Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The smell of burnt coffee clung to Venison’s coat as he shuffled through the apartment door, his cane tapping lightly against the hardwood. He’d stayed late at the flower street blooming Co. again.

"Cloud?" Venison called out, the word sticking to the roof of his mouth like syrup. No answer. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant honking of city traffic. He frowned, Cloud always greeted him with a hum or a joke about Venison’s "workaholic tendencies," even on bad days.

His cane swept in careful arcs as he moved through the apartment, fingers brushing familiar surfaces, the couch (empty), the kitchen counter (cold), the bedroom (bed unmade but still warm). Then, the bathroom door. Ajar. The smell hit him first, acidic, sharp, wrong. His stomach lurched before his hand found Cloud’s shoulder, limp and clammy against the tiles. "Cloud, hey… wake up—" His voice cracked as his fingers traced wetness on Cloud’s chin, sticky and sour. Vomit.

The phone trembled in his grip. "911, what’s your emergency?" The operator’s voice was calm, mechanical. Venison’s wasn’t. "He’s— he’s not moving, I can’t… he’s warm—" He didn’t know how to explain the way Cloud’s breath were too shallow, how his pulse fluttered like a dying moth under Venison’s fingertips. The operator asked questions he couldn’t answer. Is he conscious? No. Is he breathing? Barely. What happened? Venison wanted to scream.

Paramedics arrived in a blur of noise and hands, prying Cloud away from him. One tried to guide Venison aside. "Sir, we need space—" but he gripped Cloud’s wrist until his own knuckles ached.

Venison's fingers dug into his phone hard enough to make the plastic creak as the paramedics barked orders over the clatter of equipment. "Stay clear, we need to stabilize him." Someone jostled past, and Venison staggered back, his free hand flailing for the doorframe. The scent of antiseptic and sweat clogged his throat as he lifted the phone to his ear, whispering Cloud’s mother’s name like a prayer. The line clicked before the first ring finished. "Venison?" Her voice was already tight. Mothers always knew.

"He’s—" Venison choked on the words, his jaw working uselessly. The paramedic’s radio crackled with codes he didn’t understand. "Ruptured something, start O2."

"Where are you?" Cloud’s mother demanded, keys already jangling in the background, Venison could hear the rustle of her nursing scrubs, the sharp click of her heels against tile. He pressed the phone harder against his ear as if it could bridge the distance between them. "About to be an Ambulance," he managed, throat raw. “Headed to the hospital you work at.”

The stretcher wheels shrieked against the floor as they loaded Cloud into the ambulance. One paramedic snapped something about "family only," but Venison was already climbing in, his cane forgotten on the bathroom floor. The doors slammed shut, sealing them in the metallic hum of machines and the too-fast beep of Cloud’s heartbeat on the monitor. Venison gripped the edge of the stretcher, his fingers brushing Cloud’s limp ones.

"I’m staying," Venison hissed, his voice thin and frayed at the edges. The paramedic sighed but didn’t argue further, turning to adjust the IV line snaking into Cloud’s arm. Venison’s fingers found Cloud’s wrist again, tracing the too-slow pulse beneath his skin. The ambulance lurched into motion, and he braced himself against the sway, leaning closer until his lips brushed Cloud’s ear. "Remember that time you tried to teach me how to dance?" he whispered, forcing a laugh that cracked halfway. "You said I stepped on your feet more than the actual floor. Liar. I know I nailed that waltz."

The heart monitor stuttered, then steadied. Venison didn’t know if it was coincidence or if Cloud could hear him, but he kept talking, pouring every stupid memory into the space between them, the picnic where Cloud had sneezed into the pasta salad, the way he’d clung to Venison’s back during a thunderstorm, whispering "It’s just the sky throwing a tantrum" like it was fact.

The hospital doors exploded with noise when they arrived, orders shouted, wheels skidding, Cloud’s mother’s voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Move. I’m his mother and RN on floor three." Her heels clicked rapid-fire against the linoleum as she materialized beside Venison, her hand seizing his shoulder. "Tell me everything."

Venison opened his mouth, but the doctors were already swarming, rattling off terms that meant nothing to him, peritonitis, sepsis risk, stat laparotomy, until Cloud’s mother barked, "Appendix. Got it." She shoved Venison toward a nurse. "Get him a chair before he collapses."

The chair hit the back of Venison’s knees before he realized the nurse had guided him into it. His hands were shaking, fingers still curled around the phantom shape of Cloud’s wrist. The antiseptic hospital air burned his throat, too clean, too sharp, nothing like the earthy dampness Cloud carried in his hair after rainstorms.

“They’ll take him straight to surgery,” Cloud’s mother said, her voice low and steady in a way Venison couldn’t fathom. Her hand squeezed his shoulder once before pulling away, he heard the rustle of her rolling up her sleeves, the click of her penlight. “I’ll scrub in. You stay here.”

“But—” Venison’s voice splintered. He didn’t know what an appendix was, didn’t know why Cloud’s body would betray him like this. Blooms weren’t supposed to break.

“No arguments,” she said, and then her heels were already retreating down the hall, the squeak of her rubber soles fading into the din of alarms and intercom codes.

Venison's fingers twitched against the stiff hospital chair, the plastic creaking under his grip. The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the kind that had been reheated too many times. He tilted his head toward the distant murmur of the nurse's station, catching snippets of conversations that meant nothing, "bed seven needs a new IV" and "page Dr. Singh, stat." His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration sharp against his thigh. He fumbled it out, thumb hovering over the screen.

"Venison." Fresa Berry's voice oozed through the speaker, sweet and syrupy. "I heard about Cloud. Such a shame."

His jaw tightened. "Not now."

"Oh, but I have footage," she purred. "From the Bloom Festival last spring? When he kissed you under the willow? The viewers love vulnerable moments like this—"

Venison's grip on the phone turned lethal. "You sick fuck," he snarled, his voice low and venomous. The waiting room's hum of activity faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears. "If you post one second of that—"

Fresa's laugh was a razor wrapped in silk. "Or what? You'll glare at me?" The taunt landed like a knife between his ribs, a reminder of his blindness.

The phone nearly cracked in Venison’s grip. "You think this is funny?" His voice was a coiled thing, ready to strike. Around him, the hospital noise dulled, a nurse's footsteps, the beep of a distant monitor, the shuffle of someone flipping through a magazine. None of it mattered. "You think pain is content?"

Fresa sighed, theatrical. "Oh, Venison. Pain is everything. Blooms wilt, wilts spread, wilts die, it’s the cycle, darling." The click of her manicured nails against her desk traveled through the line. "But fine. Let’s make a deal. You give me exclusive rights to your next—”

The line went dead. Venison hadn’t hung up, someone had snatched the phone from his hand.

"Enough." The voice was cold steel. Cloud’s mother. He hadn’t even heard her approach. The scent of surgical soap clung to her, sharp and sterile.

Venison's empty hand curled into a fist, his knuckles pressing into the hospital chair's unforgiving plastic. "She was—"

"I know what she was doing," Cloud's mother interrupted, her voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. The phone disappeared into the pocket of her scrubs with a decisive click. "Fresa's been circling like a vulture since you two met. But right now?" Her hand clamped onto Venison's shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to ground him. "Cloud's alive. That's the only thing that matters."

The words hit Venison like a bucket of ice water. Alive. Not okay, not safe, just alive. His throat tightened. "The surgery—?"

"Done. He's stable." Her grip softened slightly. "Appendix ruptured, but we caught the infection in time." A pause. Venison could hear her teeth grinding. "He's lucky you found him when you did."

The chair legs screeched against linoleum as Venison shot to his feet, his cane forgotten somewhere between the ambulance and the waiting room. "Where is he?" The words came out cracked, half-breathed. Cloud's mother's hand, still warm from scrubbing in, guided his wrist down before he could grab at her scrubs like a drowning man.

"Recovery. Slow down." Her voice was steady, but Venison could hear the exhaustion lining the edges. "They're keeping him sedated for now. Infection risk." She exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp. "You reek of panic. Sit. Breathe. Or I'll sedate you too."

Venison's knees hit the chair again, his fingers twitching against his thighs. The antiseptic sting of the hospital was worse now, mingling with the sour tang of fear still clinging to his skin. "What... what even is an appendix?"

Cloud's mother let out a soft, weary chuckle, the sound muffled by the rustle of her gloves as she peeled them off. "It's a useless little pouch in your guts," she said, tossing the gloves into a bin with a snap. "Like a... a sad, deflated balloon. Changellings don’t have them, apparently." Her fingers brushed Venison's shoulder again, lighter this time, almost hesitant. "Cloud Nymphs do. And sometimes they just… get infected. And burst."

Venison's hands tightened around the edge of the chair. He could still feel the phantom slickness of Cloud's sweat under his fingertips, the way his pulse had fluttered like a trapped bird. "That's it?" he whispered. "Something useless almost killed him?"

A beeper went off down the hall, sharp and insistent. Cloud's mother sighed, her breath warm against Venison's cheek as she leaned in. "Biology's stupid like that." Her voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. "But listen, he's going to be fine. Annoyingly so. By tomorrow, he'll be whining about hospital food."

Venison's throat worked. He wanted to believe her. But the air still smelled like bleach and blood, and his ears were still ringing with Fresa's venomous purr.

