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You’re jostled into a harsh awakening by the chime of the doorbell.
It’s a sharp, clear sound. One that slices you right from the dregs of sleep, peeling the sluggishness from you with an unpleasant intensity. But it’s difficult to get up. Normally, you’d have no trouble with this kind of thing— you’re a light sleeper, guard always on the ready. In fact, it’s usually harder to stay down than it is to wake up.
The problem is that there are additional factors to your current plight— namely, the large slash across your back, an oozing wound that bleeds angrily through the fabric of your uniform. Spoils of a long, difficult night spent fighting Wanderers after an emergency alert, a moment of breathtaking carelessness just as you’d almost been done. You’d refused to allow yourself a moment of respite even after the staggering blow. It’s a late, cold evening. The last thing you’d wanted at that vulnerable hour was to be touched by unfamiliar hands, whether they approached from a place of medical attention or not. So you’d simply stumbled home to your couch and promptly passed out stomach-down.
Until only an hour later, that is. Upon rousing, the dull throb of that fresh affliction has tripled into an open, aching rawness. Your muscles are sore, and when you try to roll over a fresh wave of agony swallows you. Panic seeps in at this found helplessness, a slow, septic poison.
The doorbell rings again. Your brows slant in an upset furrow, the cold chill of dread prickling at your nape. There’s somebody out there, and you are like this. Alone and defenseless, unable to even reach for your handgun on the coffee table without your body screaming in pain. It’s a freshly horrifying prospect, to be found vulnerable to such an extent.
Anything could happen. You squeeze your eyes shut in fear.
But you refuse to take it lying down. A beat later, your teeth grit together with newfound will, and your body jerks in a renewed effort to get up. You have to turn over first, then sit up. It swirls in your mind, devours any other thought. So hellbent are you on this endeavor— clinging to it like a lifeline— that when your visitor abandons the bell and raps their knuckles harshly on the wood instead, you startle with a hissing breath, and your injured back brushes against the coarse material of a sofa cushion. Fire lances up your spine immediately.
The whimper that follows is wholly undignified. Your visitor shuffles at the door, and you finally hear the words filtering in like static.
“—Kitten? Let me in.” Sylus’ voice is serious, tinged with an edge of urgency. You barely register it over the ringing in your ears, vision fuzzing out and resolidifying with starbursts of painful white. Drowning in agony, the first instinct that overrides your tired body is a vicious hostility. What is he doing here?
“Go away!” you snap, fear hastily covered up with an audible wave of animosity. You can hear your own heart pounding hard in your chest; the beat of it is so aggressive, so painful in your ears, reverberating with a vengeance through your shaking form. Adrenaline forces you upright at last into a seated position, your elbows jammed hard into the tops of your bent knees as you fight to stay up, gasping through the torment. “How dare you— showing up here— uninvited, too—” Your voice dips into a pained whine on the latter half of your response.
It betrays you, to your chagrin. Outside the door, Sylus pauses for a moment. You don’t relax, not even in the slightest, hackles raised like a cornered animal. He must have realised somehow that you are displaying the same sort of venom that you did a few months ago during your reunion. A last line of defense, almost. The kind of blinding, panicked rage designed to make potential threats back off.
Forcing you in any capacity would be detrimental, even if you are in a sorry state. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. More careful. You bridle at the gentle sound of it. “Mephisto was in the area when you were fighting. You haven’t sought out any assistance for your injuries yet.”
He’s trying to appease you by being honest, but it’s not honest enough yet. “You sent your bird to follow me.” It’s not as if he tries very hard to hide it— the mechanical crow lurks in a manner just conspicuous enough to catch your eye. It caws, croons at you from the corners of your vision. If it’s there, you’d always know. Sometimes it even drops small gifts into your lap and hands— wildflower stalks, precious gems. All of which you scoff at, but tuck away nonetheless.
A pause.
“Yes.” He sounds unapologetic. “You haven’t told me to stop.”
That’s true enough, but it still rankles at you. Unreasonably so, because you can’t figure out why you haven’t pushed back harder on it. Shouldn’t you have?
You don’t reply, but he persists. “Are you in a lot of pain?”
“No.” You spit it through gritted teeth, the heels of your palms pressed firmly against your closed eyes. There are no lamps on in your apartment presently. Save for the slice of white light spilling through the outline of your front door, it’s completely dark.
“You’re a bad liar.”
“I’m not,” you snarl.
“Will you let me in?” He rustles around faintly; the crinkle of a plastic bag reaching your ears.
