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ishmaelsail · 6 months ago

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I’ve never written a fic before and it’s been a good long while since I’ve written any narrative prose but insomnia and brainrot are a helluva combo, so here’s 1.5k words of disgustingly fluffy-slight hurt/comfort-McDonald/Stanley-survive AU for anyone interested. Maybe I’ll post on ao3 eventually but I’ve never done that before so I’m not sure yet.

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Be the Blanket for My Bones

(CW: slightly suggestive but nothing explicit. Nudity? Discusses past injuries, past canonical suicide attempt, scars, some internalized ableism)

Stephen slips out of sleep and into a hazy awareness. The sunlight shining through the window pricks at his eyelids, the curtains left open in their haste the previous night. He shivers slightly, his skin bared without even a sheet to cover him. But a familiar warmth emanates from the other side of the bed.

He senses the weight and heat of Alexander’s body, motionless save for the slight rise and fall of the mattress as he breathes.

Stephen chances a cracking open of one eye, too tempted by the promise of the sight of his love mussed in sleep. He is not disappointed.

With one arm tossed above his head and naked as the day he was born his lover resembles a sculpture of a Greek youth, like one might see scattered throughout one of the museums that Alexander often insists on dragging him to. (He would never say this aloud though, it’s far too sentimental and besides Alexander would scoff at the idea that he could still resemble anything close to a youth. And yet, he does).

And draped over his torso and legs is the evasive sheet they’re meant to be sharing. Since the very first time they shared a bed, Alexander has made it his habit to assert sole custody over any blanket, sheet, or covering they might have begun the night wrapped up in together. But Stephen doesn’t mind. While his partner still struggles to shake the cold of those long years in the ice, Stephen finds he prefers a slight chill to the possibility of being engulfed in a heat that reminds him of— well.

He is warmed now though. The sunlight that bathes his skin is gentle, caressing his skin with a heat so unlike the flames that had burned his skin that night when he fell headlong into the pit of his own despair.

The scarred patches of his skin feel tight as always, but there is no pain today.

He studies his lover for a moment, opening his other eye, but he doesn’t move yet. He doesn’t want to jostle the bed and disturb his slumbering Adonis.

Alexander’s thick hair is egregiously tousled as always, bits and pieces flopping over his forehead in a way that makes him look painfully young, despite the fact that both of them are closer to sixty now than they are to fifty. The sun glints off the edges of his hair, giving it a coppery sheen. A small purple bruise is illuminated on his shoulder, further evidence of the previous night’s passions.

The sheet hangs low enough that Stephen can see the rough line of scarring left by Mr. Hickey’s one act of heroism. It’s not a pretty scar; the stitches were hastily done by Mister— no, Doctor Goodsir (Stephen had promised he would at least try, for Alexander’s sake he will always try), who had done his best considering the circumstances.

But Stephen can’t even bring himself to criticize the amateurish stitching like he usually would. It’s existence means that Alexander had survived, that Alexander is still here beside him, and that they had escaped their frozen hell together.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Stephen brushes the top of the scar lightly with just the back of his hand. He holds his breath as Alexander shifts slightly, curling in towards the touch. But his eyes remain closed, still asleep. Stephen slowly follows the raised line down with the tip of his index finger, tracing this lifeline that tethers the soul he holds most dear to this wretched earth, to his own wretched soul.

Suddenly the back his neck prickles with the feeling that he is being watched. He shifts his gaze up and meets Alex’s open eyes, hazy with sleep but sparkling slightly with amusement.

“Reminiscing?”

Stephen masks his embarrassment at having been caught with a slight shrug, going to withdraw his hand. But before he can make his retreat, Alex catches his wrist with a gentle but firm grasp. He lays Stephen’s whole hand back on the scar, his flat palm spanning almost the whole length of the mark.

“I didn’t say that I minded,” he murmurs.

Alex doesn’t remove his hand entirely, but he loosens his grip as he begins his own exploration where his fingers circle Stephen’s wrist.

The flames had licked up almost the whole of his right arm, as well as the right side of his neck and face. The skin there is shiny pink and twisted, healed now forever marred. It was only the quick thinking and action of Mister Collins and Mister Bridgens that had saved him. (In tackling him to the ground and dousing him completely with snow, the second master and steward had come away with scorched fingers and singed hair for their troubles. Stephen considers that a fair price all things considered. Stephen has chosen to be thankful rather than resentful. He has found gratitude to be an easier pill to swallow than forgiveness).