The hospital doors hissed open again, not the quick, purposeful swing of doctors or nurses, but the slow, deliberate slide of someone who didn’t belong. Venison’s head snapped up at the scent, something fruity and cloying, like berries left to rot in a damp cellar. Fresa Berry.

“Oh, Venny,” she cooed, her heels clicking against the linoleum in a rhythm that made Venison’s teeth ache. “You look terrible.”

His fingers dug into the chair arms. “Get out.”

Fresa’s laugh was a slow drip of honey laced with arsenic. “And miss all the drama?” Her perfume thickened as she leaned in, strawberries and spoiled wine. “I just had to see how our little Cloud was doing.”

Venison grimaced. He could feel her smirk without seeing it, the way it curled like smoke around her words. “You don’t give a shit about Cloud,” he spat. The chair groaned under his grip. “You’re here to scavenge.”

“Oh, don’t be grim,” she sighed, her fingers brushing his shoulder, too light, too mocking. He jerked away before she could make contact. “I’m invested. You two are my best sellers.” Her heel tapped against the floor, a metronome of malice. “Imagine the content, ‘Blind Wilt Weeps Over Dying Bloom.’ Views galore.”

Venison was on his feet before he realized he’d moved. The air between them crackled, thick with the scent of her cheap glamour and his rising fury. “Say that again,” he whispered, “and I’ll rip your tongue out through your ribs.”

Fresa’s laugh was a razor dragged over glass. “Ooh, scary.” Her breath ghosted over his cheek, rotten strawberries and formaldehyde. “But we both know you can't, Venny. Not here. Not with all these witnesses.” Her fingers flicked toward the nurses’ station, where someone was already muttering into a phone. “Besides,” she purred, “what would Cloud think? His sweet wilt, barbaric in a hospital?”

His fists clenched. She wasn’t wrong. Cloud would hate this, the snarling, the threats, the way Venison’s darkness coiled tight around his ribs whenever Fresa slithered too close. But the thought of her cameras lurking outside Cloud’s recovery room, waiting to monetize his pain…

“You’re sick.” he hissed.

Fresa’s sigh was theatrical, her bracelets jingling as she waved a hand. “And you’re boring. Always the same script, Venison the desperate, Cloud the protective. This is new.” Her voice dipped, syrupy with mock concern. “Tell me, does he know how pathetic you are without him? How you shake when he’s not there to—”

Venison moved.

Blindness had honed his other senses, the whisper of her breath, the rustle of her blouse as she leaned in. He caught her wrist before she could retreat, fingers locking around bone. Fresa gasped, but he didn’t stop, twisting until her joints creaked. “Say another word about him,” he murmured, “and I’ll show you exactly what I can do.”

Her pulse rabbited under his grip, but her laugh was still poison. “Violence, Venison? Really?” She yanked her arm, but he held fast. “What happened to ‘Blindness doesn’t make me weak’? Or was that just another lie for Cloud’s—”

Venison twisted harder. Fresa’s gasp was sharp, gratifying. “You don’t get to say his name,” he snarled. Around them, the hospital’s murmur had frozen, someone’s clipboard clattered to the floor.

Fresa’s free hand clawed at his wrist, her nails biting skin. “Let go—”

“Or what?” Venison leaned in until her perfume choked him, rotten gardenias and something chemical. “You’ll post about it?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t care if the whole world sees me break your arm.”

A nurse shouted, “Security!” but Venison barely heard. Fresa’s pulse hammered under his grip, fast as a trapped rabbit’s. She was a Wilt too, technically. But where Venison’s darkness coiled inward, hers slithered out, seeking purchase in others’ cracks.

Her knee jerked up, aiming for his ribs, but Venison twisted, yanking her forward so her balance pitched sideways. Fresa yelped as her back hit the waiting room chair, her skirt riding up over sharp knees. Venison didn’t let go. "You think this is fun?" he hissed, his voice raw. "Watching him die for your fucking content?"

Fresa’s breath hitched, but her grin was all teeth. "Oh, Vennie," she cooed, her free hand patting his cheek, too quick for him to dodge. "You’re adorable when you’re desperate." Her fingers curled into his collar, yanking him closer until her breath, strawberries and now spite, fogged against him. Disgusting. "But let’s be real. You’re nothing without him. Just a little—”

Venison got down and headbutted her.

The crack of her nose against his forehead was glorious. Fresa shrieked, her grip faltering as blood gushed hot over her lips. "You bastard—!" she spat, but Venison was already twisting her arm harder, feeling the joint protest.

"Say it again," Venison growled, his fingers tightening around Fresa's wrist until he felt the delicate bones grind together. Her gasp was sharp, wet with the blood dripping from her nose. Around them, the waiting room had gone silent, even the distant beep of monitors seemed to pause.

Fresa's laugh was ragged now, less honey and more broken glass. "What, that you're pathetic?" She spat crimson onto the linoleum, her breath hot against his face.

"Tell me," Fresa rasped, her voice thick with blood and venom, "does he know how you really look in the dark?" Her fingers twitched against his grip. “You always bring your true self out once he’s already downed. Has he ever really seen it?”

Venison’s breath hitched. The room’s temperature plummeted, not metaphorically. Frost crackled along the chairs’ metal legs as his form twisted, vines pooling like ink from his sleeves. His grip on Fresa’s wrist blackened, fingers elongating into talons that bit into her flesh.

“You want to see it?” His voice wasn’t his own, a chorus of whispers scraped raw. “*Here it is.”

Fresa’s smirk faltered as the vines coiled tighter around Venison’s frame, his silhouette stretching unnaturally against the sterile hospital lights. Her wrist trembled in his grip, the skin beneath his talons purpling like a bruise blooming in fast-forward. But even as blood dripped from her nose, she leaned in, her voice a jagged whisper. "Oh, *Vennie*," she crooned, "does Cloud know you lose control like this? That you’re just a monster playing house?"

Venison’s breath hitched, not at the insult, but at the memory of Cloud’s fingers brushing his cheek after a nightmare, whispering "You’re not your shadows." The recollection made the darkness waver, his talons retracting slightly. He knew she was just trying to get him mad. Trying to get him angry and distressed for footage. Putting his makeup on for the camera. Fresa’s smirk returned, blood smearing her teeth.

"Ah,"

Fresa’s free hand twitched toward her pocket, where her phone was recording, no doubt. Venison snarled, twisting her arm harder until her fingers spasmed open, the device clattering to the floor. "You’re pathetic," he hissed, his voice layered with a dozen whispers. "You think this is entertainment? Watching him suffer?"

"Everyone suffers, Vennie," Fresa gasped, her bravado cracking as his vines licked up her arm like creeping frost. Her breath came in shallow, panicked hitches now, no more playful taunts, just the metallic tang of fear thick in the air. "That's life."

Venison's grip tightened. The bones in her wrist shifted dangerously. "Not like this," he snarled, his voice a chorus of rustling leaves and snapping twigs. The fluorescent lights above flickered as his form wavered, edges dissolving into the inky darkness that always lurked beneath his skin. "Not for your profit."

Fresa's free hand scrabbled at his chest, fingers hooking into the fabric of his shirt. "Then tell me," she hissed, her voice jagged with pain and something perilously close to curiosity. "What does it take? Huh?" Her thumb dug into his collarbone, blunt and insistent. "How far does Cloud have to break before you finally—"

Venison moved. One moment Fresa was half-sprawled in the chair, the next she was pinned against the wall, his forearm pressed into her throat hard enough to make her choke. Vines coiled around them like living things, swallowing the startled gasps of onlookers. Fresa's pulse hammered against his skin, frantic as a trapped bird's.

"Ask me one more question," Venison whispered, his breath cold against her cheek, "and I'll show you exactly what breaks first." His fingers flexed against her jaw, not enough to crush, just enough to make her whimper.

Fresa's laugh was ragged, wet with blood and defiance. "Oh, Venny," she crooned, tilting her head despite the pressure on her windpipe. "You think I'm scared, of your little vines?" Her fingers tightened in his shirt, dragging him closer until their noses brushed. "I know you. You don't hurt people. Not unless they hurt him first." Her smirk widened, cracked at the edges.

Venison squeezed. Fresa's words dissolved into a choked gasp, her nails digging crescent moons into his collarbone. “Then you don’t know anything about me.” He snarled, Every last memory of Ash hitting him. And the way it felt so good to drive that knife into his face. The vines thickened around them, strangling.

Fresa's eyes, wide, suddenly aware, darted past Venison's shoulder. A wet, metallic click echoed through the hall. Safety off.

"Sir." The security guard's voice was calm, practiced. The gun barrel didn't waver. "Step back. Now."

Venison's vines  recoiled instinctively, his grip slackening just enough for Fresa to wheeze. Blood dripped from her nose onto his wrist, warm and sticky. The scent, copper and that damn rotting-strawberry perfume, filled his head. “This is between us. You want me to stop? You bring Sam or Van here. Or someone on the team before us.”

The gun’s safety clicked again, louder this time, but Venison didn’t move. Fresa’s pulse fluttered under his fingers like a dying moth, her smirk dissolving into ragged gasps. The guard’s boots scuffed against linoleum as he stepped closer. “Last warning,” he growled.

Then, a door hissed open behind them.

“Foxglove.”

