And pull.
It takes more strength than he thought it would. It makes a wet, sickening sound as he pulls it that is deafening, even over the sound of Henry’s scream. When it's finally free, it's like white-hot iron in his hand, screaming out agony in his palm like it's burning clear through his flesh. He tosses it away without so much as another look at it. It isn't important. It's a piece of metal. Henry is important, and he's looking terrible.
"Henry? It's out. You... Christ, you're bleeding..." He can see it soaking Henry's shirt, spreading further with help from the rain, blowing in through the open door and the shattered windshield. "We need to get you out of this car… Can you move? Please…"
Even as he talks, knowing full well that he'll need help from Henry to get him out of the car, he lifts Henry's ruined shoulder up over his own so he can pull, clenching his jaw to keep himself from crying out the pain of his own injuries, and to try and cope with the knowledge of the pain he's causing Henry. As rude as he may be, as impatient as he can be, he doesn't want Henry to hurt, and seeing him in pain is a pain he couldn't have imagined.
Oh. He is alive, then. Hans sounded so relieved, repeating the words over and over. Henry recognized something important in the desperation of his voice, but his wobbly mind just couldn't make out what it meant.
The touch of Hans’ fingers, up his neck and onto his face, makes Henry feel human again. Grounded back onto earth, Henry feels a sudden and splitting panic that even Hans’ touch can't quell. Why are they here? What the Hell happened? It was all an awful blur.
When Hans pulls away to wrestle with the seatbelt, Henry can't keep the whine from escaping his lips. It's desperate and definitely pathetic, but at least he has a good enough excuse to be desperate and pathetic. Henry wasn't exactly concerned with propriety right now, anyway.
The drops of rain keep distracting him, cool against his skin and stinging at his wounds. He still manages to at least attempt to help with the seatbelt, sluggishly shifting his hands out of the way. It was hard to focus on anything at all, with the world so blurry and confusing, but Hans’ face remained mostly steady and recognizable.
With Hans’ face so close to his own, Henry can just make out a light dusting of freckles that he'd never noticed before. There was blood on his face, too, and a gash. He'd never seen Hans cry before. He's not sure he's ever even been this close to Hans before, except perhaps when they'd first met and-
Before Henry can get too distracted on that rabbit trail, he’s brought abruptly back to the present as Hans planted his left hand on his shoulder. Henry tries instinctively to squirm, his initial panic quadrupling as he realized that Hans was about to do.
“No,” Henry hissed, through clenched teeth. Distant memories of a first aid class he'd been forced to take flashed through his mind; they'd been told to leave foreign objects in when possible, to keep from bleeding out. It feels impossible to properly communicate that, though. “No- no no, don’t-”
Henry knows that it’s partially the pain talking. A misguided sense of self preservation that shied violently away from any sort of pain was rearing its head now, making him whine again. Just having the scrap there was excruciating- how badly it must hurt to remove. He was sobbing now, and he'd probably be doubled over if he was at all capable of pushing back against the pressure of the hand on his shoulder.
It happens as quickly as Hans says three and it's so agonizing that for a moment all Henry can see is static. The ugly sound that claws its way from his throat is more of a scream than it is a wail, splitting and painful even to his own ears. The relief that came afterwards was nearly just as intense. He sagged, breathing heavily. There was no fight left as Hans dragged him from the car, and he simply spilled out against Hans’ side.
“Hans,” he managed to grit out, the fingers of the arm that was draped over Hans’ shoulder curling tightly into the material of his suit jacket. He could feel Hans’ hand on his waist, trying to drag him forward. “I can't…”
Henry trailed off, recognizing the futility of trying to protest. They couldn't stay here, and if Hans had gone through all that trouble of dragging him from the car, he probably wasn't going to leave him behind. The only option that left was moving forward, which felt only slightly less impossible with Hans’ warm body taking half of his weight. The knowledge that he was slowing them both down spurred him on enough that when Hans started moving, Henry did his best to keep up so that Hans wasn't dragging him.
“Are- are you okay?” Henry managed, after several stumbling steps through the leaf litter. It was impossible to orient himself, let alone form a solid plan of action, when his head was swimming so badly. But he trusted Hans enough to get them… well, somewhere that wasn't here. “I’m sorry. I'm…. I'm sorry.”
