#probably. bc that's the only thing that eases the feeling of conviction/anxiety/guilt

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

when I want to write something self indulgent to give me all the angsty and cuddly hurt/comfort feels but I can't because I end up feeling guilty because I'm seeking after feels that I feel in an inappropriate place because my mom told me one time when I was 15 that I shouldn't search that out or it's probably sexual sin but it confuses me because ALL the feels happen that way for me even if it's entirely platonic and nonsexual and so I don't know if it's okay to want to write to that because apparently all pleasure of any sort, even over platonic stories, is sexual or comes with a possibly probably sexual feeling and I also am having a hard time figuring out what's genuine conviction from God and what's just my anxiety/OCD/perfectionism/fear of failure

[rosykims]

better left unspoken

a lil thing for @trvelyans bc i love u so much <3 for maia’s fnv courier, isadora delcourt, and mine, winston grier. 2300 words. cw for anxiety, panic attacks and descriptions of minor injuries.

Winston's hands are stained with blood, and he only wishes it was his.

He holds his breath as he works on closing off the stitching of her shoulder; it's a bad habit, one his mother would surely disapprove of, but it's all he can do to bite back the rush of horror he can feel bubbling up steadily inside of him.

Isadora makes no move to meet his eye, though its the weighted silence hovering between them that concerns Winston the most. She doesn't speak – hasn't in the eight or so months he's known her, in any case – but he has come to view the air around her as a palpable thing, learnt to read the charge and vibration of it like book indented with braille. Even without the aid of her voice, there is a rich language in the way she carries its absence; a hundred different ways to say nothing and everything all at once.

This is not the type of quiet he’s used to; not the soft, unassuming ease she so often carries with her - inside her - but something else. This quiet runs deeper somehow – he can hear it not just in her lack of speech but in the stillness of her breathing, the way she holds herself rigid and tense in her seat as he works, idle enough that the old chair she sits on barely registers her weight at all. Even here in the Lucky 38, surrounded by a gentle buzzing of outdated machinery and the distant voices of the city's denizens, the air between them is so devoid of sound he almost jumps when he hears her pained intake of breath.

“I'm s-s-sorry,” he mumbles, wincing at the loudness of his own voice. “I'm almost d-done.”

Dora doesn't nod, doesn't shrug; just sets her jaw and keeps her eyes pointedly averted. Winston swallows hard, and turns his attention back to the issue at hand.

It isn't bad. Not really. He's seen far worse, he reminds himself, inflicted far worse, even. An unfortunate, albeit short lived encounter with some Freeside thugs had been her half hearted explanation as she stumbled into his room only an hour before, pale and clammy from blood loss.

Such is the nature of the Mojave, he knows. Isadora is more than capable of defending herself, he knows. But the slash across her shoulder is deeper than any injury of hers he has seen thus far, and the thought of anybody getting so close to her . . .

He finishes up the stitches with miraculously steady hands, and sets the tools down on the bedside table quietly, reaching now for the bowl of water and cloth beside it. His fingers are still slick with blood, and he works at them with the rag as best he can without appearing frantic, blinking back tears as the strange silence stretches on between then.

He can almost see the alley where it happened, the assailant's knife glinting in the dark. Can almost see it cut an inch deeper, half a inch, or just a little to the left –

“Thank you.”

Winston blinks. Morse code is still mostly a matter of trial and error for him, but the soft, hesitant way she taps her nails against the wooden table is enough of a clue as to her meaning, and it pulls him out of his spiraling just in time.

He shakes his head dismissively, focusing on keeping his eyes locked on his fingers. He doesn't think he can look at her, let alone speak. What can he even say to that? It’s okay? No problem?

It is a problem. Everything about tonight has been a problem, and absolutely nothing about it has been okay. So instead he keeps his head down, hopes against hope that she leaves it be.

She doesn't. Of course she doesn't. “I'm sorry,” comes her tapped out addition.