The voice was sharp, clinical. Dr. Singh. Venison knew that tone, the same one she’d used when listing Cloud’s vitals to the surgical team. His grip on Fresa loosened, vines slithering back into his sleeves as he turned his head toward the sound.

The doctor’s footsteps were brisk, her scrubs rustling with the scent of iodine and exhaustion. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

Fresa coughed, her fingers flexing against his wrist. “Oops,” she wheezed, her smirk audible even through the blood clogging her nose. “Looks like—”

Venison shoved her away without looking, his focus locked on the doctor’s voice. “Cloud,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Is he—”

“Alive,” Dr. Singh cut in. Her hand grabbed his elbow, not gently. “But we need to talk. Privately.”

Venison jerked free. “Then talk.” His shadows pulsed under his skin, restless. The scent of Cloud’s blood, faint but unmistakable, clung to her scrubs. It made his teeth ache.

Dr. Singh exhaled sharply. “Not here.” Her grip tightened. “Follow me.”

“No.” Venison’s voice dropped to a whisper. The waiting room air thickened, frost spiderwebbing across the nearest chair. “Tell me now.”

Dr. Singh’s fingers twitched against his arm. He could hear her weighing options, the sharp inhale, the click of her pen against her clipboard. “Fine.” Her voice lowered. “His appendix ruptured. We cleaned the infection, but—”

Venison’s knees buckled. The doctor’s grip kept him upright. “But what?” His shadows coiled tight around his ribs, choking the words.

“There were complications.” Dr. Singh’s pen clicked again, nervous.

Venison’s talons punched through his fingertips before he could stop them. “Spit. It. Out.”

Dr. Singh didn’t flinch.

But she did exhale, long and slow, before speaking. “About your friend.”

Venison grit his teeth. “He’s my boyfriend, and when he makes it out of this? He’s gonna be my husband.”

Fresa spoke to her phone. “Hear that? Don’t worry! I’ll post bets on the ring tonight!”

Venison ignored her.

“Cloud’s a nymph. His biology isn’t…” Her pen tapped the clipboard. “Standard. The infection triggered a secondary reaction.”

Venison’s ribs constricted. His shadows writhed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning his form tried to dissipate.” Dr. Singh’s voice stayed clinical, but her pulse jumped under Venison’s grip. “We had to sedate him deeper to keep him corporeal. His own defense mechanism. Like your kind masks.”

Venison shuddered. Dissipate. The word echoed, not just in his skull, but in the waiting room’s sudden silence. Even Fresa’s ragged breathing paused. Clouds didn’t dissipate. Not unless—

His talons dug into his thighs. “He was dying.”

Dr. Singh’s pen snapped. “Yes.” She crouched, her knees popping. “But he isn’t now.” Her hand, still gloved in surgical latex, grabbed his wrist. “Listen. The sedation’s holding. His vitals are stable. But—”

Venison lunged. Vines swallowed the fluorescents as he pinned the doctor against the wall, her clipboard clattering to the floor. Frost spiraled from his grip where he held her shoulders. “No more buts,”

Fresa stepped in “Whoa buddy! Calm down! What my emotionally constipated friend here needs is his chart.”

The clipboard clattered to the floor as Venison's grip tightened on Dr. Singh's scrubs. "Secondary reaction," he hissed, the words scraping his throat raw. "What does that mean? Is his cloudform stable now? What sedatives did you use? How much—" His fingers twitched against the fabric. "Cloud nymphs metabolize midazolam faster than most. Did you adjust the drip rate?"

Dr. Singh's breath hitched, not from fear, but surprise. "You… how do you know midazolam metabolism rates for nymphs?"

Venison's fingers twitched against her sleeve. "Because Cloud had a panic attack after the Willow Festival. The ER gave him too little." His voice cracked on the last word, too much, too fast. He forced himself to slow down, to shape each syllable like a blade. "Standard dose for humans is point zero five milligrams per kilogram. Nymphs need point two. You didn't—" His grip spasmed. "Tell me you didn't use the human chart."

Dr. Singh's pulse jumped under his fingers. "We... adjusted after the first hour." Her pen clattered to the floor. "But how do you—"

"Cloud's resting metabolic rate is twelve percent higher than human baseline." Venison's words came clipped, precise, a recitation burned into his bones. "His glomerular filtration rate peaks at three AM. Did you account for circadian nephrotoxicity with the vancomycin?"

The doctor went very still. "We... used cefepime."

Venison's grip slackened. "Good." His exhale frosted the air between them. "But his creatine kinase levels—"

"—were elevated, yes." Dr. Singh's voice sharpened. "We ran a myoglobinuria panel. Negative." She hesitated. "You've memorized his kidney function?"

Venison's jaw worked.

Somewhere behind them, Fresa Berry coughed, a wet, dramatic sound. "Oh my god, Venny. Did you study medical textbooks just to—"

Venison's shadow lashed out without turning, silencing her with a tendril of darkness clamped over her mouth. His focus never left Dr. Singh. "Lymphocyte count?"

"Twenty-three hundred."

"Platelets?"

"One-eighty."

Venison's fingers twitched. "Too low." The frost spread down the wall behind Dr. Singh's shoulders. "And his CRP?"

”If you want to know if he’s septic, the answer is yes.”

Venison inhaled sharply, too sharp. The scent of antiseptic burned his sinuses, mixing with the iron tang of Fresa’s blood still drying on his knuckles. "Procalcitonin levels?"

"Point nine."

"Fuck." His talons punched through the wall this time, shredding drywall like tissue paper. "You should've intubated him."

Dr. Singh's heartbeat kicked against his grip. "We did."

"Not with propofol." Venison's voice dropped to a growl, shadows writhing in his periphery. "You used etomidate, didn't you?"

A pause. Too long. "Standard protocol—"

"Etomidate?" Venison's fist clenched, crushing a handful of her scrubs. The fabric tore with a sound like ripping skin. "Do you want adrenal insufficiency on top of septic shock? His cortisol levels were borderline last physical!"

Dr. Singh's breath hitched, he could hear her teeth grinding. "We ran a cosyntropin stim test."

Venison's talons retracted just enough to keep from disemboweling the wall. "Results?"

"Twenty-two mcg/dL at baseline, thirty-eight at sixty minutes."

"Borderline." His heart pulsed under his skin, restless. "You didn't check his ACTH?"

The doctor's pen snapped between her fingers. "Foxglove…"

"Did you check his ACTH?" His voice wasn't human anymore, just static and scraping metal.

Dr. Singh exhaled sharply. "No. But his electrolytes—"

"Potassium?" Venison's hands trembled against the wall, frost spiderwebbing from his fingertips.

"Four-point-one."

"Bullshit."

Fresa stepped in again “Sorry about him, he’s fun at parties.” She puts and arm around the doctor and walks her off. “Real hit with the CDC.”

Venison's fingers curled into fists, his knuckles pressing into the wall until the plaster cracked. "Shut up. Chloride?"

"Ninety-eight," Dr. Singh snapped, shaking off Fresa's arm.

"Anion gap?" Venison's voice was razor-edged.

"Twelve."

"Too high." His fingers twitched, once, twice, like he was counting IV drips in his head. "Albumin?"

"Three-point-one."

Venison just grunts, throwing the doctor to the side as he moves for the elevator. “USELESS!”

The elevator doors slid shut behind Venison with a whisper, sealing him in the sterile, humming silence of the hospital’s ascent. His fingers twitched at his sides, still slick with the phantom warmth of Cloud’s pulse beneath his fingertips. The antiseptic air stung his nostrils, too clean, too sharp, nothing like the earthy dampness of Cloud’s hair after a rainstorm.

A soft chime marked the fourth floor. The doors hissed open, but Venison didn’t move. His cane was still lying forgotten on the bathroom floor of their apartment, and the hallway stretched before him like a void. He exhaled through his mouth and paused. A nurse called to him. “Foxglove, you can’t—“

He grit his teeth, sharp and angry. “I’m more important than you.” he managed, showing his badge from the capital. “Move.”

The door to Cloud’s room hissed open before Venison could find the handle, his fingers grazing empty air until he caught the scent, rainwater and antiseptic, the faintest hint clinging to the sheets. His breath hitched. The bed creaked slightly as he leaned over it, his hands hovering inches above Cloud’s chest, afraid to touch. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor filled the silence between them, too steady, too artificial.

Venison’s fingers finally brushed Cloud’s wrist, hot, too hot, the IV taped to his skin like a parasite. He traced the too-prominent veins, the delicate bones beneath, memorizing the shape of him as if he might dissolve again. “You’re warm,” he murmured, half to himself, half to the stillness. Cloud’s chest rose and fell under the thin hospital gown, slow and deliberate. Venison’s thumb pressed into the pulse point, counting each beat like a metronome. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Venison's fingers found the chair beside Cloud's bed before his knees did, the plastic seat cold and unyielding under his grip. He sat without lowering himself properly, more of a controlled collapse, his body folding into the chair like a puppet with its strings cut. His fingers never left Cloud's wrist, thumb tracing circles over the too-pale skin where his pulse fluttered like a trapped sparrow. The IV line snaked across the bed, its steady drip marking time in a language only Venison understood.

The heart monitor beeped, once, twice, and Venison's head snapped toward the sound, his head turned to the ekg as if he could see the jagged lines on the screen. Alive. He leaned forward, his free hand hovering over Cloud's face, close enough to feel the shallow exhale against his palm but not touching. His fingertips trembled. "You're supposed to be the indestructible one," he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. The words hung between them, dissolving into the antiseptic air.