“Why should I? I hate receiving impromptu guests,” you mutter.
“I want to treat your wounds.”
This makes you panic more. Your wounds— the worst of which are on your bare back? You hate the thought of it already. “No!” It’s a razor-sharp exclamation, a blade lashing out in fury. “I’ve got it all under control, and I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you.”
“Why? Are you afraid I’ll hold it over your head?” Exasperation, though faint, colours his voice just slightly.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” you deny with a growl, though your voice is slowly getting weaker with pain. “But I hate owing favours. Don’t you come here hoping that of me.”
The implication settles heavily over the silence like deadweight. Using the word favours is no careless move— it holds a tangible bitterness when it parts from your lips, the ghost of something darker shadowing the doorway of your mouth. Not only do you fear— you fear more than ever when you’re found weakened. It’s ingrained into you like second nature. And if you can’t eradicate that terror, you have to make sure no one else gets to behold it again.
Now, you wait. You wait for it to sink in— the accusation you are making of him, the branding of his person as one whom you believe will simply turn out the same as all others who have hurt you. This is the point where someone would normally feel offended— so offended, in fact, that they realise the knowing of you is too much to stomach. Because you take all the goodness from another and reward it with nothing but wariness and venom. You can’t behave normally. You can’t trust people, and it hurts them time and time again, because your pain poisons those around you.
You are not worth the effort.
There is a blessed silence beyond the door at last. You listen through the ringing in your ears, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps. Your skin is flushed, burning at a fever pitch with infection, but the heat pooling in your palms is worse.
You are crying. Why are you crying?
It’s… a horrible feeling. The sudden pit in your stomach rivals the agony of the wound on your back.
Really, you don’t need this right now. You need to do something. It’s useless sitting here and sobbing into your bloodied hands. Again, you force yourself up, trying to stand. But it’s no use, and your knees refuse to cooperate. You brace your trembling body against the armrest of the couch, trying to inch over to the coffee table. If you can find a path to the kitchen cabinets this way, maybe you can get to the first-aid kit.
Your next step lands clumsily, ankle twisting at the uncertain placement, and you crumple to the ground nearer to the door. Finally, a sob escapes you, then another. A flood of sorrow unbarricaded at last, leaving you whimpering and crying miserably into the cold tile. If you could just stop crying, if you could just move! If you could just get over it.
“Darling.”
You choke. Cheek pressed to the ground, you realise your assumption had held false. There’s a shadow in the crack of the door parallel to your prone form, the distinct shine of leather shoes. A terrible relief slams into you, followed by deprecating rage at yourself.
“Go away.” It comes softer now, more desperate.
“No.” He presses closer; you see the shadow fall across your hand. “You’re very hurt.”
Yes, so it seems, you think bitterly, in more ways than one. “It’s not any of your concern.”
“Can’t it be?” He maintains tenderness through all your violent rejections, and it makes you feel uneasy. Surely that infinite patience must find an end at some point. It would simply be wrong for it not to.
You must find that end. “No. I already told you, I hate owing favours.”
“Then won’t you think of this as a favour to me instead?”
“How so?” The floor beneath your face is slick with tears. “Because you just can’t help but want to help me? Because I’m a desperate sight in need of your so-called assistance? Because you want me to need you? I don’t need anything from you, least of all your pity.” The words are sharp, but the tone is resigned. Tired.
“No.” He sounds angry suddenly. Yet somehow, you feel comforted. Ah, so he isn’t infallible after all. It’s always nice to have a reminder of that. A raw sort of anguish overtakes his firm utterance, colouring the next words with a desperation you’ve never witnessed from him prior to now. “It’s not like that at all. Don’t you know it’s killing me to hear you in agony, knowing I could do something to help you? I could. And I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m not angry at you for thinking I would, but just— please.” His hand lands on the door’s handle with a muffled sound.
You feel… bad. It’s a kind of guilt you try to suppress, because it’s just not worth the time. Just like all the rest of your petty emotions. It’s not like he’s done anything wrong. You’re the one who’s been setting the tone for everything, shying away, snapping at his outstretched hand.
“Please,” Sylus repeats hoarsely through the door. “Won’t you let me in?”
“I…” you croak. Defeated. “I can’t get up.”
There’s a sudden surge of energy outside the door, his Evol rising to meet his commands. The mechanisms and gears locking your door shift and beep, and suddenly— it swings open slowly, careful not to slam into your crumpled figure on the ground nearby.
