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Scraping of a chair fills the silence— a movement not meant to create noise, and yet heard by all surrounding rooms, dictating a motion meant for one.
He winces at the noise. His hand— flesh and bone— holds onto the back of the chair as if it'll cancel out the ruckus. The movement's already done, he can't take it back, though he pretends it'll make up for it. A strange notion, considering several months prior, he wouldn't have cared to do something like that for anyone. At all.
At least, he'd convinced himself so.
He sits beside an occupied bed. All white sheets; painfully sanitary. It's jarring— compared to the vibrancy of the circus, all the places devoid of colour collect his attention easily now. He hates and likes it in tandem, the difference in contrast being a much needed break for his eyes. Then again, the need to get back to what he'd annoyingly considered 'normal' itched the back of his mind. Scrawled itself, in fact, over the caves of his thoughts. Pierced dents. Created holes.
He crawls out of his own. With a free hand— a gentle hand— he reaches forward. It meets hers, a smaller form, though thankfully made by blood and sweat as his is. It doesn't hide behind a glove, it doesn't emulate a digital nothingness. It's real and he feels it so. He knows it so, because it's her.
But he worries. He worries painfully that she won't know him— that she won't see him. Her eyes haven't opened, even after a few long, awful hours of waiting, and he doesn't know how long he'll need to.
He doesn't care about the waiting— he might think himself impatient, but he's anything beside it when it comes to her— it's the thought of it taking forever that haunts him. His mind thinks up sadistic concepts of her, eternally alone in the confines of a bed made for the dying, and he feels needles in his skin. He fears; desperately, worryingly. He hates it undeniably.
His hand curls around hers. It doesn't engulf it, fitting nicely in her own. Unfortunately for him, hers doesn't mimic the motion, remaining still and unmoving.
The only part of her that does move is her chest, rising and falling in breaths he isn't sure she's taking. It's hard to see her this way, an absence as she no longer wears the headset, human and real in the confines of a room that feels cold and dead.
"You're still here."
His head rises. He'd been looking at her hand for so long that he'd disconnected himself from his senses, pushing aside the need to move or feel. The woman in the doorway pulls him back to them— a tantalizingly striking feeling to experience. She gives him a soft, gentle smile. One he's seen a certain dolly direct towards him before the escape. It makes his heart hurt.
He doesn't respond immediately. His fingers twitch in hand, uncertain if he should pull away in fear of judgment or allow himself this one thing. Inevitably he doesn't move at all, his posture remaining hunched, his body hiding in itself. Every part of him experiences chills— cold little nips at the corners of his body. Is it bitter in the room, or is he the one who's near-freezing? He doesn't know.
He doesn't want to know.
His old friend walks forward, her steps making noise. He focuses purely on that as she approaches him, her eyes grazing over his face and soon shifting towards the girl in the bed. There's a heavy silence that weighs thick on his back, pushing him down, making him feel closer to the floor than ever. His pulse is heavy as he sinks, only to realise he's still where he's sat, a hand on his shoulder. As light as ever, no less.
He thinks to shrug it off— his body doesn't allow the thought to pass further than just a thought.
"She looks… better." She says, her voice hopeful. He looks at her, unsure of his expression, but when her signature small frown appears, he knows he has something bitter crossing his lips.
He tries to ease himself. For her sake more than his.
"… Yeah."
He knows the others are somewhere here, still. No longer in their beds, but certainly in the hospital lingering, talking. The oldest of them had spent a portion of his time earlier beside him, offering his own form of comfort where the others struggled. It was surprising to see him as more than a set of eyeballs.
He wasn't sure how his mental state would be after the escape, but the prior chess piece appears content. Perhaps thankful, now, that he gets to see the woman he lost once more. Perhaps thoughtful, for once in a while, that he no longer resides in digital colour.
Whatever it was, he was weirdly glad to see him. Glad to speak to him. Unlike the others, where he fills the gap of a fatherly role or a mentor, he sees him more like a distant friend. Someone you lost to time, only to reconnect with later on.
In the same vein, he sees several of the others like that. Old friends, new acquaintances. Something beyond a properly established title.
Or something.
"You should rest, Jax."
To that, he grits his teeth.
The concept of leaving her in her bed, still and barely alive, makes him nauseous. He knows she doesn't mean to make him feel that way, but with her eyes downcast on him, standing close to where he sits, he can't think of the right words.
However, unlike his time in the circus, he doesn't immediately swerve to saying the wrong ones. Instead, he makes way for silence, his throat manifesting what he wants to say and being drowned out by a hefty swallow.
He coughs. Her hand tightens barely around him.
