#this is bad but I might be tired.

[i-eat-worlds]

Roadside Assistance

Sil crashes his motorcycle.

thanks to @snaillamp for helping with the medicine things. Go check out their stuff!

A&F Masterlist

cw: motorcycle crashes, major character injury, medical whump, fear of dying, depictions of pain

Sil felt like he was on fire.

Which was odd, considering it was pouring.

The rain did nothing to cool the hot, burning agony that spread all over his skin, nor the too-bright, buzzing sensation in his head or the sharp, intense pain in his hips and his legs. It was all over him, loud and screaming, and refusing to shut up.

He wanted it to stop. Now.

He didn’t care how.

Moving slowly, he tried to look at what was around him. His bike was tipped over several meters away, lying right in the middle of the road. The team had to be miles ahead of him already, halfway towards the lake. No one was coming. No one was going to find him.

Not unless he made them.

Ignoring the pain that blossomed around his ribs, he raised his arm and started to fumble with the strap of his helmet. It felt like it was suocating him, too tight against his cheeks and his forehead. Trying to keep the discomfort minimal, he knocked at it with his hand, slowly pushing it off his face. Once he’d gotten it past his ears, he dropped his hand back down and started patting for the pocket that held his phone.

A groan escaped his lips when he accidentally brushed the torn flesh off his thigh. He should've worn his leathers. Joseph was going to kill him for that.

The phone’s screen was cracked beyond repair, but it worked well enough. He raised it to his face, only for it to vibrate when it didn’t recognize it. Ugh. His fingers were shaking so much that it took several attempts to get it right.

Joseph was the last person he’d texted, and he quickly tapped the call button, followed by speakerphone. It only took two rings for him to pick up.

“Sil? Watcha’ need?” He said, voice calm, almost bored.

Oh. Joseph didn’t know yet.

“Help,” he choked out. “Fell off ‘m motorcycle.”

There was a beat of silence. “Where are you?”

His voice was still calm, but it was now obviously artificial.

“Green Lane?” It did look familiar, but he wasn’t quite sure where. “It ‘urts, Joseph.”

He could hear the sounds of him rushing to gather the team from the other side of the phone. “We’re on our way, Sil.”

That was good. Joseph would help him.

“Mmm. ‘hank you.” The pain flared, and his vision swam. “Always, Sil.”

His vision narrowed, and then went black.

“Sil? You with us?”

The voice was distant, but familiar. Who?

Someone’s hands were on his head, gripping it tight. There was the sound of Velcro being torn apart. The rain had stopped.

“Sil? C’mon.”

It was American.

Joseph.

Slowly, he pulled his eyelids apart.

Eric was looming over him, hands holding his neck. Joseph was only half visible, kneeling further down by his legs. He couldn’t see the rest of the team, though they had to be here. When he tried to turn his head to look for them, Eric’s grip grew tighter. “Try to keep still. We’ve gotcha.”

“Sil, can you tell me what hurts?” Joseph said, cutting off what was left of his pants.

“…Hips, legs, arms, head.” The list didn’t really cover everything. If Sil was being honest, it hurt everywhere.

“Alright, this is going to suck.” Joseph slid something under his legs. “I’m worried that your pelvis is broken, and this’ll help.”

That was bad, wasn’t it.

Sil caught an flash of bright orange as Joseph pulled it up higher, folded it over, and pressed a weird looking white thing over it. And then he pulled.

He gasped, hands curling up and digging into the still damp pavement. Ow. Fuck. Ow.

“I know, I know,” Joseph said.

It was pressing against the skin that had been scraped away by the road, which was horrible, but the real pain was emanating from the inside.

Joseph grabbed his wrist, eyes scanning him over. “Teri, what’s the ETA on support?”

“They’re saying sixteen forty-ish.” Sil couldn’t see her, but he could see Joseph’s face, and that told him plenty.

“The ambulance?” He pulled something out of his bag.

“Yep. No helimed.”

“Sharp scratch,” he warned, before the needle burrowed into his arm. He looked up to Teri. “Tell them to get the chopper out here.”

Helicopter? How bad was it?

Everything hurt, and he was tired and his heart was going so fast. Was he going to die?

It occurred to him that was not a question he should ask Joseph. Not after Pat. He casted his eyes up to Eric.

“ ‘m I gonna die?” He mumbled, voice practically a whisper.

Eric looked a little surprised. “No. We’ve got you.”

“But the ‘elichopter.”

“It’s to get you more help faster,” Joseph said, voice hard. “It does not mean you’re going to die.” Sil swallowed, and Joseph moved on. “I’m gonna give you something for the pain, and start some fluids, then I’ll look at your leg.”

There was a rush of cool down his arm. After some brief ddling with tubing, Joseph hooked him up to a bag of saline and enlisted Avia as a human IV stand.

Sil had no idea what his leg looked like, though judging from the splintering pain that radiated from his shin, it wasn’t pretty.