Winston sets the stained cloth down. There's a lump sitting rough in the back of his throat, as if talking weren't already enough of a challenge, but he swallows it down for her. “D-Don't be.” He says quietly. “It's n-n-not y-your fault.”

She doesn't seem to have an answer for this, and he jumps at an opportunity to remove himself for the situation entirely. “T-take your d-dress off?” He murmurs, more of a question than anything.

A beat passes before he realizes the absurdity of his request, and blushes. “I – I mean . . . t-take it off, so I c-can c-clean it. The b-b-blood. Before it's r-ruined.”

He knows it might be too late for this kind of optimism, judging by the red mess coating the entire right side of her otherwise pristine cream dress. An odd expression crosses her face – confusion, then surprise, and then something else, sadder, that he can't quite understand – but she lets out a small breath of resignation at his request, before standing up and unzipping herself carefully.

He looks away as she does. He always looks away, even when he knows he probably shouldn't. What they have is . . . well, it's something, but it's not that yet.

And that isn't a train of thought Winston can follow for more than thirty seconds without feeling as if the floor has given out from under his feet.

“There's a s-s-sweater in - in the t-top drawer.” He says, amazed that he can get the words out at all.

He hears the tell-tale sounds of her changing, and only a moment later her hand is on his shoulder, firm and gentle simultaneously. He turns around as she dots “done" against the fabric of his jacket.

He tries hard not to look at her as he takes the bundled fabric from her hands. He tries very hard not to focus on the way his sweater fits her like a dress, and how she is quite possibly the only person on Earth who could ever make his sweaters look good.

More than anything, he tries not to look at her eyes, staring freely at him now with that same inexplicable sadness that makes his heart stutter painfully in his chest.

She's so pretty. Too pretty, and too kind and too good for him to have spent the last hour stitching her shoulder back together.

He nods his thanks, too stiff and robotic to pass as casual, and leaves the room as quickly as he can without breaking into a sprint. He can't hear her pursuit behind him, mercifully, but it's only when he reaches the suite's small, fluorescent bathroom that he allows himself to release the gasping breath he’d been holding.

Right. Now his hands are shaking.

He fills the sink with water – it's not warm, but the Lucky 38 is luckier than most just to have a working plumbing system – and begins to scrub at the dress with a bar of soap. The water turns red almost instantly, and in the harsh light he realizes that his hands are still bloody, his nails still caked with the majority of it.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Winston presses his mouth against his shoulder to stifle a sob, and scrubs harder still at the fabric. He can't panic, not now, not here, not with her waiting for him just meters behind the door. Stop making this about you, sneers a callous voice in the back his mind. This is the last thing she should have to deal with right now.

The tears don't stop, but his breathing slows as he focus on the state of the dress. He will get the blood out, even if he has to stay up all night to do it.

Dora loves this dress. He has to get the blood out.

There's a light rap at the door, and he jumps, another small sob escaping him as he does. He shakes his head again, willing some degree of calm as Dora opens the door and lets herself inside.

Her hands are at his shoulder in an instant, rubbing comforting circles against tensed muscles as he hunches over the sink, avoiding her gaze in the mirror above.

His avoidance does little. There's a familiar, all-too-her sound of pen on paper before she slides her notebook onto the counter and into his peripheral.

I'm so sorry, Winston, the message reads. Her handwriting, usually so neat and put together, seems far shakier than usual. The last thing I wanted to do was scare you. I'm okay, I promise. I'm okay.

“I can't talk about this.” He signs the words to the mirror, hoping that will prove to her he means it.

Her reflection hesitates for a moment before she raises her own hands in turn. “Then don't talk.” She motions back.

Winston laughs, but it comes out more like a whimper, and the sound of it makes him shake his head again. “Not what I meant. I can't talk about this.” He taps talk into his chin with a little more force than needed for the emphasis, and Dora's palms press firmer against his shoulder, an instinctive, protective little thing that makes his heart skip a beat.