The heart monitor's steady beep was the only sound anchoring Venison to reality as he sat in the stiff plastic chair beside Cloud's hospital bed. His fingers, still streaked with dried blood from Fresa's nose, traced the outline of Cloud's wrist where it lay limp against the sheets. The skin was too pale, the veins too blue under the fluorescent lights, but the pulse beneath his fingertips was strong. Alive. "I love you so much baby... Please. Please don't leave me. I can't do it without you."

Venison exhaled through his nose, the scent of antiseptic and fear burning his throat. He leaned forward until his forehead brushed the edge of the mattress, his free hand fisting in the scratchy hospital blanket. "You idiot," he muttered, voice muffled against the fabric. "You absolute, reckless—" His throat closed around the rest of the words, choking him. “You’re supposed to be the healthy one.”

The door creaked open, not the sharp hiss of hospital staff, but the hesitant scrape of someone second-guessing their presence. Venison didn’t lift his head from Cloud’s mattress, but his grip tightened around Cloud’s wrist. "Get out," he rasped, voice raw with shadows.

"Easy, foxglove." The voice was low, rough, Van. Venison could smell exhaustion and stale coffee beneath the hospital’s bleach. "Just got word. Thought you'd want backup."

Venison’s fingers twitched against Cloud’s pulse point. "Where were you three hours ago?" The words came out sharper than intended, edged with the same darkness coiling under his ribs. Van’s boots scuffed against the linoleum as he stepped closer, the scent of coffee and cheap aftershave cutting through the antiseptic haze.

"Stuck at a goddamn bomb threat," Van muttered. His badge clinked against his belt as he leaned against the wall, too close, but Venison didn’t flinch.

“They called an anti-wilt team for that? Why’d you respond? Forget that, it was probably Mr. McGee’s call.

Van's badge clicked against his belt as he shifted his weight. "McGee was busy jerking off to Doctor Doctor. I was closest. Had time." The scent of coffee intensified as he exhaled through his nose. "Heard about Berry. You gonna be dumb enough to kill her in a hospital?"

Venison's fingers curled tighter around Cloud's wrist. The heart monitor skipped a beat, just once, before settling back into its mechanical rhythm. "Not yet."

"That's my boy." He flicked open a portable coffee cup, taking a tired sip from it. "Kid looks like shit."

Venison's shoulders tensed. Cloud's pulse thrummed against his fingertips, steady but slow. Too slow. "His appendix burst. He’s septic. I didn’t even know what an appendix was until today.”

Van's boots scraped forward another inch, the rubber soles sticking slightly to the linoleum. "Septic, huh?" His voice dropped, rougher now. "That's why Singh looked like she'd swallowed a live wire." A pause. Venison could practically hear Van's brain grinding through the medical jargon. "But he's stable?"

Venison exhaled through his nose, the scent of Cloud's hair, still faintly carrying the herbal shampoo they'd bought last week, mixing with the sterile hospital reek. "For now." His thumb pressed harder against Cloud's wrist, as if he could will more warmth into the skin. "They had to sedate him into next week to keep his form cohesive."

A low whistle from Van. "Fuckin' nymph biology." His badge jingled as he shifted again, the leather of his duty belt creaking. "You know they're gonna pull him off the sedatives soon, right? That shit's hell on the liver."

Venison's free hand clenched into the bedsheet. "I know." The words came out too sharp, too quick. He forced his shoulders to relax. "They're starting the taper at 0400."

Van’s boots scuffed against the floor as he leaned forward, the scent of coffee thickening between them. "You look like shit too, foxglove." His knuckles rapped against the bedside tray, once, twice, like he was testing its stability. "When’s the last time you slept?"

Venison ignored him, his fingers tracing the ridges of Cloud’s knuckles where they lay slack against the sheet. The IV tubing coiled around his wrist like a serpent, its plastic cool against his skin. He could hear Van’s pulse, steady, annoyingly calm, and the way his fingers drummed against his thigh in a rhythm that wasn’t quite impatience, wasn’t quite concern.

The door hissed open again, no knock this time. The scent hit Venison first: antiseptic, stale coffee, and beneath it, the faintest trace of carnation. Cloud’s mother. Her footsteps were deliberate, her shoes clicking against the linoleum with the precision of someone who’d walked these halls for decades.

Venison didn't lift his head from Cloud's bedside, but his shoulders stiffened as she got closer. Amara, stopped at the foot of the bed, her clipboard clicking against her hip as she set it down. Van's boots scuffed backward in deference, his badge jingling as he retreated to the doorway.

"You're tracking blood on my floor," Amara said, her voice like chilled steel wrapped in velvet. Venison's fingers twitched against Cloud's wrist, he hadn't even noticed the smear of Fresa's blood drying on his knuckles.

Van cleared his throat. "I'll, uh. Get a mop." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Venison alone with the woman whose son he'd nearly gotten killed by sheer ignorance.

Amara's heels tapped closer. Her scent, always carnations and something sharper, like rain after lightning, filled the space between them. Venison's throat tightened as her fingers brushed his shoulder, feather-light but impossible to ignore. "His temperature's dropping," she murmured, clinical even now. "That’s good."

Venison's fingers spasmed around Cloud's wrist. "Why isn't he waking up?" The heart monitor beeped twice in quick succession, his own pulse spiking, not Cloud's. "You said the sedation was—"

Amara's hand pressed down on Venison's shoulder, not restraining, just grounding. Her fingernails were blunt, her grip warm despite the hospital's chill. "Sedation isn't light switching, Venison. It's..." Her pen tapped against the clipboard in a staccato rhythm. "Tidal. His body needs to remember how to surface."

Venison's thumb dug into the hollow of Cloud's wrist where the IV needle disappeared under tape. "He's dreaming," he muttered, more to himself than to her. The heart monitor stuttered, just once, as if confirming it.

Amara exhaled through her nose, the scent of carnations  briefly eclipsing antiseptic. "Yes. And his dreams are storming." She leaned over the bed, her stethoscope brushing Venison's arm as she listened to Cloud's chest. "Hear that? His breath's uneven. Not labored, but... restless."

Venison tilted his head, listening beyond the machine beeps to the whisper-soft hitch in Cloud's exhales. Like he was arguing with someone in his sleep. "He does that when he's stressed," he murmured. "Bites his tongue."

Amara's fingers tightened on Venison's shoulder, not quite reassurance, not quite restraint. "He'll bite through his tongue because  he’s numbed if we don't intervene." Her stethoscope lifted from Cloud's chest with a quiet scrape of metal against damp hospital fabric. "I need you to talk to him."

Venison's fingers spasmed against Cloud's wrist. "He can't hear me. He probably couldn’t even if he was awake." The heart monitor's beep stuttered as if contradicting him.

"Not with words." Amara's pen clicked against the clipboard, once, sharp. "Nymphs anchor to memory. To touch." Her hand left his shoulder, the sudden absence colder than the hospital air. "You know what he needs."

Venison's breath hitched. He lifted Cloud's wrist, too light, too fragile… and pressed the pulse point against his own lips. The skin tasted like saline and static, the metallic tang of IV fluids clinging to his tongue. He exhaled slowly. “Gods, I can’t…”

Venison's lips lingered against Cloud's wrist, not quite a kiss, more like the press of a prayer into skin. The taste of salt and antiseptic faded beneath something warmer, something unmistakably Cloud. the faint electric tang of gathering storms, the sweetness of dandelion sap from that time they'd made chains in the park. His exhale shuddered against Cloud's pulse point, his shadows curling reflexively around the bedrails as if they could shield him from the fluorescent glare overhead.

The heart monitor stuttered.

Amara's pen stopped clicking.

Venison didn't move, his mouth still pressed to the delicate bones of Cloud's wrist, his tongue tracing the faint ridge of a scar from an old climbing mishap. "You promised," he whispered against the skin, the words sticking in his throat like thorns. "No more stupid heroics." His fingers tightened, not enough to bruise, just enough to feel the thready pulse jump in response.

Cloud's hand twitched.

Venison froze. The scent of ozone spiked abruptly, cutting through the antiseptic haze as Cloud's fingers spasmed against his lips. The heart monitor's steady beep fractured into erratic spikes. Amara's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter.

"Again," she ordered, her voice slicing through the sudden tension. "Now`."

Venison exhaled sharply through his nose and pressed his lips to Cloud's hand, not the chaste press of desperation from moments before, but something slower, more deliberate. 
Cloud's fingers curled weakly around Venison's thumb.

The heart monitor shrieked, not flatlining, but the jagged peaks of someone clawing their way back to consciousness. Venison's free hand shot out blindly, finding Cloud's cheek, too warm now, feverish against his palm. "That's it," he murmured, his voice tired and nervous.

Amara's pen clattered to the floor as she lunged for the IV controls. "He's seizing—"

Venison didn't let go. "Nonono.." His thumb traced the curve of Cloud's cheekbone, his other hand still cradling Cloud's against his mouth. He could feel the tremors wracking Cloud's frame, the violent jerking of a medical seizure, the shuddering, uneven rhythm of someone fighting their way up from deep water. "Easy," Venison breathed against his skin. "I've got you."