Hans’ panic wouldn’t lessen, not really. His heart was pounding so hard against his ribcage that he could feel it echoing in his ears; a heavy drumbeat keeping the time of his fear. But Henry is alive. He’s alive.
He chances a look back at his car and he knows it’s a loss. The front end is obliterated, wrapped so far around a tree you might be mistaken for thinking they were somehow a part of each other, intertwined from the moment they were conceived. The frame was bent in on itself, every window was smashed, and he could hear the sound of glass crunching under his feet as he stepped further and further away with Henry in tow.
Henry’s heavy. He’s so heavy, and Hans is in quite enough pain, but he can’t leave Henry. That minute he’d thought he’d lost Henry was one of the worst he’d ever lived. He could never admit it out loud, though. Could never tell anyone that his best friend in the entire world is his employee. Someone that is beneath him, who works for him, who he’s meant to be keeping around to serve him. But that wasn’t ever all that he was. Not from the moment they’d met.
When he finally stops feeling glass beneath his feet, Hans lowers Henry to the grass carefully, bracing himself with all his weight against Henry’s so he wouldn’t drop him too quickly and hurt him. “Henry,” he says, kneeling next to the other man. “We’re alive… that’s what matters. We’re both alive.”
Henry looks bad. He’s pale, bleeding, and his eyes are wide and unfocused. Head injury? He doesn’t know. He’d never bothered to learn anything about first aid. God damn it all, that’s why he’d brought Henry along! He was supposed to be the one who knew these things.
“Except, you make a god awful body guard,” he jokes half-heartedly, tone barely coming through above his fear. He maneuvers Henry, laying him down on his back in the wet grass. The rain is freezing and his hands are still shaking, but he needs to look at Henry’s shoulder… Maybe he can do something to staunch the bleeding.
He pulls away all of the fabric and mumbles, mostly to himself, “what do I do…?” He pushes his shirt out of the way, and when he sees how quickly blood is flooding out of the wound, he feels sick. “I need… Christ. Um. Bandages.” He can’t remember if there’s any in the car. Did he keep a first aid kit? He didn’t think so, but maybe Henry did.
He leans over so he’s looking down at Henry’s face, a hand flat across Henry’s chest to help maintain his balance, because his own dizziness hadn’t settled yet. “Henry, stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He moves to stand and trudge his way back over to the car. Bandages. If he doesn’t have any, maybe he can find a shirt to use…
But he can’t get into the trunk. It won’t budge when he tries it, and all he can do in the end is pull the dog’s towel from the back seat and head back over to Henry, where he kneels again to mop up some of the blood. Maybe he can use Henry’s shirt…? He doesn’t know. He’s too afraid to think clearly. The only thing keeping him calm is Henry’s presence, warm and comfortable and strong, as close as he’s ever been to Hans, even in his far-away, dazed state. “I just need to slow down this bleeding, Henry. Then we’ll get out of here.”
Henry hissed softly as he sank down onto the cool, damp grass. It prickled at his skin, as did the rain and the air and everything else. Tamping down a whine, Henry curled instinctively in on himself the best that he could.
“In my defense, they never mentioned deer during training,” Henry joked weakly back, a bit of his usual cheery nature peaking through despite everything.
In Henry's mind, it was unequivocally his own fault. At the moment, anyway; he wasn't exactly thinking clearly, so ‘ I was behind the wheel, therefore this is all on me’ was about the only coherent thought he could manage, nevermind the fact that Hans had been shouting and fiddling with the overhead all while pushing him too far. It was easy to take the blame right now when it wasn't being pushed on him, especially considering the fact that blame for Hans’ nonsense was often something he shouldered. It felt natural.
When Hans left his side Henry instantly began to shiver, not just from the cold. Hans’ presence was grounding and familiar, and everything felt fuzzy and frightening without him. Henry was supposed to be protecting Hans, and now everything had been turned on its head and Hans was gone and oh God, Henry was so terribly alone! And miserable! And probably dying! And-
Of course, in a blink, Hans was back and awkwardly fumbling with a towel. Henry quickly relaxed, giving his head a painful little shake that did nothing much to clear his mind of the fog that had settled over it.