He could’ve just as easily shoved his way in much earlier, couldn’t he? You turn your salt-slicked cheek skywards to stare at him. Ruby eyes meet yours with a kind of quiet relief, quickly shifting to palpable worry when he sees your bloodied uniform.
“Oh, kitten.” He stoops and reaches for you. You jerk, trying to inch away. “Poor thing.”
Poor thing. It makes you dizzy, so tender and velvety-soft. You feel a bit like an out-of-body experience.
His hands stop short of your body, where he wavers, recognizing the issue at hand. Still, he tries. Why he keeps trying is a mystery to you. “I have to get you to the couch. You’re losing a lot of blood. I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
“No,” comes the second-nature-snapping, but he waits for you to calm before sliding his hands underneath your sore body and cradling you in his arms. He’s exceedingly careful to avoid touching the wound on your back as he moves to the sofa. The entirety of that short walk, he soothes you down with gentle words, making sure you can see where both his hands are at all times— your limp form sideways in his arms as you face him, one hand tucked beneath your clothed knees, the other placed carefully across your shoulderblades, narrowly avoiding the gash. “Shh, shh. I need to move you. I’m not going to do anything else, okay? Come now.”
He gets you back to the couch and lays you down, rolling you towards him so you’re on your stomach once more. The softness embraces you, sweet relief, and your eyes shut. You’re so delirious with the pain, but alarm overrides that dizziness the moment you feel the cushions dip with new weight, his hands hovering imploringly at the edge of your uniform blouse.
You send him a baleful glare through the corners of your eyes and Sylus sighs. “Let me look at your wounds.”
“But you have to take my clothes off for that,” you say, and it comes out more frightened than you intend. Not just your blouse, but the tight undershirt beneath that too. You’d have to— expose yourself. The shudder that jolts you is not lost on him.
“I won’t look,” he reassures, shutting his eyes firmly as you watch him. “You can take them off yourself, and then lay down so just your back is showing. Is that okay, sweetie?”
You stare at him for a long time, observing to see if his closed-eyed expression wavers. He doesn’t so much as twitch.
“... Yes,” you rasp, and his shoulders visibly relax a little. Tension bleeds from his frame. Oh, god, he’s actually worried about you. He does care. It feels dreadful in its newness. “Just give me a moment.”
It’s a painstakingly slow affair; the blood has dried, sticking the largest wound to your undershirt, and it takes a lot of sniffling and whimpering and struggling to peel the fabrics away. Finally, you lay back down, clutching your clothes defensively to your bare chest. “You can look now.”
The faint anguish in his eyes at your plight is lost on you because you’re staring resolutely at the cushions.
He makes a sound of concern when he sees the cause of your pain at last; a vengeful slash from shoulderblade to hip, turning a sickly yellow at the edges. He’s no stranger to blood, this wouldn’t make him squeamish; but Sylus’ heart aches with a ferocious intensity at the realisation that you’d been bearing this burden alone. He has a decent guess at why you wouldn’t have wanted to seek out clinics or hospitals. He’s seen how you flinch from the hands of others. In most cases, the patient should be sedated before treating a wound like this. But you’d refuse, he knows you would. Such a thing leaves a person defanged, vulnerable. A risk too great to take on in your eyes.
“It’s infected.” His voice is heavy with regret. “It’s not too bad yet, but this isn’t going to be pleasant.”
“I know.” You sound so miserable, thick with such resignation and fear that it strikes a painful chord in him. In moments, he’s made up his mind.
“I have some sedatives with me—” your entire body locks up, tensing, “—and some painkillers. Shhh. I won’t make you take them unless you want to.” Oh, if he could hold your hand, or pet your hair to comfort you. Anything, anything to ease this process. “I just don’t want to make this worse on you.”
You think long and hard before conceding, barely. “The… painkillers.”
“Okay,” he breathes out in a rush. “Good girl.” He rustles around with the packet, pops the maximum dosage from its foil casing. Your canteen lays discarded on the nearby table and he brings it to you so you can take a sip, swallowing the pills with a heave as he seeks out your medkit. In the minutes that follow, the pain reduces from a searing agony to a heated throb. It’s not much better yet, but you’ll take it.
“Start now,” you grit out when he returns, “before I change my mind about letting you in.”
A shadow crosses his eyes, but Sylus obeys.
What follows next is more pain. He disinfects, stitches, sponges the blood away with clean gauze. It all pales in comparison to the process of dressing the wound— because he has to shift you to get the bandages around your torso, and you flinch every time his bare skin brushes yours. “One more loop,” Sylus coos at you, and you bristle as his hand brings the bandage underneath you once again, almost grazing your stomach. He’s frighteningly careful. “It’s almost over, shh, you’re doing well. Just a few more minutes, kitten.”