In the flickering bathroom light, she looks even paler than before, her soft red hair the only trace of colour he can find as she regards him now. She looks like a ghost, he thinks with a flash of horror.

“It's okay, I'm okay.” The words are a mantra repeated against his skin, and gradually the repetition seems to ease its way into his bloodstream, slowing his feverish pace and yielding a comfort that feels uniquely hers.

The blood is coming out. The realization makes him blink as he straightens up to view his progress. Bleach next. A little baking soda maybe . . .

Isadora catches his eye in the mirror, deeply concerned, but his focus shifts near instantly to his own features. He looks . . . unfamiliar. Thinner and gaunter than he was, with dark half moons stamped under glassy, bloodshot eyes. When did this person become me? When did I become this person?

It isn’t Isadora’s doing, though watching her now he can see her jump to that conclusion, clearer than any admission of guilt she could offer verbally. This steady decline isn't her, but she doesn't know that, and how could she not? How could she possibly think . . .

Winston sighs, and slowly turns around, abandoning the dress to soak as he looks at Dora directly for the first time. Her brow raises, subtle and minute, but he can tell she's relieved to have him look at her again, and that thought alone sends a pang of guilt through him. He doesn't want her to feel responsible. That's not what this is about.

“I wish I could keep you safe from this.” He signs. The tremor in his fingers is blatant, but he hopes the conviction is, too. “I know you don't need me to, but I wish I could help.”

“You are helping.” Her hands respond.

“Not like this. I don't ever want to see you hurt.”

Dora frowns, crooks her fingers in hesitation as she reads the worry in his face. “You might not have a choice. Look around.”

He doesn't need to, but his eyes flicker from hers anyway, blinking away fresh tears. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I c-can't st-stand the thought of anything h-happening to you, D-Dora.” He whispers, his voice thick and cracking with the weight of the meaning behind it. “I th-think about losing you and – and I c-c-can't b-breathe, and -"

Her face crumples as he chokes on his words, and she takes a shaky breath, biting her lip to cling to her restraint. She’s always been so good at that; being strong, being brave. But now she takes a tentative step forward, arms outstretched towards him like an offering. He takes her hands and guides her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair.

“I'm safe,” she taps against his chest, fingers curling into the cotton of his shirt. “You won't lose me.”

“You can't know that.” He presses back.

She looks up at him, gifts him a crinkled smile. “Neither can you.”

The absurd confidence in her non-answer makes him laugh, somehow in spite of everything. Another strange new silence permeates the space between them as he regards her, one more line of braille he hasn't quite yet decoded. This one is warmer, softer than before; full of uncertainty and questions, but perhaps not ones that require definitive answers. Not tonight, in any case. Tonight, he just wants to forget; discard the blood, and the fear, and the hopelessness that's hounded their every move since Goodsprings. He just wants to focus on the way the bathroom casts pleasant shadows over the angles of her cheeks, or how the fluorescence lights up the crown of her red hair like a halo.

The way she bites her lip when she smiles at him. Only at him.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, signing the words slow with a nervous smile of his own.

Dora replies by catching his fingers in hers, entwining them together and tugging him forwards gently. Her lips press soft against his, sweet and chaste and comforting like nothing else he's ever known. Winston sighs happily against her mouth and cranes his neck, his hands cupping her face to kiss her deeper still. Her lashes tickle against his cheeks, and then she shifts, pulling her mouth from his and migrating upwards, kissing away his tears.

He laughs, and she laughs too - a light, breathy thing. She peers at him through her lashes only for a moment before a spark of something flickers across her features, and she tugs him softly once more, leading him backwards out of the bathroom with a mischievous grin.

“You can kiss me all you want,” she signs, messy and languid in her movements. “But leave the dress. I think I'd like to make it up to you.”

She doesn't need to, not now or ever, but Winston doesn't protest.