He did have a small first aid kit in his duffle, but it was nothing that could deal with this caliber of disaster. There was a larger kit that Henry owned, but he never had space to pack it. He had to travel light, because Hans was absolutely incapable of going anywhere without half his wardrobe, leaving very little room for Henry. Henry felt a little stab of guilt over not putting up more of a fight about it, even though it had felt so pointless to argue about back then.
But there wasn't really time to cry over spilt milk, as Henry was promptly reminded when Hans pressed the towel against his shoulder. Another flare of pain, only duller now, radiated all the way down to his fingertips. Henry did his very best not to squirm.
“You have to… um, put pressure on it,” Henry instructed, screwing up his eyes as he tried to focus. His mind felt like it was struggling to go in several different directions all at once. Henry reached out, grabbing one of Hans’ wrists and guiding it to press the towel more firmly against his shoulder. It hurt still, but not as badly as earlier. He pressed his hand, slightly larger and definitely more calloused, overtop Hans’ tightly to keep it in place. “God, that hurts. Don't stop. The bleeding’ll slow but it probably won't stop ‘til it’s too late, if we stay here.”
With great effort, Henry dragged himself into more of a sitting position, relying heavily on Hans for help. Despite the fact that he was probably concussed and his words were definitely beginning to slur together, Henry continued trying to help. “I think I saw a-… oh, you're bleeding, too.”
He cut himself off mid thought, distractedly reaching up to press his palm to the gash on Hans’ cheek as Hans tried to drag him back to his feet. The skin beneath his fingers was slick with blood and tears and rain, yet still warm. He wonders if it will scar, which is hardly relevant but is suddenly all he can think about. Any and all thoughts of the house he'd seen nestled in the trees further behind them before the crash flitted away.
They were a tangle of limbs, one of Henry’s hands pinning Hans’ to his shoulder while the other tried to maintain its grip on Hans’ face, despite the fact that his arm was now in the way as Hans tried to get him moving. Unfortunately, Henry had absolutely no bearing on the fact that he was definitely getting in the way (he often didn’t, even when he was thinking clearly), and he made no effort to try and make things at all easier on Hans, beyond a vague effort to stand.
Henry looked so horrible there on the grass. Hans was grateful that there was no light, except the faintest glow still issuing from the car’s headlights, for however long that would last, and the dimmest moonlight that managed to break through the cloud cover. If he could see Henry’s shoulder in more detail, he might have been ill. The torn, gaping wound and the blood pouring out far too quickly was enough to make him dizzy.
When Henry grabbed his wrist, it was a blessed relief. The warmth of Henry’s hand on him settled his mind, and it stilled the horrible shaking almost completely. His rough skin was a comfort Hans never would have thought to ask for, but couldn’t imagine giving up now.
When Henry shifted, Hans did all he could to help him up. Til it’s too late was echoing in his head, over and over and over and over again. Too late. No, no. There couldn’t ever be a too late . He’d get them out of there, he’d find someone to help Henry, and he’d be alright. He had to be alright. Hans blinked away tears that welled up again, and he pulled harder, finally settling Henry’s weight on his feet. Away from there. Find help. Don’t let there be a too late.
He won’t lose Henry. Not like this. Even though he’d fucked up, totaled Hans’ car, and was now a rambling mess of dead weight, Hans wouldn’t leave him behind even for a second.
Hans hissed when Henry touched his cheek. He hadn’t even realized he was; all he could feel was the pain in his ribs and the screaming, spinning panic in his head, and desperate terror clutching at his heart, the idea he might lose Henry. He hadn’t thought even for a moment how hurt he might be. But there wasn’t time for that. Not now. He tried to push Henry’s hand away, but the stubborn bastard put it back.
“Stop touching it, you oaf!” He hissed at him. He pushed his hand away from his face and threw his arm around his shoulder, before he readjusted Henry’s weight, trying to pull more of him onto him to shoulder the weight.
With each and every step, Henry got heavier, and Hans felt like his back was bowing with the strain. “Christ, Henry… You’re heavy!”
His hand is shaking while trying to keep pressure on Henry’s shoulder, but he can’t let it go, for fear of too late. It was awkward and painful, and his face was burning now, right along with his ribs, his back, and his legs as he dragged them along the tree line. There had to be something around here, some person living like a hermit in the middle of nowhere. The motel was just a few miles back, but he knew Henry wouldn’t make it that far because Hans didn’t have a hope of carrying him - and he couldn’t leave him behind.