He glances at the woman beside him. She's looking down, no longer watching his movements, lingering on the hand he holds. Had she noticed that before? Was she, only now, realising his touch? His stomach flips, worsening the nausea his mind prompts him to feel, only for his body to reject it in its entirety.
"Is she… warm?"
The question catches him off-guard. He pauses, uncertain of the answer, even as his skin presses against hers. A beat passes and he can't be sure the question was ever asked in the first place. He's thinking too hard and not enough, every bead of sweat down his forehead felt and experienced, yet every undeniable moment second-guessed.
It's then that he reestablishes that it's cold in the room. He doesn't know why he's sweating. It's much too cold.
And yet, she is warm. Even before he'd slotted his hand in hers, gently, delicately, he felt the sweat collected at her palms. He felt it between her fingers, nearly down to her wrist. Clammy, warm.
"Very warm." He says, his voice scratchier than he'd thought it'd be. He clears his throat quieter this time, realising how thirsty he's become. He hasn't a clue how long it's been since he's drank anything, let alone considered a meal, but he can't give in to that now.
Who knows how long she's gone without a drink or been without a meal. Every selfish bone in his body dissipates as he considers the ways he could feed her like this, how he might be able to drip water between her lips. Then the thought of doing that for years until she inevitably doesn't awaken slaps him in the face, and he feels his teeth clench further. It starts to hurt.
"That's good." The prior doll says it like she's trying to convince him. Only slightly does it do just that, hearing it from her lips instead of his mess of a brain being comforting. He's glad, for once in a while, that her positivity still resides in her. He may be a pessimistic asshole, but she's undeniably important when it comes to uplifting the people around her.
He considers saying it. That, too, won't come to his tongue.
Then he sits upright. His eyes scan over the girl in the bed, the blood in his body suddenly rushing to every place it remained stagnant in. Adrenaline fuels his movements, a cautionary glance given to the woman beside him only briefly. She gives him a confused look— mild concern, mild panic. He doesn't have an explanation for his thoughts just yet.
He squeezes her hand. The clammy one, the hot one. The one he'd slotted himself into without her (presumed) knowledge. The one he'd questioned himself over if she'd even want to be holding his, too. For his sake he tried not to mull it over too hard.
But the realisation hits him too hard to care for that now. When he'd coughed— an unexpected motion, something jarring— she'd moved. Only slightly, only briefly, and he'd barely caught it at the time. He'd felt it in a different way. An instinctual reaction. Now he knows it wasn't. Now he feels the rub of her fingers against the sides of his, only slightly, his body rigid in comparison to her limp form.
She'd squeezed his hand tighter. Just barely, but there. He'd fallen too deep into his own machinations to think of it. And when he holds his breath, the woman beside him watching him as though he's about to keel over, he hasn't his words once more to offer insight.
All he does is focus on the miniature sensations in his hand. He stares at them, the movements soothing. Soon, she's looking at their hands again, and gasps in a soft, earnest way that makes him falter.
Minutes pass. They turn to an hour, and it's spent with him rubbing gentle strokes of his thumb against the back of his prior jester's hand. The woman beside him takes her leave near the end of the hour, having been called by another of them in an attempt to gather a headcount. He recalls talking to her in brief, light sentences. Nothing of substance, nothing important. And, yet, still kind. Still tolerable.
More than tolerable, he thinks. Much more.
In her absence he falls back into his thoughts, though they're sweeter. Less bitter, certainly. Not entirely devoid of loathing or isolation, though he certainly feels calmer with the tiny sweeps of her fingers against his. They're grounding, repetitive. He wonders if she knows she's doing it, or if her subconscious is doing him a favour. Whichever it is, he's thankful.
Minutes continue to pass. The sun that once graced the windows feels a lot less present, hidden behind whatever it is that resides outside. He hasn't checked beyond the window's glass once, afraid of what he may (or may not) see. In the grand expanse of everything he's experienced, reality feels the most overwhelming, regardless of whether or not he missed it.
Someone yells down the hallway. A playful, friendly yell. One that says 'I'm following you!', almost like a child. He notices someone pass the open doorway, their form unrecognisable now. He feels a little strange in realising he found familiarity in the bizarre avatars everyone took. Even more so when he pairs them to people's faces.
When he met who'd been Gangle several hours ago, he'd stared at her with round, wide eyes. She wasn't anything he'd expected— not because she was physically different in any human aspect, but because she wasn't ribbons and a mask. She'd looked back at him in a similar way, though she quickly composed herself as opposed to him. It was embarrassing, to say the least. He doesn't recall what he'd said to her afterwards.