Cloud's breath hitched…wet and ragged. Venison's pulse stuttered in response. His fingers tightened instinctively around Cloud's wrist, counting each thready beat as if he could will it steadier through sheer force of will. The scent of petrichor thickened abruptly, prickling against Venison's tongue like static before a storm.

Then, Cloud coughed. A wet, ragged sound that sent Venison's vines recoiling instinctively. His grip on Cloud's wrist slackened just enough to feel the frantic flutter beneath his fingers. Alive, alive, alive…before Cloud's hand twisted weakly in his grasp as the seizure halted just as fast as it started.

Cloud's breath paused again. His fingers twitched against Venison's mouth, weak, uncoordinated, but the intent was clear. Venison exhaled sharply through his nose and kissed each knuckle in turn, slow, deliberate, his lips lingering over the faint scar from Cloud's disastrous attempt at whittling last winter. The taste of static and rainwater bloomed against his tongue, sharper than the hospital antiseptic clinging to Cloud's skin.

The heart monitor stuttered into a new rhythm.

Amara's stethoscope hit the bedside tray with a clatter. "His pupils are reacting," she murmured, her voice tight with something Venison couldn't name. "Keep going."

Venison didn't need the order. His thumb brushed the inside of Cloud's wrist, the spot he'd traced a thousand times during late-night movies, and pressed another kiss there, softer this time. Cloud's pulse jumped beneath his lips. The scent of petrichor thickened abruptly, pricking at Venison's nostrils like the charged air before a thunderstorm.

Cloud's fingers twitched again, weak but deliberate, curling into the fabric of Venison's sleeve. Venison exhaled shakily and turned Cloud's hand over, pressing his lips to the center of his palm where the skin was softest. The taste of rain and something sweet, like the dandelion wine they'd stolen from Fresa’s pantry last summer…bloomed against his tongue.

The heart monitor's beeps accelerated.

Amara's pen clicked twice, sharp, clinical. "Respiration's improving."

Venison barely heard her. His fingers tightened around Cloud's wrist as he kissed the base of his thumb, once, twice, each press of his lips lingering longer than the last. Cloud's breath hitched audibly, his chest rising sharply beneath the thin hospital gown.

The scent of rain thickened.. not the sharp tang of impending lightning, but the clean rush of air after rain. Venison exhaled against Cloud's damp palm, his lips skimming the faint lines of his lifeline. "Come back," he whispered, voice cracking like dry earth. His thumb traced the delicate webbing between Cloud's fingers, too warm now, feverish and alive, before pressing another kiss to the spot where his pulse fluttered like a trapped hummingbird.

Cloud's fingers spasmed. The IV line jerked violently as his arm twitched, sending saline droplets arcing across the sheets. Amara lunged for the pump controls, but Venison caught Cloud's wrist before the needle could tear free. He pressed their joined hands flat against his own chest, directly over his racing heart, letting Cloud feel the frantic hammering beneath his ribs.

"Listen," Venison commanded, low and rough. His free hand found Cloud's cheek, too warm, damp with fever sweat, and cradled it with impossible gentleness. "That's you." His thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath Cloud's eye. "Making me insane."

The heart monitor's rhythm stuttered, then steadied into something stronger. 

The heart monitor's steady beep stalled, once, twice, before settling into a rhythm that matched Venison's own pulse. Cloud's fingers twitched against Venison's chest, curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt. A sharp intake of breath, wet and ragged, cut through the sterile air, followed by the unmistakable scent of gathering storms.

Amara's clipboard clattered to the floor. "Cloud?" Her voice wavered for the first time Venison could remember, her clinical precision fracturing around the edges. She reached for the call button, but Venison caught her wrist, gentler than he'd touched anything in hours.

"Wait." His voice was raw, stripped down to the bone. Cloud's fingers spasmed against his ribs, the nails biting through fabric to scratch at skin. Venison didn't flinch. "He's disoriented. Give him—"

Cloud coughed, a wet, shuddering sound that sent Venison's vines recoiling. His head thrashed weakly against the pillow. Venison tightened his grip on Cloud's wrist, pressing their joined hands harder against his own chest. "Easy," he murmured, thumb tracing the frantic flutter beneath Cloud's skin. "You're in the hospital. Your appendix burst."

Amara's fingers tightened around the IV tubing, once, twice, before she exhaled sharply through her nose. The scent of carnations cut through the antiseptic haze as she leaned over the bed, her stethoscope brushing Venison's arm with uncharacteristic clumsiness. When she pressed the diaphragm to Cloud's chest, Venison heard it, the hitch in her breath, the stutter of her pulse where it fluttered against her carotid.

"Lung sounds clear." Her voice was too steady, too controlled, the same tone she'd used when Cloud broke his arm falling from the oak tree at twelve. But Venison knew the shape of relief when it carved itself into someone's bones. He heard it in the way her pen clicked against the clipboard, once, soft.. before slipping from her fingers entirely.

The clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. Amara didn't move to retrieve it. Her hand lingered on Cloud's forehead, her thumb brushing the damp hairline with a tenderness Venison had only ever seen her use when Cloud was feverish at six years old. "Pupils equal and reactive," she murmured, not to Venison, not to the empty hospital room, but to herself, as if confirming the words would make them truer.

Venison felt the exact moment Cloud's fingers tightened around his own, weak, but unmistakably deliberate. Amara's breath caught. Her other hand, the one still clutching the stethoscope, twitched toward Venison's shoulder, hesitated, then settled on the bedrail instead. The metal groaned under her grip.

"Mom?" Cloud's voice was wrecked, scraped raw from vomiting and endotracheal tubes, but it was his. Entirely, undeniably his. The heart monitor's steady beep stuttered as Amara's fingers flew to her mouth, her clinical composure fracturing like thin ice under sudden weight.

Venison felt the exact moment Amara's knees buckled, not the dramatic collapse of fainting, but the subtle tremor of someone who'd been holding their breath for twelve straight hours. Her stethoscope slipped from her shoulders, the bell hitting the linoleum with a dull thud that echoed louder than the monitor's incessant beeping. She didn't move to pick it up. Her hands, steady from thirty years of nursing shifts, shook as they framed Cloud's face, thumbs brushing the hollows under his eyes with a tenderness that bordered on reverence.

"You idiot," she whispered, voice cracking open on the last syllable. The words landed somewhere between prayer and profanity, soaked through with twelve hours of withheld terror. Her forehead pressed against Cloud's, not the quick clinical check for fever she'd performed a thousand times, but something slower, something starving. Venison heard her inhale sharply through her nose, committing the scent of her living son to memory.

Cloud's fingers twitched weakly against Venison's ribs, half-conscious, still fighting the sedation's pull, but Amara didn't let go. Her thumbs traced the arch of Cloud's cheekbones with meticulous care, as if relearning the topography of his face after fearing it might be the last time. When she finally pulled back, her eyelashes were clumped together, damp in a way hospital air could never account for.

The heart monitor skipped a beat, Cloud reacting to the warmth of his mother's tears hitting his collarbone. Amara exhaled a wet laugh against his temple, her shoulders curling forward like a plant toward sunlight. "Of course you'd wake up when I'm off-shift," she murmured, the words muffled against Cloud's hairline. Her fingers carded through his sweat-damp curls with none of her usual clinical efficiency, just raw, trembling relief. "No consideration."

Venison stayed perfectly still, his hand still pressed over Cloud's where it lay against his own chest. "Just go ahead and rest, honey." He felt the exact moment Amara registered his presence again, her posture stiffening slightly, her breath catching on an inhale. But when she spoke, her voice was softer than Venison had ever heard it. "You can let go now," she said, not unkindly. Her fingertips brushed his wrist, just once, where his vines still coiled lightly around Cloud's IV line. "He's not going anywhere."

The heart monitor beeped twice in quick succession, Cloud's pulse spiking at the sound of Venison's ragged exhale. Amara's mouth quirked at the corner, something almost like amusement flickering across her exhausted features. She leaned forward, her lips brushing Cloud's forehead in a kiss that lingered a second longer than necessary, then straightened with visible effort. Her nurse's instincts were kicking back in, one hand already reaching for the discarded stethoscope, the other smoothing Cloud's hospital gown with absentminded precision.

Venison watched, transfixed, as Amara's professional mask slid back into place, but it was cracked now, irrevocably. He saw it in the way her fingers lingered on Cloud's pulse point a beat too long, in the slight tremble of her penlight as she checked his pupils. When she finally turned to face Venison fully, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, her shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact. "You look worse than he does," she observed, her voice rough but steady. The corner of her mouth twitched. "And that's saying something.”

The IV line hissed as Cloud shifted weakly, his fingers tightening around Venison’s wrist like a drowning man clutching driftwood. His eyelids fluttered, not quite open, but no longer the terrifying stillness of sedation. Venison leaned forward until his forehead brushed Cloud’s shoulder, his free hand fisting in the scratchy hospital blanket. "Took you long enough," he muttered against the damp fabric, voice cracking mid-sentence.

Amara’s penlight clicked off. She didn’t move to stop Venison when he lifted Cloud’s hand, palm down, and pressed his lips to the center of it, slow and deliberate. The taste of static burst across his tongue, sharp as lightning. Cloud’s breath hitched audibly.

The door slammed open. Van’s boots skidded on linoleum, his badge clattering against his belt. "Berry’s in the lobby—" His voice died as he took in the scene: Amara’s stethoscope dangling from her clenched fist, Venison’s shadows coiled around the bed like living barbed wire, Cloud’s fingers twitching in Venison’s grip.