But it’s so dark, and he can’t see where his feet are going as he steps forward, and he curses Henry again, asking him, “Why didn’t you bring a flashlight!?” There’s no true malice in his voice. The only emotion coming through is his panic, pure and real and unmistakable.
Despite it all, it’s going well until Hans pulls Henry over a root, sending them both tumbling to the ground unceremoniously. He crashes down hard next to Henry, who hits the ground himself like a ton of bricks. “Shit,” Hans says, stumbling back to his feet and blindly grabbing for Henry. He finds the towel first, and blindly gropes in the dark until he finds the wound in his shoulder, and he presses the towel over it.
“Stay with me, Henry.” He tells him, reaching out to touch his face, fingers dragging gently across his cheekbone. “You can do this! Not much further.” That’s a lie; he has no idea whatsoever how much further they’ll have to crawl through these woods, but it would be cruel to tell Henry that. He gropes for Henry’s arm to throw over his shoulder while he drags him back up, and he grunts out as his body protests against the weight as he sets back off, eyes not leaving the ground this time, so he won’t send them tumbling over another root. “We’ll get out of this. Just stay with me.”
He doesn’t yet notice the light of that tiny, lone cabin, so far off in the distance, but he’s lucky enough to be dragging the pair of them towards it.
Henry made a soft keening sound as Hans shoved his hand away. He wanted to help. Why wasn't Hans letting him help? By now, he was far past any sort of self preservation, and was much more concerned with just about everything else. “Heavy? I’m…. I’m not-...”
At Hans’ complaint about the light, Henry wanted to bite back that he did have a flashlight. He always carried one around, the small sort that was easy to shove into his pocket. It wasn't there now, so he could only assume it was somewhere on the grass or in the car. But it was a little late for that now, and his tongue absolutely refused to utter anything at all.
Instead, Henry just shivered and pressed tighter against Hans’ side. The panic in his voice was really the only thing keeping Henry going. Everything else was too confusing to matter, but Hans was real and solid. Henry could hardly even remember where they were going, but he knew on an instinctive level that he trusted Hans. He'd follow him as best he could for as long as he could.
When he went slamming into the ground, getting a lovely facial of leaves and mud, Henry was briefly transported back to Skalitz. It's that damned window again, tumbling greedily out to safety and leaving his parents inside to burn. God, even back before it was his job, he was terrible at protecting people. And now the flames, which he swears he can see even if he can't feel them. He's going to lose Hans, too. Henry cried out softly, a garbled mix of Hans’ name and a plea for help.
He calmed quickly, though, when Hans’ fingers found his face. The touch was grounding, and though Hans had never really touched him much, it felt familiar. Admittedly, it was nothing like Henry had imagined it to be, though in any of his fantasies he'd never imagined he'd be writhing in the mud as Hans touched him.
Hans pulled him back up, he didn't protest. A few steps later, though, everything started to hit him in full force. The trees felt like they were lunging toward him like fallen beams, the whistle of the wind was most definitely screaming. He shrunk against Hans’ side, forcing them both to drift to the side or slow to a crawl as various horrors flashed through his mind.
“I can't!” Henry managed to cry, hardly sounding like himself. His words dipped into a whine as he continued. “It’s all my fault. I need to- I need to… please, I’m so tired.” Honestly, he doesn't know what it is he needs. But everything burns, and he's sure that if he can just close his eyes for a moment and rest, he’ll feel better. Just a few moments…
When he next blinked, it felt like the light was upon him. In truth, it was salvation; the cabin was really their only chance at survival. But to Henry, the flickering orange light was something else entirely. In one last act of misguided desperation, he dug his heels into the earth and gripped Hans as tightly as he could, rambling almost entirely incoherently about a fire that was going to kill them both.
Hans picks up on Henry’s panic as it grows. He keeps pulling, calling out about absolutely nothing. Hans can’t understand a word of it for the longest time. He doesn’t have a clue what Henry is seeing, what he’s crying out at and shrinking away from. He just doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.
but when Henry said ”It’s all my fault,” Hans said, “Henry, we’re alive. You’re alive. We’ll be alright.” He pulls hard, yanking Henry back up to his feet and draping him a little further over his shoulder so he doesn’t have to carry as much of his own weight. “But you have to keep going. We have to get out of here.”
