Work Text:
Henry can feel the flare-up coming in the evening. These days he's never not in pain, but his leg feels stiffer than it normally does, he feels utterly exhausted despite not doing much all day besides getting groceries and his head throbs.
He tries to hide it because he doesn't like being a burden to Driver, but Henry's sure he can tell something is off when he barely touches his dinner and says he'll turn in for the night much earlier than usual.
"Are you alright?" Driver asks and Henry nods, trying to give him a reassuring smile that he's sure comes out looking more tired than anything.
Driver thankfully doesn't push, instead pressing a soft kiss to his temple and looking after Henry as he limps to the bedroom.
Henry doesn't bother taking his clothes off, his limbs hurt too much and he refuses to ask Driver to assist him in getting changed.
His cane makes a dull thump as it lands on the carpet and Henry crawls into bed, pulling the blanket over his head. He hopes he can just sleep this off, though he knows the chances of that working are slim.
Henry curls up underneath the blanket, the migraine now coming in with full force.
He groans as a wave of nausea washes over him. The pain settles behind his left eye and it feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing him with an ice pick. Or what he imagines that must feel like, anyway.
Henry squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see spots of colour dancing in the dark and tries to breathe through the excruciating pain. No matter how many times he has a migraine, he never gets used to the feeling. He belatedly realises he left his meds in the bathroom cabinet, but he's in too much pain to get up and too weak to call for Driver to bring them over.
His eyes fill with tears and Henry quietly sobs underneath the covers, the crying only further exacerbating his headache.
Everything hurts so badly, he doesn't know how much longer he can take this.
Seeking what little comfort he can, Henry wraps his trembling arms around his torso, nails digging into the fabric of his sweater.
He lies there, trying not to move a muscle in hopes his body won't hurt as bad if he holds still.
Eventually the exhaustion overwhelms him, finally allowing him to drift off to sleep.
—✧—
Henry startles awake in the middle of the night.
His head still throbs, though it's ever so slightly less bad than it was when he fell asleep. He feels untethered, doesn't recognise where he is for a second as his brain scrambles to make sense of the situation.
His lungs burn as he tries to fill them with air but he can't quite manage to, his breaths hardly more than little gasps. Henry's vision is all blurry and out of focus, and he realises that his cheeks feel uncomfortably wet, tears streaming down them. He recognises what must have happened: just another nightmare that he can't quite remember.
Henry tries to sit up but he can hardly move. He moans in pain as he somehow manages to turn onto his side, eyes landing on Driver sleeping soundly next to him.
He doesn't know what time it is but it must be late, so he holds his breath to try and stifle the sounds he's making. He doesn't want to wake Driver up. The poor guy hardly gets any restful sleep as is, Henry would rather lie here in silent agony than contribute to that.
His migraine might hurt less now, but the pain in the rest of his body has only been amplified. He can't really pinpoint where it's coming from, every single part of his body hurts more than he can put into words. It almost feels like he's back in New York, lying on the cold concrete of the Brooklyn Bridge with a freshly broken spine and crushed leg, right after being flung out of his car.
Henry tries to keep holding his breath but he can't any longer and all the air rushes out of him in a loud, gut-wrenching sob.
Henry immediately wants to kick himself because Driver startles awake, shooting up into a sitting position, back ramrod-straight.
His eyes flit around in a panic before settling right on Henry's shivering, pathetic figure.
Driver's gaze softens immediately and he leans over, pressing a cool palm to Henry's blotch cheek, wiping at the tears with his thumb.
"What's the matter?" he asks quietly, and he sounds so concerned it only makes Henry cry even harder.
He doesn't deserve this kindness.
"Hurts," Henry manages to force out. His voice sounds so small and broken, Driver might have missed it if he wasn't as attentive as he is.
This is far from the first time Driver has seen him in such a state, but knowing that doesn't make Henry feel any less ashamed. No matter how many times this happens, he's still terrified every time that Driver will finally have had enough of him and leave for good. But against all odds he's still here, sticking around despite Henry being a barely-living pile of nothing but flaws.
"Need me to get your meds?" Driver asks, stroking Henry's sweat-soaked hair off his clammy forehead.
Henry nods and immediately regrets it when the muscles in his neck seize in response. His spine feels like it's on fire and Henry whimpers, trying to think of anything else than isn't pain.
"The strong ones," he hisses. The mattress dips as Driver gets up and returns shortly after with several pill bottles and a glass of water.
"Can you sit?" he asks as he drops them onto the bedside table.
"Not by myself," Henry begrudgingly admits. Driver nods and climbs back onto the bed.
He pulls the blanket off Henry and looks him up and down for a moment, assessing the situation.