Amara didn’t turn. "Deal with it," she said, calm as a surgeon making the first incision. Her thumb brushed Cloud’s pulse point once, proprietary, possessive, before releasing him. "Use whatever means necessary."

Van's boots squeaked against the linoleum as he backpedaled. "Uh. Right." His badge jingled awkwardly before the door clicked shut, leaving Venison alone with the steady beep of Cloud's heart monitor and the scent of ozone thickening like storm clouds.

Amara exhaled sharply through her nose, half exasperation, half exhaustion, as she adjusted Cloud's IV line with practiced efficiency. Her fingers lingered on the tape securing the needle, smoothing the edges with absentminded precision. "He'll need fluids for another twelve hours," she murmured, more to herself than Venison. The penlight in her pocket clicked on and off in a nervous rhythm Venison had never seen from her before.

Venison didn't respond. His thumb traced circles over Cloud's knuckles where their hands lay tangled on the hospital sheet, too pale, too still except for the occasional twitch. The scent of carnations and antiseptic warred with the electric tang of Cloud's gathering storm as Amara leaned over to check his pupils again, her stethoscope brushing Venison's forearm.

The scent hit Venison first, not the sharp tang of antiseptic or the clinging lavender of Amara's soap, but something darker. Wet earth. Rotting leaves. The metallic bite of blood left too long in open air. His vines recoiled instinctively, curling back into his skin like whipped dogs as Cloud's fingers spasmed in his grip.

Amara's stethoscope froze mid-swing. Her breath caught, sharp, clinical, before her training overtook instinct. "His fever's spiking." The words were calm, but her fingers trembled where they pressed against Cloud's carotid. "Septic shock."

Venison's free hand clenched in the bedsheet. The fabric tore with a sound like rending flesh. He barely noticed. Cloud's pulse fluttered against his fingertips, too fast, too weak, as his skin bloomed with unnatural heat. The scent of decay thickened abruptly, pricking at Venison's nostrils like the stench of a battlefield after rain.

Amara's penlight flicked on with a decisive click. The beam caught the sweat-slick hollow of Cloud's throat, not the healthy sheen of exertion, but the sickly dampness of a body losing its fight. Venison watched, transfixed, as the light traced the jagged path of Cloud's jugular. His shadows writhed beneath his skin, drawn to the heat like moths to flame.

"Kid's cooking alive," Van muttered from the doorway, his boots scuffing against the linoleum as he edged closer. Venison didn't turn, couldn't, when Cloud's fingers spasmed violently in his grip, the scent of petrichor and infection thickening like spoiled honey in the stagnant air. The monitors shrieked their mechanical panic, but Venison heard the wet crackle beneath, the sound of Cloud's lungs filling with fluid.

Amara's stethoscope hit the bedside tray with a clatter. "Get Singh." Her voice was steel wrapped in gauze, professional, precise, but Venison heard the tremor beneath. The scent of lavender soap couldn't mask the acrid tang of fear-sweat as she yanked Cloud's gown aside, her fingers pressing too hard against the inflamed surgical site.

The IV stand toppled with a crash as Cloud arched off the bed, his spine bowing unnaturally as a wet, guttural sound tore from his throat.

Van was already moving before Amara finished speaking, his boots squeaking against the linoleum as he bolted for the door. The scent of gun oil and stale coffee lingered in his wake, overpowered instantly by the sickly-sweet stench of infection boiling beneath Cloud's skin. Venison's free hand hovered over Cloud's forehead, close enough to feel the fever heat radiating off him, but not touching. Not yet.

Venison's fingers hovered millimeters above Cloud's forehead when the scent changed, no longer just fever-sweat and rot, but something sharper. Lightning about to strike. The hair on his arms stood as Cloud's entire body tensed, muscles locking so violently the bedframe groaned.

Amara's stethoscope slipped from her shoulders. "He's seizing—"

The seizure hit like a storm surge, violent, sudden, drowning out the monitors' alarms with the wet snap of Cloud's teeth clamping down on his tongue. Amara lunged forward, her fingers hooking under Cloud's jaw to wrench it open before he could bite clean through.

Venison's hands moved before his mind caught up, one palm pressing flat against Cloud's heaving chest, the other cupping the back of his skull just as the convulsions arched him off the bed. The scent of copper flooded the room as Cloud's teeth sank into his moms fingers instead of his own tongue. She didn't flinch.

"Thirty seconds," she muttered through clenched teeth.

Venison's shadow-black fingers pressed harder against Cloud's sternum, feeling the unnatural jackhammer rhythm beneath. The scent of rain flooded his nostrils, not Cloud's usual storm-scent, but something acrid and wrong, like wires melting. Amara's forearm trembled against Cloud's jaw where she held his teeth off his tongue, her sleeve darkening with saliva and flecks of blood.

The seizure crested with a wet gasp. Cloud's spine arched so sharply Venison heard vertebrae pop, his heels drumming against the mattress in a staccato rhythm. The IV ripped free with a spray of saline, the needle dangling like a fishing hook from Cloud's elbow crease.

The heart monitor flatlined with an electronic shriek that sent Van skidding back into the room, gun drawn before he registered the scene. Venison didn't move, couldn't, as Cloud's body went terrifyingly limp beneath his hands. The scent of rain still clung to the sheets where Cloud's fingers had torn holes through the fabric, edges still smoking faintly.

"Start compressions," she ordered, not to Venison, not to Van hovering in stunned silence by the door, but to the empty air where competent medical staff should have been.

Venison's hands moved before the word "compressions" finished leaving Amara's lips. His palms slammed down onto Cloud's sternum with enough force to crack ribs, he knew the exact pressure needed, had mapped Cloud's ribcage a hundred times in the dark with his fingers. The scent of petrichor intensified as Cloud's body jerked under the force, his head lolling like a broken puppet's.

Amara's fingers were already at Cloud's throat, her thumb pressing into the hollow beneath his jaw. "No pulse," she hissed, and Venison felt the world narrow to the space between his palms and Cloud's still-warm chest. The heart monitor's flatline tone drilled into his skull.

The scent of burning copper was distracting as his palms pressed down again, one, two, three, counting the beats between compressions like a funeral dirge. Cloud's ribs gave under the pressure with a sickening crunch that reverberated up Venison's arms. He didn't stop. Couldn't. The taste of blood coated his tongue as Amara tipped Cloud's head back, her lips sealing over his in a breath that smelled of carnations and a mothers desperation.

Van's boots skidded on linoleum as he braced against the bedframe. "Where's—"

Van's shout dissolved into static. Venison blocked him out, had to. His entire world narrowed to the feel of Cloud's ribs yielding beneath his palms, the wet crunch of cartilage and bone with each compression. Amara's breath hissed between clenched teeth as she pinched Cloud's nose shut, her lips sealing over his again. The scent of antibacterial soap couldn't mask the copper tang of blood welling where Cloud's teeth had torn her lower lip.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, Venison heard the crash of gurneys overturning, the panicked shouts of nurses. Van's badge jingled as he bodily blocked the doorway, his service weapon drawn but useless against the real threat, the way Cloud lied there still.

The crash of the resuscitation cart overturning barely registered over the wet crack of Cloud’s ribs giving way beneath Venison’s palms. His hands moved with his own heartrate, one, two, three, four, compressions measured by the heartbeat thundering in his own ears. Amara’s breath burned against Cloud’s slack lips between counts, her carnation scent now undercut with the iron tang of blood from where she’d bitten through her own tongue.

The defibrillator paddle hit Venison’s shoulder, nudging, before he registered Dr. Singh’s arrival, not an attack, but a desperate shove backwards as the crash team flooded the room. The scent of burnt hair and antiseptic gel overwhelmed his senses as two orderlies hauled him bodily away from Cloud’s unmoving form. His Vines lashed out on instinct, wrapping around the nearest throat before he recognized Van’s choking gasp.

"Let them work." Van's gurgled whisper cut through the haze before Venison's vines could snap his windpipe. The detective's fingers scrabbled uselessly at the plant, not fighting, just reminding Venison he still had something left to lose.

Venison released him so abruptly Van staggered into the crash cart. Metal instruments clattered across linoleum as Dr. Singh slapped defibrillator pads onto Cloud's bare chest with a wet smack. The scent of burnt sugar and singed hair flooded the room when the first shock jolted through Cloud's body, making his limbs jerk like a marionette with cut strings.

The defibrillator's whine peaked, that terrible, rising pitch like a teakettle screaming, before the shock hit. Cloud's body arched off the bed, tendons standing out in sharp relief against his too-pale skin. The scent of singed flesh bloomed thick and acrid in Venison's senses as the heart monitor continued its relentless flatline tone.

Dr. Singh didn't wait for the beep. "Clear!" Her gloved hands were already pressing down on Cloud's sternum before his back fully settled against the mattress, compressions sharp enough that Venison heard another rib snap. Amara's fingers tightened around Cloud's wrist, her nails leaving half-moon indents in his skin, as she counted under her breath with mechanical precision.

Van's shout cut through the crash cart chaos, "Venison!" half a second too late. Venison's knees buckled, his body swaying like a felled oak in high wind, the dullness of his own exhaustion hitting like a freight train, mixed with the crash of adrenaline. His fingers, still slick with Cloud's fever sweat, twitched uselessly at his sides as his knees hit the linoleum with a crack that reverberated up his spine.