He’s so tired, but he can’t stop. As badly as he wants to, as badly as he wants to let Henry lie down and have the rest he needs, but he can’t. Too late is still ringing in his ears, and he can’t let that happen.
He watches the ground carefully, hoping against hope that he won’t trip and take Henry down again. Listening to him crying out, shrinking against Hans’ body in fear is sickening enough without subjecting him to further pain. He’d never seen Henry any less than stoic and brave, and so well put together… Hans never could have imagined there would be a time that Henry would rely on him. It was as if the world had turned upside down, and each cry that Henry uttered it only seemed to twist further. He could feel his own hope slipping away. The warmth of Henry’s body against his seemed to be fading, growing weaker and weaker in time with Henry’s failing steps.
When he looked up again, scanning for color on Henry’s face, trying to see how much life he had in him, the light of the cabin finally caught his eye. He lifted his head to look at it. A light was on, and the front door was propped open, letting the warm yellow light flood into the surrounding trees. It looked so warm and inviting, like the best thing Hans had ever seen in his life, even though if he’d seen it any other time, he would have thought it was depressingly worn down and tiny…
But not now. Not with Henry crying out against his shoulder, bleeding so heavily it was soaking into the waistband of his pants. “Henry! It’s a cabin!”
He tried to pull, but Henry dug in. He helped lower Henry to the ground and knelt next to him, feeling his slacks soaking up the mud underneath him, cold and uncomfortable. “Henry!” He grabs at his face again, holding his cheeks in both hands, forcing him to focus his gaze on Hans’ face. He’s just inches away, looking into Henry’s eyes. He’d done this so many times, but never so close, and never with so much terror in his chest. If it wasn’t for the rain, for the fear and the crash and all of Henry’s blood, he’d want to stay, to keep looking as long as he could. But there wasn’t time. Too late was rushing at him like a locomotive without brakes.
“Look, it’s a cabin. There’s no fire! It’s just a light!” He points back towards the cabin, hoping to draw Henry’s sight to it. “We’re so close, Henry. Someone is home. Come on. Please.” He drags his thumb across Henry’s cheek and leans in, almost letting their foreheads touch, but he thinks better of it and straightens up, letting go of Henry’s face to take his hands instead.
He stands again, pulling Henry up with him. He pulls an arm over his shoulder and once again he tugs, pulling Henry until they reach the screen door of the cabin. Hans cries out into the opening, “Hello?! We need help!”
No one answers - not quickly enough - so Hans abandons the idea of caution and throws the screen door open, stumbling over the threshold just as his body gives out under Henry’s weight. He just manages to catch himself, but Henry hits the ground, bloody and pained and all Hans can do is look at her and say, “Help him. Please.”
She only hesitates for a minute, eyeing Hans first, and then the man on her floor. But there’s so much blood, and it’s beginning to pool on the floor underneath Henry, and the seriousness of the situation is not lost on her; Henry is in bad shape, and he needs help. So she nods, and she hurries to get what supplies she can while Hans falls to his knees next to Henry, leaning over to look him in the eyes to tell him, “you’ll be alright, Henry. She’ll help!”
Henry doesn't want to go to the cabin. He really doesn't want to go to the cabin. His mind had already made the traitorous association to the Skalitz disaster, and that made the idea of getting any closer so unappealing that his chest ached. He couldn't let anything happen to Hans. He just couldn’t.
But then Hans’ face was close to his own again. So, so close. Close enough that they were sharing the same air and Henry could see the blue of his eyes, even in the dark. And, God, Henry had never quite appreciated the color of those eyes as much as he did right now. They were shimmering and bloodshot with tears, and filled to the brim with fear. Even so, Henry had never seen anyone so beautiful.
When Hans pulled away Henry’s head followed slightly, unconsciously chasing the closeness. Things would be so much easier if he could've stayed there forever, peering at Hans’ eyes. Of course he felt awful that Hans was scared, but Hans was scared for him, and despite everything that felt good. It was proof that he cared. Henry knew that he did, Hans didn't often show it. It made his heart race and his chest feel all warm to see…. though perhaps it was just the blood loss.