Their actions, along with Hickey’s, had miraculously spared the rest of the crew of any serious casualties, except of course, for Alexander. (That is one area where Stephen may never be able to forgive himself, even though Alexander has never said a word to condemn him).

Alex’s fingers trace the swirls of scar tissue that spider up from Stephen’s wrist. The sensation is slightly dulled but pleasant. Like the man himself, Alexander’s hands are always perfectly warm, everything about him designed to put people at ease.

Stephen’s eyes slip shut under his lover’s ministrations. He feels the thump of Alex’s beating heart under his palm, the gentle rhythm combined with the sun’s warmth lulling him back into a daze of near-sleep.

His reverie is broken suddenly when Alex speaks., “You are so beautiful.”

Stephen's eyes snap open. He tries to mask the despair by letting out a scoff he hopes comes across as disbelieving. He curls the hand on Alexander’s chest into a fist, attempting to push himself away but his lover refuses to release him.

“I mean it, Stephen. I wish I could draw you like this, show you how you look through my eyes. Then you would see all that I see.”

“I can see my scars well enough in the looking glass, Alexander. I know full well what I look like.” Stephen sighs, but there is no bite to his words as the only feeling he can muster is tired resignation.

Alex moves suddenly towards the middle of the bed, rolling over onto his front so that the line of his body is pressed against Stephen’s. The sheet twisted about his legs is only barrier between their skin. He runs his left hand over the cratered landscape of Stephen’s right side, insistent and soothing in equal measure.

Despite himself, Stephen feels the tension go out of him as his body can’t help but relax under Alex’s loving touch.

“Beautiful. You look beautiful. How could this body be anything but perfect to me? Yes, even— no, especially, these scars. They show me that you survived, my darling, that you’ve healed.”

Stephen shudders out an exhale, unsteadied by his love’s words. No tears come to his eyes, of course, he probably couldn’t cry even if he tried. But the strength of Alex’s devotion still surprises him even after years of relentless affection.

Stephen unfurls his hand and slides it up Alex’s chest, over the bite mark on his shoulder, up his neck, and into the thick warmth of his lover’s hair, leaning in to kiss lips still soft with sleep. It is a chaste kiss, but he pours as much affection and burning gratitude into it as he can. Even if he still can’t quite accept the words to be true for himself, he wants Alex to know that he treasures them. He pulls back slightly to look at his love, finding all his feelings reflected back in warm hazel eyes, so unlike his own icy blue ones.

He glances down between them at Alexander’s scar and before he can hesitate, dips his head down to press a kiss there too. Alexander inhales sharply, a small gasp escaping his lips. It is not one of pain, though, so Stephen does not pull away, pressing a line of kisses along this closed seam.

Alexander’s hand comes to rest on the nape of Stephen’s neck, his fingers gently carding through the sparse hair at the back of his head. With each small kiss he tries to pour out the thoughts in his mind: This scar is beautiful to me too. You are beautiful to me. I’m so happy you are here with me. I’m so happy you’re alive.

When Stephen pulls back and looks at Alexander’s face again, there is a slight sheen in his eyes and a dimpled grin spreading across his mouth. Crow’s feet crinkling in the way that he adores.

“I do love you so, Doctor Stanley.”

Stephen leans in and folds himself into Alexander’s arms, their bodies wrapping around each other until they’re as close as two people can be without climbing totally inside one another.

He feels Alexander’s breath blow across the side of his neck and burrows his face deeper into the sweet sleep touched smell of his skin, resting his head in the divot of his shoulder.

“And I you, Doctor McDonald.”

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Endnotes:

If you read this far, thank you! I’d love to hear your thoughts :)

Title is from “Slip Into Your Skin” by Patrick Watson

#the terror #the terror amc #terror fic #alexander mcdonald #stephen stanley #mcstan #alexander mcdonald/stephen stanley #these coldboys are ruining my life #i saw a gif of alistair petrie shirtless in a bed and this happened idk #absolutely typical that my first ever fanfic would be for this fandom #the voices: fic

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