Van's badge jingled violently as he lunged, not fast enough. Venison's forehead struck the edge of the crash cart with a dull thud that sent saline bags swinging. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee flooded his fading senses as Van's calloused hands caught him by the shoulders, barely slowing his collapse. His vines lashed out instinctively, not in defense, but in sheer disorientation, wrapping around Van's wrists before going slack.

"Easy!" Van hissed, his breath hot against Venison's temple as he lowered him awkwardly to the floor. His knee dug into Venison's ribs, too hard, ungentle, but the pressure grounded him against the spinning darkness. Van's fingers fumbled at his throat, checking a pulse Venison could feel roaring in his own ears. "You're not dying on me too, you dramatic fuck."

The last thing Venison registered was Van's fingers digging into his shoulder, “Kid!” too tight, desperate, before the world inverted. The scent of rain and despair flooded his head one final time, then nothing. Not blackness, not for him, never for him, just a yawning absence of sensory input that swallowed him whole.

Van's curse sounded underwater as Venison's body went limp, his head lolling against the crash cart with a dull thud. The taste of pennies bloomed at the back of his throat, blood from biting his tongue, but even that faded as his vines recoiled into his pores like frightened eels. Someone shouted, Amara? No. But the words dissolved into static before reaching him.

For the first time in seventeen years, Venison dreamed. It was something they had robbed him of in the lab, but with enough time, the brain remembers. It always does. Sometimes it just takes trauma his brain can’t block out to protect him.

Not the hazy half-memories of his changeling origins, not the fractured snapshots of stolen childhoods, this was visceral. The scent of damp earth and crushed dandelions. The press of small, warm fingers interlaced with his own. Cloud's voice, not the wrecked rasp of the hospital bed, but the clear piping of an eighteen-year-old saying "Watch this!" with impossible brightness.

The dream shifted without warning, no transition, just sudden violence. The scent of petrichor curdled into something metallic and wet. Cloud's fingers in his grasp turned cold and slack. Venison jerked back instinctively, but the dream held him fast, his vines and spells useless here, his limbs leaden. Somewhere beyond the nightmare's grip, a machine shrieked its relentless flatline tone.

His mind clawed for consciousness, for the scent of antiseptic and Van's rough grip, but the dream tightened like a noose. He heard Amara's voice, not her hospital steel, but the raw panic of twelve years ago when Cloud had fallen from the oak tree. "He's not breathing—" The words dissolved into static as Venison's dream-self lunged forward, too slow, always too slow, and caught nothing but empty air where Cloud should have been.

The scent of petrichor hit first, Cloud's usual storm-scent, something deeper, older. Damp earth. leaves. The fungal sweetness of a forest floor after heavy rain. Venison's dream-hands sank wrist-deep into loam as he knelt in the dark, fingers curling around something solid and cold. A root. No, a wrist. Bone-thin. Pulseless.

"Cloud?" His own voice sounded alien, too young, too unbroken. The wrist in his grip didn't respond. Somewhere beyond the dream's borders, machines wailed their mechanical grief. Venison's fingers tightened, not enough to bruise, never enough to bruise, but the flesh beneath them gave like overripe fruit, splitting open beneath his nails with a wet, sickening sound.

The scent of copper nearly made him gag, not dream-blood, but real and thick, coating his tongue with each gasping breath. Venison recoiled instinctively, his vines lashing out in a void where they couldn't protect him. The wrist slipped from his grasp, limp, boneless, and vanished into the dark.

His knees hit the hospital floor with a crack that should have hurt. It didn't. Nothing hurt except the absence, the way the air left his lungs and didn't return, the way his pulse thundered in his ears with no answering rhythm beneath his palms. Somewhere beyond the dream, Van's calloused hands gripped his shoulders, too tight, too real, but Venison was already falling. Not into darkness, into memory.

The forest floor dissolved beneath him. Suddenly he was seventeen again, pressed against the damp bark of Cloud's favorite oak tree as rain sheeted down around them. Cloud's laughter rang bright and clear, no hospital rasp, no pain, his fingers warm where they brushed Venison's wrist. "You're shivering," he chided, breath puffing white in the sudden cold. Venison hadn't been shivering. He'd been vibrating apart at the seams, barely holding his vines in check with Cloud standing so close.

“Time of death.” He heard. Then he woke.

The scent of antiseptic burned before consciousness fully returned, sharp, clinical, wrong. Venison jerked upright, his shadows lashing out before his mind caught up with his body. Cold metal railings bit into his palms, hospital bed, not the floor where he'd collapsed. The taste of blood lingered at the back of his throat, stale and coppery.

"Easy." Van's voice came from his left, closer than expected. A calloused palm pressed against Venison's sternum before he could fully sit up. The scent of stale coffee clung to Van's sleeves, familiar, grounding. "You've been out three hours."

Venison's fingers curled around the bed rail, the cold metal biting into his palm. Three hours. Three hours where Cloud could have… He swallowed hard, the coppery tang of blood still thick on his tongue.

"Where—" His voice cracked, throat raw as if he'd been screaming. He hadn't. He remembered silence, the kind that pressed against his eardrums like a physical weight. Van's hand remained firm against his chest, not pushing him back down but anchoring him to the present.

"Recovery room." Van shifted, the leather of his shoulder holster creaking. "Singh stabilized him after…" A pause. Venison heard the unspoken 'after you collapsed' in the way Van exhaled sharply through his nose. "Amara's with him now."

The heart monitor beeped steadily somewhere to Venison's right, too slow for Cloud's usual rhythm, but present. Alive. Venison's fingers twitched against the sheets, seeking static that wasn't there. His vines coiled restlessly beneath his skin, drawn toward the scent of rain lingering in the air vents.

The scent of damp earth lingered in Venison's nostrils like a phantom limb, too real to dismiss, too impossible to explain. His fingers twitched against the hospital blanket, still feeling the weight of Cloud's wrist turning to rot in his grasp. Static crackled along his forearms where his vines recoiled inward, unsettled by something they couldn't defend against.

"You're zoning." Van's knee bumped the bedframe as he leaned closer, the scent of coffee sharpening to focus again. "You hit your head pretty hard when you—"

Venison's fingers spasmed around the blanket. "I saw—" His voice sounded alien to himself, stripped raw. The dream fragments clung like cobwebs, Cloud's laughter dissolving into wet rattles, the way his ribs had cracked like kindling beneath Venison's palms. Too vivid. Too visceral. His vines writhed beneath his skin, agitated by a threat they couldn't pinpoint.

Van's badge jingled as he shifted. "Saw what?" The question landed carefully neutral, but Venison heard the unspoken concern, the way Van's breathing hitched slightly.

Static crackled along Venison's collarbone where his vines breached the surface. "Nothing." The lie tasted like burnt copper. He flexed his fingers, still slick with phantom blood, and pressed them against the mattress. "Just residual... whatever." The heart monitor beeped steadily across the hall, Cloud's pulse threading through the walls like a lifeline.

Van exhaled through his nose, half exasperation, half relief. "Right." His belt creaked as he leaned back.

Venison's jaw tightened. The scent of rotting leaves clung to his nasal passages, more memory than smell. He'd never dreamed before, not at all. Not with scent and texture and the visceral snap of cartilage beneath his fingers. His thumb traced circles against his palm where Cloud's wrist had disintegrated in his grasp. "How long was I—"

"Out cold? Three hours. That’s the second time you’ve asked." Van's boot scuffed linoleum. "Singh pumped Cloud full of something experimental. His vitals stabilized."

Venison's fingers twitched toward his sternum, expecting cracked ribs, finding only smooth skin. "Experimental?" The word tasted like hospital antiseptic and desperation. His vines coiled tighter, drawn to the electric hum of Cloud's storm-scent seeping under the door.

Van's badge jingled as he shifted. "Some hybrid sedative. Slowed his metabolism enough for the antibiotics to—"

"I need to see him." Venison swung his legs over the bed edge before Van could finish. The floor tilted violently, not from injury, but the lingering vertigo of phantom memories. Damp earth. Splintering bone. Cloud's voice whispering through his fingers like smoke.

"Whoa, easy kiddo." Van's calloused palm slammed against his chest. "You faceplanted hard enough to crack the crash cart. Singh said—"

Venison shrugged him off with enough force to send Van's chair scooting back. His bare feet hit linoleum still tacky with saline and…blood? No, his fingers came away clean when he touched the spot where Cloud had convulsed. Yet the scent of copper clung to his sinuses, thick as the hospital antiseptic.

The heart monitor beeps quickened down the hall,Cloud reacting to Venison's proximity even unconscious. Static prickled along Venison's forearms where he strained toward the sound. He took two steps. Slow.

His knees buckled.

Van caught him by the elbow, not gently, hauling him upright with a grunt. "You're seeing shit that isn't there." His badge jingled too loud in Venison's ears. "Singh said hallucinations were possible after—"

Venison wrenched free. The scent of decay plagued him, rotting leaves, wet earth, but when he turned his head, there was nothing. Just hospital bleach and Van's coffee-stale breath. His fingers flexed. Still sticky with phantom blood.