Hans dragged him back up, his hands on Henry’s. Henry stopped resisting. He knew then that he'd follow Hans anywhere, even if he was certain that Hans was dragging him into danger. How could he go anywhere else? Right now Hans could take him by the hand and pull him off a cliff and Henry doesn't think he'd even complain.
Still, he couldn't help but shiver as they approached the cabin. Of course, it wasn't aflame, and he calmed a bit as Hans dragged him inside. Distantly, he worried about what exactly it was that they were stepping into. If the person who lived here had any ill will towards them, Henry wouldn't be able to protect Hans in this state, and that filled him with an aching fear.
He didn't think about that for long, though, because he was suddenly face planting onto the hardwood flooring and any thoughts left his mind as he focused on catching his breath. At least it was warm here, and he wasn't getting rained on any more. Though he was still damp, between all the mud and blood.
“Don't leave me,” Henry slurred, as Hans leaned over him. His face floated in and out of Henry’s vision, which was beginning to go all static-y. He fumbled uselessly for Hans but failed to find one of his hands. Instead, he got a death grip on Hans’ forearm. Hans looked so awful in the light, his face grimy and bloody and desperate. When he managed to get his eyes to focus, Henry could see where tears had trailed down his cheeks.
“Hans.” The name was reverent on his lips, as though he were absolutely and entirely certain that Hans was going to fix everything. Henry passed out unceremoniously just a few moments later, his head thumping lightly against the wood.
By some miracle the lady - who introduced herself as Bozhena - used to help the locals with their ailments. It definitely wasn't every day that disheveled, bloody men burst into her cabin, but how could she possibly turn them away? It was impossible, with Hans making that desperate face and Henry bleeding a puddle onto the rug.
“Here, lad,” she said, passing Hans a pad of gauze for his face without sparing him a second glance. Her eyes stayed on Henry as she peeled away what remained of his shirt to dress his shoulder. “What on earth happened? Your friend here is in rough shape.”
Bozhena’s hands were visibly unsteady and slightly crooked, and whatever she was smearing onto Henry's shoulder was obviously hurting him to some degree as he moaned and fidgeted slightly, though his eyes remained shut. She mostly ignored it, briefly touching his forehead before grunting with the effort of getting a strip of gauze around his broad chest.
“It's far too late to be wandering the woods,” Bozhena added, finally sparing Hans a glance. “You're lucky to have found my cabin without getting shot. Folks out here aren't so friendly to strange men tramping around on their property. Can you help me get him to the mattress? Then we can take a look at that cheek of yours.”
Here in the light, Henry looks so much worse off than he had outside. His face soaked with rain, his shirt soaked in so much blood Hans wasn’t quite sure how he was alive, and his eyes, distant and unfocused… Hans never thought Henry could look so weak, and it made his stomach churn. “I’m here, Henry.”
When Henry gripped his arm, tight and bruising and desperate, Hans laid his hand across Henry’s. Any warmth left in his skin was drained by Henry’s ice cold hand, but he just held it tighter, hoping to help him, to warm him up or something. It was all he could do.
He can see Henry’s consciousness fading, his eyes going unfocused and his lids drooping. It’s all he can do to remind himself to breathe so he doesn’t end up the same. He has to be awake, he has to be able to help Henry. Henry would do the same for him. “I’m here,” he says again - the last thing he manages to get in before Henry finally succumbs to his injuries and falls unconscious.
When his head hits the floor, the panic that wells up in Hans’ chest is immediate and all consuming. Henry’s hand goes limp under his arm, and for a moment he’s convinced it’s happened; they’d reached too late and Henry was dying. He’d lose him. And he didn’t think he could keep pretending it wasn’t his own fault.
He’d caused the crash - it had been his own behavior. The light, the music, arguing… His uncle was right; he’s immature, and he’s hardly fit to take care of himself, much less manage a whole company. Why would he send him to this meeting? Why would he ever trust Hans to something important? It was surely doomed from the start. No one, not even Hans, could truly believe he’d be able to pull this off. And now he’d proved everything else his uncle had ever said about him right. He was incompetent. He didn’t think things through, and his immature behavior would doom his father’s company.
And Henry. It would doom Henry.