You don’t even make a sound, trying and failing to collapse your fear into a tiny, invisible pinprick. Still, every time you jerk silently, like you’re trying not to bolt up and rush away, his heart squeezes.
At last, the bandage is tied off and the blood is wiped from your back. You lay unmoving on the sofa, defeated, the last vestiges of pain still throbbing in your body like a hot poker. Over-the-counter painkillers only do so much. He’ll have to make a trip to get stronger meds once you’re safely resting, he muses to himself.
But you’re stubborn. You insist on giving yourself a sponge bath before even considering going to bed— he stands anxiously outside the bathroom door as you sit in your unfilled tub, gritting your teeth as you wipe grime and sweat away from your fevered skin with a washcloth, then tugging on a loose shirt and shorts. Still, a sort of discontent continues to seethe under your skin.
You open the door and stumble right into him. “Sylus…” Your body seems to have given up most of its hostility by now. It’s traitorous, this sentiment that fills you now at the sight of him. Relief, almost. Gratitude. But you can’t betray too much of it.
“What is it?” His voice is inexplicably gentle as he steadies you, noting how your hackles raise and then settle when he puts his hands safely above your hips. “You need to rest.”
You resist as he tries to steer you towards the bed. “No.”
“Why not, sweetie?”
“I need… to wash my hair…” you say weakly. It’s tangled with sweat. You hate the feeling; if this doesn’t get done, you won’t rest easy. “But I can’t do it.” You hear your voice wobble; like you might just cry, and bite your cheek hard.
He clicks his tongue fondly. “Silly kitten. Why couldn’t you just have asked for help?”
You remain silent, and he softens when he sees the shame on your face. Wordless, he waits for you to lean your weight on him before guiding you back into the bathroom and seating you on a stool next to the bathtub, where you lay your head down.
Only when he’s working shampoo into your hair do you speak again, so quietly he has to strain to hear it. “I’m sorry.”
His fingers drag over your scalp carefully, watching your face to make sure he isn’t discomforting you. “What for?”
You bite your lip savagely, and he pauses, wanting to smooth his thumb over the pouty line, wanting to chide you for it. But there’s a fragility to the moment he dares not break. Water drips from your strands, hits the porcelain tub with a tiny ping. Above that hovers the sound of your quiet breathing. His hands still.
“I know you mean well,” you whisper, voice tiny and ashamed. “You’re so good to me. But I can’t…”
You swallow hard, choking on the truth you’ve made real before your own eyes.
“I can’t be good in return.”
“Do you really believe that?” he asks softly. “I don’t.”
You laugh, brittle like broken glass. “How can I not believe it? The way I acted earlier— it happens all the time, as you know— and I can’t stop it. I don’t know if I even want to stop it.” Lowering your defenses, that’s a terrible thing. You’re better off alone, where the only person privy to your fears and secrets is you. “And you’ve seen too much.”
“It’s not such a bad thing, being weak.” His hands resume, massaging your scalp in a slow, soothing rhythm. Against your best wishes, you lean slightly into the touch. It’s almost hesitant. Blessedly, he doesn’t comment on it. He rarely does— you’d spook if he did. “It’s not your fault you react the way you do.”
“You don’t know that,” you say, humiliation filling the cracks of your voice.
“I do know that.” He turns the showerhead back on, warm water rinsing through your hair, beginning to wash the suds away. “Somebody hurt you once, and you didn’t ask for that. It’s not your responsibility to carry.”
“How can it not be? I drive everybody away,” you cry out, wounded. You’ve had friends, family— but never allowed them past a certain point. Romantic partners have always been off the table. There’s a sort of expectation you’ve come to fear, under the label of romance and dating. Love is a skewed ideal in your mind’s eye. The moment someone begins to look at you with that kind of admiration, that want, you shy back. You lash out.
Sylus has been looking at you like that for a long time now. You like to ignore it, but you’re no fool.
“Not everybody.” His voice is firm.
You laugh, bitter. “I don’t know. I can’t give you what you want.”
“What is it that you think I want?” he asks patiently, squeezing conditioner into his palm and lathering it through your hair next.
You go mute, the looming prospect on the horizon is too great, too terrifying. You don’t want to think about it. “Nothing I can give.”
He sighs. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m not waiting around for you to give me anything.”