That same instance happened over and over again. With who'd been Kinger, along with who'd been Zooble. He could conjure up mild jokes at least with Zooble, a mention of them looking 'as he would've expected'. It was a plain lie, both of them knew it, but they played along with him regardless. A part of him felt comfortable in the familiarity of it. He wonders, still, if they'd felt similarly.
Upon coming face-to-face with his own dolly, he'd been quite… struck. A surprise, especially considering he'd been in a separate room as her. When he'd turned the hallway's corner, the door to his left open, he'd peeked inside. Only a few beds were laid, some untouched, but she sat quietly in one of them, her back to the door, her hair covering her face.
Similarly to her avatar, she held thick, red curls. Real curls. Curls that were hair, not a sort of material used for craft. They covered her head in beautiful twirls of crimson, almost offensively mocking her appearance within the circus.
He'd always thought Ragatha was the most 'human-looking' among everyone. A colour that resembled some's skin, hair that was intended to be hair. She had an eye, a nose, a smile. He envied her in the earliest of days, his own avatar feeling anything but human at the time. He couldn't stand looking at her some days. Perhaps he never let go of that jealousy, in retrospect.
Now she's really human. And he is, too. So when she'd turned her head, spotting him in the two eyes she'd been given, it was hard to see her smile at him again. Hard to look at her so softly when he'd been anything but soft to her in the lead-up to their escape. He couldn't forgive himself, because he'd been so selfish, so apathetic— he couldn't figure out why she'd hopped off the bed and approached him as if he were something to be forgiven.
As if he were someone to be forgiven.
But that was when she'd directed his gaze to her. The girl in the bed, the prior jester. The one he'd secretly been looking for since waking up. The one he missed in seconds of silence, the one he searched for when their prior routine of adventures came around.
He'd expected her to wake up minutes after. Maybe within seconds of him coming in. A sweet way of coming back to reality, he'd joked to himself. It fell flat pretty quickly.
Of course she hadn't. He'd discovered that Ragatha had been waiting since she'd woken up herself, watching her from a 'safe' distance. He'd questioned why she'd been so far from her if she was purposefully waiting for her, but she couldn't explain it in a way he understood. Something about deserving it, or feeling as though she would appreciate it. Nonsense, he'd thought.
So he'd told her, then, that she shouldn't bother about all that; it wasn't her fault she cared— and she'd looked at him as though he'd said something outlandish. He'd pretended not to notice, but deep down, a weird flame ignited itself. Hot, blazing. Annoying. He couldn't ignore it as much as he'd tried.
Looking at the girl in the bed after that felt sour. He wanted to like looking at her— a face he'd spent countless nights wondering over all the features for, a body he'd pondered about. How tall or how short, how much thinner or thicker she'd be in regards to him. During none of those nights had he disliked any part of her either, every concept he'd create being a beautiful one.
"Beautiful" wasn't the word that'd crossed his mind, however. He wouldn't let himself think it. Instead, he'd use phrases like 'visually appealing', or 'nice to look at'. They'd make him cringe almost directly afterwards, an undeniable distaste for the way he coped with himself, but he did it anyway. Nobody would hear him almost call his imagined image of her beautiful, but he feared they would. He feared, subconsciously, someone would see it in his eyes.
The idea of someone knowing his interest in her was undeniably a no-go— undebatable. He wouldn't allow it to happen, so he didn't. He was well prepared to bury himself in the pits of his attraction. Ready for the void to swallow him whole alongside his images of the girl he liked too much.
But the void didn't come. Not for him.
He worried it came for her. Maybe something went wrong— maybe their escape wasn't the same for all of them. Even after they'd taken off her headset, which was something they'd all done themselves after awakening, she hadn't stirred nor moved. Almost lifeless, her body seemed preserved, cold. It looked cold, to the point he'd pulled a blanket he'd found over her, up to her torso. Just something, anything, for her to be more comfortable if she could be. After all, he didn't know if she was. He couldn't know.
When he'd placed his hand into hers, the warmth enraptured him. Surprised, yes, but mostly concerned him. He hadn't even thought of the positives until they'd been pointed out to him. All of the suggestions his brain would conjure up led to a definite negative— as usual, he'd mused. As usual.
But those subtle movements. The little graces, the small touches. He knew she must be in there, somewhere. Maybe not surface-level, but certainly above the digital plane now. She'd wake up soon, he was sure now— no, certain of it. He couldn't think otherwise, or else his body would break before his mind. He'd done so once before— he couldn't experience it again.
So when she lets out a deep, low groan, her hand tightening around his once more, he leans forward in his seat. His eyes are wide, staring at her face like a dog wanting a treat, practically and literally on the edge of his seat as he observes her.