And that hurt worse than anything else. Looking down at Henry and seeing the state of him. His friend - maybe his only friend in the world, and only - he thought - because he paid him. He’d done nothing to deserve to be here except have bad luck.
And then Bozhena was at his side, snapping Hans out of his thoughts. He pressed the gauze to his cheek and backed up just enough to let her look at Henry. When she pulled his shirt back, Hans felt his stomach churn. It was worse in the light. Much worse. There was so much blood already and it was still bleeding… Bozhena’s voice snapped him out of his panic again.
“Oh. Um… A car wreck. We- we were driving to Trosky.” His head is starting to ache. It’s the most real pain he’d felt since he’d dragged himself out of the car, except for that pain in his ribs. He could feel pain starting to set in across more of his body, and all he could do was try to push it away, to focus his attention on Henry so that he wouldn’t lose himself to it. “I didn’t- I didn’t find my phone and he was too hurt. I didn’t know what else to do,” he admits. He feels the guilt and shame of his incompetence rising back up, like it was filling his chest with cotton and he couldn’t breathe through it.
He swallowed it back down as well as he could. When Bozhena finally looked at him, he was more grateful for her than he’d ever been for another person - except Henry. She was old, far too old to be awake at this hour, helping a fool like Hans solve a problem he’d caused in the first place. No - that wasn’t it. She was helping Henry. And Hans was beyond grateful.
“Thank you.” He said softly, trying to convey just what all of this meant to him in a somber expression. There was too much to thank her for, and too much still to be done to help Henry to take the time for a proper apology. He’d thank her again when he could. For now, he dropped the gauze he was holding to his cheek to the floor, and moved to Henry.
It wasn’t easy to get him up. Hans had drained most of his strength getting him there in the first place, and now he was nothing but a heavy, dead weight. But he managed, just about, to drag him over to the mattress. His body screamed all the way in agony. He needed a break, badly, but not before he helped this woman help Henry.
He tucked his arms under Henry’s shoulders and knees and clenched his teeth hard against the pain of the effort, and lifted him onto the mattress, just barely able to settle him in the middle before his arms gave out completely and dropped him.
It hurt. Everything hurt. He could feel a screaming agony in his chest, his brain seemed to be trying to pound its way out of his skull, and every one of his joints and his spine ached. He tried to straighten up and stumbled, only just catching himself with a hand on the wall. He leaned heavily against it, looking down at Henry and Bozhena, his fear evident on his face.
His own head was spinning again, but he couldn’t settle down. Not yet. He asked, “Will he be alright? He’s not going to…” He couldn’t say the word die; it was unimaginable. It wouldn’t be a possibility, because Hans couldn’t have caused that. “Will he live?”
Under his jacket, his own blood was pouring from a gash along his ribs. It was dirty, packed with debris from the shrapnel that had inflicted it, and from the mud that had been packed into it as he’d climbed desperately from the car. As his adrenaline wore off, it was sapping what strength he had left, but he hadn’t worried about himself, so he didn’t have a clue why he felt so awful. Not really. All he could see was Henry, bloody and pale and hurt.
For the moment, Bozhena ignored Hans just about entirely. Her focus stayed on Henry, fingers tightening the bandages before probing for further injury.
“I think he’ll pull through,” Bozhena finally said, carefully and slowly. Her word choice was careful; in her youth, she'd learned the hard way not to make any promises.
All things considered, Henry seemed alright enough. He'd lost plenty of blood, the evidence clear in his sticky clothing. But from what she could gather, he wasn't badly injured anywhere else. A few scrapes from the trip through the woods, of course, and he probably had a concussion. But she couldn't do much for that right now, beyond a quick prayer.
Henry was stable enough, and that was what mattered. Pale, and he was absolutely covering everything in a gross combination of mud and blood, but stable. Bozhena neatly arranged his arms over his stomach, her mind at work planning out what to do. She'd have to make sure he didn't catch a chill, and she worried about how well stocked the medicine cabinet was.
“Lad, could you-” Bozhena started distractedly, turning back to Hans. She didn't finish, the words dying on her tongue as she finally got a better look at Hans in the light.
He looked something awful, and not just because of the mess. Just from a quick glance over, she could already spot several issues- his pupils were different sizes, the gash on his cheek was still weeping, and his breathing was noticeably shallow. Bozhena frowned, reaching out to brush aside his jacket to inspect what she assumed to be bruised or perhaps broken ribs.
