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Mental illness isn't something Hunter's unfamiliar with. He spent years in the military, of course he isn't. And his husband, of course. Mark's all kinds of fucked up, just a bundle of trauma and untreated mental disorders. But he was getting better, he was eating and showering regularly, he had even fixed his sleep schedule. He was doing better.
Until he comes home from closing the shop to find Mark standing in the kitchen, staring emptily at a piece of paper on the counter while he holds one of his old pistols to his temple.
Hunter's by his side in a second, training kicking in as he grabs his wrist and quickly disarms him, kicking the gun to the side when it hits the floor. He barely notices he's shaking as he grabs Mark's shoulder, sliding his hand down from his wrist to intertwine their fingers.
"Mark, what… I thought you were doing better…" he can't bring himself to speak louder than a whisper. Mark's eyes slowly turn from the paper - a suicide note, Hunter realises - and finally focus on him.
A single breath escapes his lips, his shoulders slumping with it. Tears well up in those stormy eyes, and his entire body shudders with a barely contained sob.
"Oh, sweetie…" he murmurs, bringing his hands up to cup his jaw. "You're going to be okay… you're safe…"
When Mark buries his face into his shoulder, he immediately puts his arms around him and holds him tightly, one hand rubbing his back and the other cradling his head. "Shh, it's okay. I've got you." he presses a few kisses to his head, replacing the barrel of the gun with his lips.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" Mark's voice just sounds so small and broken, it makes Hunter's heart ache.
He just shakes his head, closing his eyes and pressing his nose to his hair. "You're okay, I'm not mad at you… I'm not mad, it's okay." and he's not, he's not mad in the slightest. He's just so goddamn worried.
It happens slow enough that Hunter doesn't notice until Mark's legs give out. "Shit." he hisses, tightening his grip on him to keep him upright. Slowly, he lowers him to the ground, keeping him close the whole time.
"What did you do…" he whispers, tilting Mark's head up to get a closer look at him. He's pale, eyes a little glassy. But he's awake, and he's breathing unevenly but not too irregularly.
He knows that look immediately. Fuck, it's happened so many times before. They've been watching a show together, working in the garden, making dinner, and Mark would just slowly sink to the ground or slump against him.
He immediately grabs the towel hanging from a cabinet handle and pulls Mark's sleeve up. Just as expected, he's met with badly bandaged wrists and red seeping into the white fabric.
"Goddammit, Mark…" he mutters, more concerned than annoyed. He knows how much damage his husband has done to himself in the past, and he's praying this times not as bad as he unwraps his wrists.
Luckily, it's not. Mark must've been out of practice after nearly three years of being clean. The gashes are deep, down to the bubbly yellowish fat, but there's no tough red muscle to be seen. It's not good, definitely nowhere close, but it's not as bad as it could've been.
Mark's head lolls against his shoulder, a small, weak groan escaping his lips. "Dizzy…" he mumbles, and from the glazed look in his eyes, Hunter can tell.
"Yeah, you went pretty deep there buddy…" he says quietly, hating how this doesn't feel abnormal anymore. Helping his husband when he fucks up and ends up with a handful more wide purple-ish scars. "Think you hit a vein, too, with how it's bleeding."
Mark just hums against his shoulder. All the energy seems to slowly be draining out of him with every drop from his wrist, sagging more and more against him.
"Stay awake for me, just a bit longer." he promises, pressing the towel to his wrist firmly. Mark whimpers, muscles clenching at the pain. "I know, I know it hurts, but it'll hurt more if you tense up."
He tries to rub his back as he keeps pressure on his wrist, trying to keep him calm and get him to relax, at least a little. Any normal person would just dial nine-one-one in this situation, but Hunter knows that it only makes things worse when it comes to Mark. He has the training to deal with wounds, he knows how to stitch them up, he can give Mark just as much care as the hospital can, just at the comfort of home and without the extra psych ward trip.
"You're doing good, so good love…" he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of Mark's head. "Bleeding's almost stopped, then we'll get you stitched up and you can rest. Just a bit longer."
Mark makes a noise, half between a whine and a sigh. "No stitches…"
"I have to, you know that." he doesn't even care about how childish Mark sounded, he just cares that he's still awake and responsive. "It's either stitches or an infection."
After only a small exhale from Mark, Hunter checks the bleeding. It's slowed, sluggishly filling the wounds with red. He presses the towel back against it.
"Five more minutes, then I'll do the stitches." he says, always making sure to tell him what's happening now and what's happening next. He doesn't need Mark getting startled and instinctively fighting back, if he even has the strength. "I'll be fast, I promise."
Mark sniffles quietly, moving just enough so his face is hidden by Hunter's shoulder. "I'm sorry… I just… I don't know… I'm sorry."
"I know you're sorry." he says, shifting his grip on him to keep him upright a bit better. "We can talk later. First, I need to get you patched up."
He nods very slightly, and Hunter checks his wrist again. The bleeding has stopped almost completely now. He maneuvers enough to get Mark propped up against the kitchen counters, then grabs the first aid kit from under the sink. He finds a needle and thread, and a roll of gauze.
"You need something to bite on?" he asks, and Mark shakes his head. "Alright. It's gonna hurt, but I need you to stay still."
Fifteen stitches later, and double that in suppressed winces, Mark's wrist is closed up. Hunter gently bandages his wrist, taping the gauze down, before looking up at his husband.
"All done. You did so well, sweetie."
Mark's eyes are half lidded and tired, but the colour is slowly returning to his cheeks. He should be feeling more alert soon.
Hunter watches him quietly for a few seconds. "You think you can make it to bed or should I carry you?"
Only one word makes it out of Mark's half awake mouth. "Carry."
He doesn't have to be told twice. One arm under his knees and the other around his back, he hoists him up, adjusting slightly to keep him stable. It's not as easy as it used to be, back when Hunter was in better shape, but Mark's always been a little under how heavy he should be and it's easy enough to carry him for a short while.
Mark wraps his arms around his neck and hides his face in his shoulder, sagging against him with a small sigh. "Sorry…" he mumbles, voice barely audible.
"Quit apologizing, I already told you it's okay and we can talk later." Hunter repeats, but there's no anger in his tone. By later he means tomorrow, after Mark gets at least eight hours of proper rest, no matter how long it takes for him to give into the pull of sleep.
They make it to bed shortly after, Hunter gently setting him down and pulling the covers over him and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Good?" he asks, voice low.
In response, Mark pats the empty space next to him, giving him a pleading look. It's not even eight o'clock, and he doubts either of them are going to actually sleep soon, but Mark's giving him such a vulnerable, exhausted look that gets him sliding under the blankets beside him.
Mark immediately curls up as close to him as possible, burrowing into him like a freezing animal. Hunter sighs, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his nose to his hair.
"Clingy." he mutters, though there's no heat behind it.
Mark just grips the front of his shirt a little tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. They stay like that for a while, until Hunter notices the silence beginning to bother him, and he holds him a little tighter and begins to hum a tune. No specific song, nothing good, just enough to keep the monsters at bay.