You eye him disbelievingly through a dripping lock of hair, and don’t respond. He keeps detangling your hair as he smooths it out, tender. Almost loving. It frightens you, but more frightening yet is the emotion beneath that instinctual caution that you dare not name.
“I’m not hiding anything from you,” he continues. “I do care about you, but it’s not a conditional thing.”
The worst part is you know it to be true. He doesn’t hide his affection— not as much as he used to. He sends Mephisto to watch over you, has observed your habits and mannerisms, kept himself mindful of them. And he’s only been allowed to get this far because you allowed him to do so, because you never stopped him when you should have. You are softening rapidly, despite how this goodness feels like a ticking clock. You had never meant to linger for long, but you have. Here he is, his hands in your hair, bandages that he’d wrapped now cradling your body. If there was a time for him to turn on you, it’s already come and gone without him even so much as considering it.
“And what will it take to sever that foolish care of yours?”
He smiles. It’s a little ironic. Almost pained. “Death."
The showerhead turns back on. You watch milky water run into the bathtub, where it drains. “But even then,” he says quietly, “I’m not even sure it would stick.”
Still, it begs the question— what do you do with the tightness in your chest?
“But you’d be happy if I did give myself to you.”
“Esctatic.” He doesn’t even flinch at the sudden directness. “Still, only if you wanted to.”
“What if I didn’t want to, but gave myself anyway so as to— repay you, in some sort?”
Sylus stills. Turns, silently, his hands falling from your hair. There’s a pained look in his eyes, and you flinch. “... I trust you wouldn’t do that.”
Guilt gnaws at the inside of your skull again. You shy back. “I’m sorry,” you say again, feeling foolish and small. “I don’t know why I said that.”
He drapes a dry towel over your dripping hair and motions you upright. “Here.”
The remorse only worsens. “I—” you gulp, startling when the towel flops over your eyes, casting a barrier between you and him. “I don’t know— how to do this.”
There must be something in your voice, some sort of strange undertone, because a hand reaches out a moment later. Careful not to touch your face, he lifts the towel away from your eyes and folds it back. His crimson gaze bores into yours. “Do what?”
The expression on your face must give you away, and though you hate it so very much, hate the vulnerability that he’s now privy to— your heart does lift the tiniest bit when the look on his relaxes, the corners of his eyes crinkling smugly. “Ahh. Do what, kitten?”
Must you say it? Why must you say it, if he already knows.
“... Like… somebody,” you snap out, grumbling and reluctant. “It’s bad.”
“Bad for who?” A sort of tentative joy twitches in the edges of his lips.
“Don’t push it,” you bridle openly, and he laughs, but concedes. You don’t want to talk about it now. The two-word admission alone already has you feeling like an open wound, wide and wet and wanting. Ready to be worsened. You just can’t stomach it at the moment— the thought that you might care, and thus might be opening yourself up to more potential losses. It’s staggeringly pessimistic. It’s also the only way you know to live.
There’s silence as he dries your hair and gets you to bed. It’s alright. It’s not an awkward kind of silence. In fact, Sylus looks pleased, and you feel odd when you see the unconscious smile gracing his fine features. Like your body, despite all the odds he’s proven in his favour, is still bracing itself to be disappointed dearly.
But he stands to leave after tucking you in— again, without touching you, he even covers your lap with a pillow— and suddenly the bed feels cold. Empty.
You make a halfhearted grab at his hand and miss. Then, when he swivels to stare down at you curiously, your face heats up.
Sylus’ eyes slide slowly from your hand to his, then back to your hand, and finally, your face. Slowly, he offers his hand to you.
Through your frowning, you hesitantly take it. A few beats pass.
“Sit down,” you snap, self-conscious. “Don’t loom over me.”
At last, he laughs, and you feel relieved as the bed dips, his nearing form radiating a pleasant warmth that you dare not lose yourself to yet. “Fussy kitten.”
He holds your hand gently, watching you watch him, your eyes vigilant and glued to his figure. You’re still running risk assessments, even now— trying to parse what might happen. He doesn’t move, allows you to do as you like.
Your voice breaks the silence, much quieter. “... Will you stay?”
His eyes are large, almost docile when they meet yours, his thumb stroking once over your knuckles. “Of course.”
Thank you, you can’t say, because it’s choking you, thank you for everything, you’re too good to me.
“Rest now,” Sylus says instead, and you dip your head, tucking it into the pillows, letting sleep take you. In the dark, cozy silence, his right eye glows faintly, then flickers out.
- end -