Instead, she was met with the gash, bloodied and disgustingly packed with debris.
“Jesus wept! Sit down, for the love of god!” She hurriedly pulled him to the nearby couch, vigor renewed by this new danger. If only Pavlena was here! This was certainly a job for four hands, not two. “Why didn't you say something, lad? Christ!”
Bozhena quickly tugged off his suit jacket before she hunched, digging through the first aid kit. “I’ll have to remove the shrapnel. My… my eyes ain’t as good as they used to be, but I'll get what I can. My daughter'll have to look at it when she gets home.”
As she wielded the tweezers, it felt as though Hans wouldn't stop squirming; a part of her felt as though he were trying to move back to Henry. She got the distinct feeling that the two were deeply entwined. Hans had obviously cared about Henry far more than he'd cared about himself.
“Stay still!” Bozhena ordered firmly, in the same tone she used to take with Pavlena when she misbehaved as a girl. “You can't do anythin’ more for him now. And you certainly won't be helping either of us if this gets infected!”
That seemed to work, at least. Talking about Henry felt like a suitable distraction, now that he was stable. So as she prepared to disinfect the wound, Bozhena latched onto it.
“So you and your friend… ah, Henry, wasn't it? You two were traveling to Trosky? What was so important that you were out driving at this hour?” She prompted right before she dabbled a disinfectant soaked rag against the jagged flesh, in an effort at distracting Hans at least somewhat. The process got repeated again as she prepared to apply a healing ointment. “You must be close, to drag him here like you did. You probably saved his life, you know. He's lucky to have a friend like you."
Hans was startled when Bozhena reacted to the sight of his side. Half dazed and pained as he was, he just let her lead him to the couch. His pain only seemed to be worsening, especially now as Bozhena was fussing over him, pointing out the wound on his side. He watched her, sparing small glances at Henry while she worked him out of his jacket. “I didn’t know,” he admits, finally sparing a glance down at his own side. It’s ugly. “I didn’t feel it.”
It was easier to look at Henry, instead of at Bozhena, or at the wound on his side. He needed to see Henry, to be sure that his chest was still rising and falling with breaths. He needed him to be alive. Each time he took even a bit longer to breathe in than he had the moment before, Hans would shift, reaching out to him, frozen in terror until Henry finally breathed again.
And then Bozhena scolded him, and Hans’ eyes flicked back over to her. He spared another glance at Henry, watching for one more breath, before he finally just closed his eyes, trying to be still. It worked, for the most part, but he was dizzy, and his body was beginning to sway as his strength kept waning. Being upright was hard enough, and being still was nigh on impossible.
When she said Henry’s name, Hans’ eyes opened again and he looked back over at Henry. His chest rose and fell, and Hans, satisfied he was still alive, looked back at Bozhena again. He noticed the rag, and he knew that it would hurt, despite all the mess in his head. “Henry, yeah. We, uh… I have a conference.” How could he admit the truth? That they were only driving through the night because he had insisted? That Henry had told him they shouldn’t, and the only reason they were in this mess was because he was an idiot…
And then the rag is on his side, and he cries out, grabbing at the fabric of the couch, digging his nails in. “Christ!” It’s enough to send his head spinning wildly again, like his eyes are rolling around and around and around in his head. It’s bad. He cries out, “Christ!” Again, louder, jerking away from the rag.
He tries to breathe, to keep himself calm, but, god, it hurts. He feels ridiculous, crying out and shying away from a little bit of rubbing alcohol, like that’s the end of the world. But it certainly feels like it. He’s grateful for Bozhena talking about Henry, because he’s easy. Focusing on him is easier than anything else in the world. His eyes dart over to Henry, and he makes a note again that he’s still breathing, and whispers, “he’s my best friend,” he says. “I lo… I care about him…” He shakes his head, but it makes it spin violently. He nearly falls over just then, but he rambles on, saying, “if he dies, Bozhena, I… I don’t know what I’ll do.”
His vision is closing in, getting narrower and narrower, and his head keeps spinning. “I don’t feel well,” he says. Bozhena must see what’s coming, because she takes Hans’ face in her hans, laying him down on the couch before he finally, mercifully loses consciousness.