"Cloud's fine," Van muttered. The lie rasped against Venison's eardrums. Fine didn't convulse. Fine didn't stink of infection. Fine didn't…

The heart monitor skipped a beat down the hall. Venison's head snapped toward the sound. He knew that rhythm like his own shadow. Knew the exact millisecond between beeps when Cloud was dreaming. But this was wrong, half a second too long between pulses. His fingers twitched toward the wall, counting the gaps.

Van's grip tightened. "Hey. Eyes on me—" He choked on the word, remembering. Venison didn't. He was too busy tasting copper on his tongue that shouldn't be there, feeling ribs crack beneath his palms that hadn't.

The IV drip hissed like a punctured stormcloud. Venison's fingers found the wall, tracing the vibrations of Cloud's monitor through peeling paint and drywall. Three steps from the bed, he'd counted when they wheeled him in. Three steps and his knee hit something solid, Van's outstretched boot.

Static filled Venisons skull, the white noise of a television left on in an empty room. His fingers spasmed against the wall as the scent of petrichor curdled into something metallic. Copper. Iron. The taste flooded his mouth, thick and cloying, though his tongue found no blood when he pressed it to the roof of his mouth.

Van's grip tightened on Venison's elbow, callouses scraping against bare skin. "Wait!" His badge jingled sharply as he yanked Venison backward. "You can't just leave."

Van's fingers dug into Venison's forearm like grappling hooks, his boots skidding against the linoleum as he fought to redirect Venison's momentum. "Christ alive, you're gonna—" The rest of Van's protest dissolved into a grunt as Venison's shoulder connected with his ribs, sending them both careening into the crash cart. Metal instruments clattered to the floor, the sharp scent of sterilization alcohol flooding the space between them.

"Stop." Van's knee jammed against Venison's thigh, pinning him awkwardly against the overturned cart. His badge swung wildly, the edge catching Venison's side with a dull thud. "You're not helping him like this."

Van caught him by the hips, leveraging his full weight to shove Venison backward onto the bed. The mattress groaned under the sudden impact, springs digging into Venison's spine through the thin hospital gown. "Listen to me," Van hissed, his breath hot against Venison's temple. One calloused palm pressed flat against Venison's sternum, not restraining, just grounding. "Cloud's stable. Singh's got him on enough monitors to catch a sneeze. You crashing through the door like a fucking poltergeist isn't helping any, kid."

Venison's fingers closed around Van's wrist, too tight, bones grinding, but the detective didn't pull away. The scent of gun oil and stale coffee sharpened as Van leaned closer, his badge pressing cold against Venison's collarbone. "He flatlined for ninety seconds," Van whispered, raw. "Singh brought him back with enough epinephrine to wake a horse. You collapsing didn't help."

The heart monitor down the hall skipped another beat, not the steady rhythm of recovery, but the erratic stutter of a storm trying to reform. Venison's vines writhed beneath his skin, drawn to the rain scent seeping under the door. His fingers twitched against Van's sleeve, still feeling phantom ribs cracking under his palms.

The scent of disinfectant burned Venison, too sharp, too sterile, oas Van's knee dug harder into his thigh. His fingers spasmed against Van's wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath the man’s skin. "Don't," Venison growled, shadows writhing up his forearms like ink in water.

Van exhaled sharply through his nose. "Then stop acting like a feral cat." His badge jingled as he shifted, but his grip didn't loosen. "Cloud's mom would skin me alive if I let you.”

"Who tells them?" Venison's voice scraped raw against the antiseptic air, his fingers curling into the mattress seams. The scent of coffee sharpened as Van stiffened beside him, badge jingling faintly, breath catching like he'd taken a punch.

Van's boot scuffed linoleum. "Tell who what?"

"The city." Venison's shadows writhed beneath his skin, drawn to the ozone hum of Cloud's storm-scent seeping under the door. "When a storm dies." His throat clicked dryly. "Who sounds the alarm?"

Silence. Then Van's holster creaked as he leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "Jesus Christ, Venison. He's not—"

"Cloud's been a face of FSBC for seven years." Venison's fingers traced the IV line taped to his forearm, too empty, no static charge. "Who warns the fishing fleet when he can't break up the squalls? Who tells the orchards their pollen won't scatter?" His thumb pressed hard against the inside of his wrist, feeling nothing but his own pulse.

Van's badge jingled as he shifted. "The emergency alert system exists for—"

"A weathervane can't smell lightning." Venison's voice cracked like kindling. He turned his face toward the heart monitor's steady beep down the hall, half a second too slow between pulses. "Meteorology doesn't track nymph fevers. If it’s gonna be anyone, it’s gonna be me.”

Van’s holster creaked as he leaned forward. “You’re not thinking straight. Cloud’s not—“

“I know exactly what he is. He’s sick. He’s out of service. The public needs to know that. We’re their heroes.”

Van’s sigh smelled of stale coffee grounds and exhaustion. “You’re not the town crier.”

Venison’s fingers twitched toward his sternum, still feeling phantom ribs cracking beneath his palms. “Who else remembers who counts on us? Who else knows what he’d want me to say?” The IV line tugged at his forearm as he sat up straighter. “They deserve the truth.”

“The truth?” Van’s badge jingled as he leaned forward, leather creaking. “You want to stand on Main Street and tell everyone their storm nymph’s septic and delirious? That’ll cause panic.”

The scent of fear prickled at Venison, not from Cloud, but from his own shad writhing beneath his skin. He turned his face toward the window where distant thunder rumbled. “Better panic now than rumors and them not trusting us that we aren’t telling them anything. Plus, if we’re open, it shows we’re not scared. Wilts are less likley to go for him.”

Van’s sigh carried the weight of too many sleepless nights, his badge jingling as he scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “You really think now’s the time for press conferences? Cloud’s barely—”

“When else?” Venison’s fingers dug into the mattress seam, threads snapping under his nails. “You saw the monitors. That wasn’t just sepsis. If he crashes again—”

Van's badge jingled softly as he shifted his weight, the leather of his holster creaking with the movement. His sigh smelled like yesterday's coffee and resignation. "Fine. But I'm standing right beside you when you do this." His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his thigh, three beats, pause, two beats. The sound of a man counting down to disaster. "And we're bringing Singh's medical notes. No wild speculation about—"

The heart monitor down the hall stuttered, half a beat missed, then two quick ones like Cloud was trying to catch up. Venison's head snapped toward the sound before Van finished speaking. His shadows coiled tight around his ribs where phantom cracks still ached. "You think I'd lie?" The words came out sharper than intended, edged with static.

Van's breath hitched, close enough that Venison felt the warmth against his cheek. "Not saying lie," he muttered, badge jangling as he rubbed his temple. "Just saying maybe don't lead with 'his organs are melting.'"

“That’s called lying by omission, but I’ll do what I need to do to keep him safe.”

The podium smelled like rain-slick metal and old fear. Venison's fingers curled around the edges, too tight, the steel groaning under his grip as the crowd's murmurs washed over him in waves. His shadows coiled beneath the high-collared coat Cloud had bought him last winter, the fabric still carrying traces of ozone and chamomile from when Cloud had bundled it around his shoulders during a storm.

"Citizens." The word left Venison's throat raw, amplified by the microphone's shrill feedback. A child whimpered somewhere in the front rows. He didn't need sight to know people were recoiling, he could taste their apprehension like copper on his tongue, could feel their collective breath hitching.

The mask pressed cold against his cheekbones, molded after Cloud's favorite theater comedy, a grotesque parody of smiling wood. "Babys breath is hospitalized." No preamble. No softening. The truth tasted like blood and burning hair as it left his lips. “There was complications with his appendix."

A woman gasped. Someone dropped what sounded like a coffee cup. He tilted his head toward the scent of vanilla shampoo, probably the reporter from Channel 6 who always wore too much perfume, and continued before panic could set in.

"It’s been quite touch and go. But he’s stable currently. However, recovery will be long, and we will not see him out fighting for the forseeable future.”

A man coughed. Leather creaked to Venison’s left where Van shifted his weight, close enough that Venison could smell the coffee on his breath. Someone really needed to get this man some real coffee, donuts for Dunkin’ or something. The microphone whined when Venison leaned closer.

"In the meantime, citizens are advised that FSBC will remain operational, and we will continue to work with eachother to take down wilts. Thank you."

Someone whimpered near the front, too young to be a journalist. A child, then. Venison's fingers twitched against the podium where phantom blood still slicked his palms. He forced his voice softer. “He’s gonna be okay. Just needs time to rest, that’s all."

The first shout came from the left, high-pitched, panicked, cutting through Venison's respirator filters sharper than any blade. Then the metallic clang as something heavy rolled across the stage, bouncing once with the hollow finality of a coin settling. Venison's shadows surged before his mind caught up, writhing beneath his sleeves like live wires as the scent hit him, gunpowder. Yarrows bombs.

"Foxglove!" A man's voice, raw with panic, from the third row. Then others took up the cry, a scattered chorus of "Foxglove!" rising like a prayer or a warning.

Venison moved before the word finished echoing, not toward the bomb, but toward Van. His gloved fingers found the detective's holster strap with unerring accuracy, yanking him forward into a tackle that sent them both crashing behind the podium. Oak splintered against Venison's shoulder as the world fractured into scents: Van's coffee-stale breath, the acrid tang of fuse wire burning, the lavender-citrus of Cloud's detergent still clinging to his collar.

“GET DOWN!”