"I'm going to pull you up, okay? Tell me if it hurts too much," he says, hooking his hands under Henry's armpits.
Henry's back feels like it's about to fracture again as Driver hoists him into a sitting position and he has to muffle a scream.
"You okay?" Driver asks and Henry hates how worried he sounds. He doesn't want Driver to feel bad on his account, so he nods jerkily.
Driver props him up against the headboard. Henry's body protests the sudden change in direction and he swallows down the bile forcing its way up his throat. He simply refuses to throw up right now.
Driver reaches over to the bedside table and dispenses the pills into his palm—several kinds of painkillers, a muscle relaxant, anti-nausea pills, the anxiety meds Henry forgot to take last night.
He grabs the glass of water and turns back around to Henry.
"Here," Driver says, holding up his handful of colourful pills.
Henry opens his mouth enough for Driver to drop them inside. Driver helps him cant his head back and holds the water to his lips. Henry gulps down the entire glass but it doesn't do much to make his mouth feel any less dry.
Driver sits down next to Henry and pulls him into his lap so they're facing one another.
Being moved hurts, but Driver knows that Henry needs the comfort even when he would never admit it out loud.
Driver kisses his forehead, then manoeuvres Henry's head so it lies on his shoulder, nose pressed against his neck.
Driver's arms snake around Henry's back and he very gently and carefully rubs it up and down as Henry rests limply against him.
"You're okay, the meds will kick in soon," Driver reassures him and Henry is so grateful for him being there, even when he doesn't deserve it. He wants to say as much, but feels his troat closing around the words, so all he can do is press just a little closer.
They stay like that, Driver holding him tight, resting his cool fingers against Henry's nape.
Eventually Henry can feel his muscles start to relax just a bit and the pain becomes slightly less excruciating, though it doesn't go away.
"Better?" Driver asks. Henry feels too weak to do much else but hum in acknowledgement.
"Good," Driver says, then falls silent again.
Henry expects Driver to lay him back down but he doesn't move, still holding Henry close to his chest.
It takes a while for Henry to bring up enough energy to speak, but he feels he has to.
"Thank you," he whispers and he knows Driver must be smiling even though he can't see his face.
"No need to. I like helping you" Driver says, turning enough to kiss the back of Henry's head. Sure enough, the smile Henry knew would be there is evident in his voice.
Henry can't believe how lucky he is. He never thought he'd ever have someone else in his life again after getting his entire family killed, never thought anyone would ever care about him enough again to want to take care of him. He didn't think anyone would want to stick around after seeing just how broken he is.
But here he is, in Driver's arms—a man perhaps just as broken as he is, though in different ways.
Perhaps two broken pieces can make an imperfect, flawed whole. Somehow they found each other and it might be the first thing Henry's been able to feel any gratitude for since the crash.
They fight, they make each other worse at times, but still Driver makes him feel like maybe there is some hope for him.
Henry sighs. Now that the he can slowly feel more than just soul-crushing pain again, he is acutely aware of just sticky and sweaty he feels. He hates it, it's a disgusting sensation, but he still can't get up by himself.
He's beyond embarrassed to ask Driver for anything more than he's already done, but Henry doubts he can go back to sleep like this.
So he musters up what little courage he has, trying to drown out the overwhelming amount shame he feels and speaks.
"Can you…help me to the bathroom? I need to wash up," he mumbles, the words muffled against Driver's neck.
Driver nods. "Sure."
Henry expected him to merely lend a hand as he tries to walk there, but instead Driver turns him sideways and hooks one arm underneath his knees, wrapping the other around his torso. Before Henry can protest Driver stands up, holding onto Henry in a bridal carry.
Henry's cheeks burn and he clutches weakly at the front of Driver's shirt as he's carried into the bathroom.
Driver sets him down on the lid of the toilet, letting Henry's back rest against the cistern.
"Thank you, I can do the rest myself," Henry says, averting his gaze.
But Driver isn't having any of it.
"Let me," he says and Henry knows he won't take no for an answer.
Henry feels beyond useless, hardly able to move his own body right now. But he's silently very grateful for Driver's offer, knowing that he likely doesn't even have the strength to take his own clothes off.
Driver reaches around him, grabbing onto the hem of Henry's sweater and very carefully pulls it up over his head and down his arms.
Henry shivers as the cool air touches his overheated skin and tries to hide away behind his arms.
It's nothing Driver hasn't seen before, but on nights like these he feels a lot more vulnerable and ugly.
"Hey," Driver says, gently taking hold of Henry's wrists and pulling his arms away from his body.
Henry can't bear to look at him, afraid of what he might see reflected in Driver's eyes.