She inhales sharply, her eyes steadily opening, her body breathing at a much more comforting pace for him to manage. He watches her reverently, captivated, his hand maintained in hers. He can't pull away in fear of losing her.
Her eyes take in the bright lights. She squints, annoyed by them, her lips curling into a discomforted shape. He can't help the slight smile that comes to his face, amused by a habit she's held throughout time. Paired with the way she slowly gets used to the sounds, the echoes, the silence— he feels as though he's seen her do this before too, watching, waiting.
There's a moment where she pulls on his hand, as if she hasn't a clue her own is within it, only to stop mid-way. He doesn't let go of her but he's gentle as he keeps her there, uncertain if he's ready. She doesn't pull any more, however, gently resting her hand within his at her side as she shuffles to sit upright, the movement slow and dizzying. Her eyes land on him shortly after, now wide and observant, careful.
She doesn't say anything immediately. There's a moment, he's sure, where she's trying to piece together who he is and what he's here for. A hospital, a man, a hand. A joke passes his mind where he pretends he's her lover after she's experienced horrifying levels of amnesia, but it falls flat once he realises all his genuine panic and fear for her. It's hard to think about pretending. He knows he shouldn't, for his sake and hers.
Still.
"You look like shit."
His words find him quicker.
Her eyes narrow, staring him down. He gives her a grin, his nerves hiding behind his tongue, every regret he's ever harbored swimming within him. There's a moment that passes where he hates himself for saying it, but when her eyes widen, her lips pursing, he's certain she sees the purple rabbit he once was again.
He becomes even more certain when she squeezes his hand painfully tight for a moment, a teasing smile rising to her face as she continues to look at him. Her eyes move in ways that show she's scanning his face, taking in every detail, connecting it to how he looked once before. He allows her to do so without a witty comment; he did the same with her after all.
"I can't believe," she says, clearing her throat after (presumably) realising how dry it is, "I can't believe that's the first thing you say to me. Dick."
He stifles a scoff.
"And I can't believe that is the first thing you say to me." He responds.
Another beat passes. He watches her, gaze gentle. He wonders if all this paired together is painfully obvious, his thumb still drawing repetitive circles into her skin. She's begun doing the same back, her touch comforting in a way he hasn't known for however long it's been. She doesn't even know how much she's saving him by being herself. Heaven knows he won't tell her. Not now— hopefully not ever, if he can help it.
He probably will, though. His weakness for her is obnoxiously large.
Which is evident in the way he lets her practically lunge towards him. He hasn't a clue how she launches herself, considering her body must be painfully stiff by now— he knows the feeling. But he catches her regardless, leaning back in his chair, unclasping her hand to hold onto her in a clutch that he wouldn't be caught dead doing within the circus.
And, yet, that's because it was the circus. That's because, back then, he feared the worst if he let himself get close. Every twist and turn of your mental psyche was a threat in that hellscape, he knew it horrifically well, so he didn't let it find him. He'd hide, he'd run, he'd do whatever he could to pretend he didn't feel. But he did. Painfully so. Obnoxiously so. So much that, in every sense of the word, he was the one who felt the most.
So damn him if he holds her like he'll die if he doesn't. Damn him if his hands don't smooth up her back, wrapping around her like a vice, pulling her into him. Damn him if he notices how nicely she fits into the crook of his neck, her hands gripping his shoulders as she loops her arms beneath his. Fucking damn him to hell and back, because he doesn't care anymore. He can't lose her so easily— not now. He won't let it happen. Not after all that's happened.
Which is why, when a prior dolly walks in to likely check-in, he glances up at her through the grip he holds on the girl he adores. And when she smiles at him, at them, a subtle gesture towards the girl, he nods slowly against her.
And when she approaches— a soft hand on the girl's back once she gets to them, a jolt upright from her as she looks at the woman— she yelps a giggle when she pulls her into the embrace too. It's an awkward position for the three of them to take, his arms pulling the two of them into something he isn't quite sure is a hug anymore. He finds he doesn't care as much though, one of his hands raking through red curls, the other clutching onto the girl's hip to keep her steady.
A few words are shared between the two women— none of which he can determine, though a relieved sigh is heard— and he makes a comment about the awkward sharing of one chair between three. He's given a playful smack to the head; he doesn't really mind it, in the grand scheme of things.
In fact, he's happy to stay here, like this, with the two people that mean an overwhelming amount to him. Perhaps in differing ways, he can admit that much. Yet it isn't far from different— he can accept that now.
As much as it's a bit overdue; at least he's still here.