Driver kneels down in between Henry's legs and places feather-light kisses on the scarred-over cigarette burns on his left inner arm.
"Look at me?" Driver asks gently, but Henry's too scared to.
Driver kisses the bend of his arm, then a particularly large scar on Henry's ribs.
Henry shivers.
"Please?" Driver pleads, pressing another soft kiss right to Henry's sternum.
Henry finally turns his head and looks down at Driver. Driver smiles at him, his eyes creasing at the corners.
"You're beautiful," he says and it sounds so earnest, Henry has to pretend his eyes don't start to water again just from hearing that.
He scoffs. "You don't mean that," he accuses, but Driver shakes his head.
"I do," he assures. Henry can't stop himself from looking away again.
"You can't. There's nothing beautiful about me," he insists.
Driver hums, resting his cheek against the inside of Henry's thigh. His messed up leg, Henry reminds himself.
"You're wrong. There's nothing that's not beautiful about you," Driver says. Henry can tell he means it and somehow that stings so bad, he can no longer hold back the tears.
Henry sniffs, wiping his cheek against his bare shoulder. Driver's still holding onto his wrists, squeezing them reassuringly.
"Stop it. Please," Henry begs. He can't do this tonight.
"Okay. I'm sorry," Driver says. Henry shakes his head.
"No, don't be," he says and hates the way his voice quivers.
Driver wordlessly returns to taking Henry's clothes off until he's completely bare. Henry feels decidedly underdressed—it's a little weird being the only one naked, but at this point he's too tired to really care.
Driver hoists Henry up and carefully sets him down in the tub, making sure he can lean against the wall.
Driver turns on the water, checking the temperature and adjusts it until it's pleasantly warm but not hot.
He grabs a washcloth from the cupboard behind him, taking the showerhead into his other hand.
"Let me know if I hurt you or it's too hot," Driver instructs, before letting the water run over Henry's shoulders and torso, gently scrubbing his skin with the washcloth.
Henry closes his eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of Driver's hands on his body instead of the discomfort and pain.
Driver lathers his hands up with body wash, rubbing it carefully all over Henry's sweaty skin. He takes extra care to be as gentle as possible when running his fingers over Henry's surgery scars—the long one on his back, the several smaller ones on his leg and arm.
Henry can't help but think—for the umpteenth time that night—that he doesn't deserve such care, that he doesn't deserve to be handled like something fragile and precious.
Driver rinses the body wash off until none remains, then turns his attention to Henry's hair. He wets it, careful not to get any water on Henry's face.
He says nothing as he works shampoo into the greasy strands, his short fingernails gently scraping against Henry's scalp.
Henry sighs, leaning into the touch and mourning it when Driver removes his hands in favour of washing the shampoo out.
He puts the shower head down into the tub and reaches for the washcloth again, cleaning off Henry's face.
"All done," Driver says as he shuts off the shower and grabs a large, fluffy towel off the drying rack.
He wraps it around Henry's shivering body, towelling off his hair and body.
He pulls it tightly around Henry like a blanket and leans over the edge of the tub to get a better look at him.
Henry opens his eyes again, meeting Driver's gaze. It feels like he's staring into the deepest depths of Henry's soul and Henry's terrified of what he might find there.
But Driver smiles at him—gentle and adoring—before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the corner of Henry's mouth, followed by another on his lips.
They linger like that for a while and Henry thinks he might cry again, but it seems he's out of tears for now.
"Ready to head back?" Driver asks and Henry nods weakly.
Driver picks him up again, the towel still wrapped tightly around Henry, and carries him back to the bedroom.
He carefully sits Henry down at the edge of the bed before picking out some fresh clothes.
It takes a while to get them on between Henry's stiff limbs and still damp skin, but they manage.
Henry feels like he's about ready to pass out now. His migraine has subsided to nothing more than a bad headache and his back and neck feel less crampy.
"You okay with going back to bed?" Driver asks, watching his every move.
"Yeah," Henry says with a tiny, exhausted smile.
Driver climbs onto the mattress, pulling Henry up with him as he goes.
He covers them both with the blanket, then turns onto his side.
Driver tugs Henry in close, holding him against his chest, arms wrapped securely around him.
"Sleep well," Driver mumbles against the crown of Henry's head.
"You too," Henry replies, already drifting off, the exhaustion once again catching up to him.
As sleep claims him, Henry hopes that come morning he might be able to move by himself again. But even if he can't he knows Driver will be there to pick up the pieces.
He's not sure he deserves having Driver around, but he's grateful all the same.
Maybe sometimes tragedies really can give birth to good things.
Perhaps they really can be there for one another and help each other heal.
Maybe—just maybe—things will be okay, eventually.