Joseph started to work. As it turned out, the drugs only damped pain, not removed it. The world was hazy. His chest hurt.

He blinked, very, very slow.

His eyes slipped closed.

Discomfort flared in his chest.

“Hey, none of that.”

Joseph was leaning over him, eyebrows furrowed. There was a rigid something around his leg. A shiny, metallic blanket was spread over him. It didn’t do much, though it kept the breeze out, which was appreciated.

“But ‘m tired.” Not tired. Exhausted. Like his life force was being drained out of him.

“I know,” Joseph said. “But try and stay awake.”

He grumbled. “Alright.”

Sleeping was so easy. He wanted easy.

Joseph’s fingers pressed into his wrist, and his eyes watched his chest. “You’re doing great, Sil.”

Avia smiled at him. “Yeah. You’ll be back to beating my ass at video games in no time.”

He smiled dumbly. “I will.”

“Or maybe I’ll beat yours?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“I don’t know if I’ll have an ass left after this.” His eyes ickered to Joseph. “Thoughts medic boy?” He snickered.

“I can assure you that you still have an ass, Sil,” he shook his head, “and a concussion.”

Any further conversation was cut out by the roar of a helicopter passing overhead. It was painted bright blue and orange, INSUPA MEDEVAC emblazoned on the side. The helicopter circled, lining itself up to land in a nearby field.

Several minutes later, two orange suited medics came down the road, carrying a bright yellow back board with them. Joseph started his report while they squatted down. Three introduced themselves, and Sil was not paying as much attention as he should’ve been. He was rolled and laid down on the board, strapped down tight, and then blocks were secured around his head.

It was easy to take the backseat as he was moved around like a human doll, positioned and lifted and transported.

He was tired.

He was cold.

It hurt.

He let the dark spots flashing in his vision take him.

He hoped he would wake up.

He didn’t know for sure.

*** His throat hurt.

That was the first thought he had when he returned to his body.

Sure, other things hurt. His leg, his hip, his chest. But that one was new.

He tried to open his eyes, but shut them immediately when the light came flooding in.

“Good morning, Sil.”

American.

Joseph.

He tried again, squinting away from the glowing terror. “Why’s it so bright?”

“Hospital.” Oh. That made sense. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sil huffed. “I crashed. Now my throat ‘urts.”

“That’s one way to put it.” There was the sound of a chair sliding across the tile. “I’m gonna get the doc in here, alright?”

“Can I ‘ave water first?” His throat really hurt.

Joseph paused. “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” he said as Joseph put the cup to his lips.

“Always, Sil.”

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump @painful-pooch

[shorthaltsjester]

when people think delilah just completely takes over and laudna has no control. when people think jester is just an uwu child who has been manipulated by every man she’s met. when people think vex is an empty husk of daddy issues without her brother by her side. when people think fjord is an arrogant asshole who doesn’t pay attention to the party around him. when people think scanlan saying that vox machina doesn’t care about him is an accurate assessment.

[gin-juice-tonic]

do you understand my visions

[tapakah0]

@somerandomdudelmao

[getvalentined]

Disappointed that, in spite of using a more accurate translation in Chapter 2 of Crisis Core, EC has switched over to the original English localization for Chapter 3—in spite of having Japanese audio, meaning you can literally hear that the lines exchanged between Genesis and Sephiroth are NOT WHAT THE SUBTITLES SAY if you have THE MOST BASIC UNDERSTANDING OF JAPANESE.

「いい だろう」 (ii darou) is not "come and try." It has never been "come and try." In context, it's literally "that's good" or "that would be nice."

Let me clarify this, once more: in Japanese, Genesis says "I'll be a hero too," and Sephiroth responds "That would be nice."

This fucked up no-homo English localization has utterly ruined Western fandom's perception of these two since the game first came out, and the continued refusal to fix it is one of the most infuriating things to deal with. It makes Genesis seem petty, bitter, self-absorbed; it makes Sephiroth seem arrogant, sanctimonious, like the kind of person who viciously belittles his closest friends.

That's not who either of them are, particularly not with each other. Genesis didn't want to surpass Sephiroth, he wanted to be his equal. And Sephiroth wanted that too! Sephiroth wanted an equal as much as Genesis wanted to be able to stand at his side! Sephiroth was as supportive as Genesis was determined, and both had too much respect for one another not to give these matches of theirs everything they had. Genesis would never accept a victory that wasn't genuine, and Sephiroth would never belittle him by offering such a thing.

They were playing. They were supporting each other. They were having fun working toward a mutual goal because they love each other.

It's been over 15 years and the update dropped during PRIDE MONTH and English localizers STILL HAVE NOT FUCKING FIXED IT.

[tarabyte3]

Do you see my vision?! Because I don't know what this is, but it sure does intrigue me.

But for real: they're both large, gentle, older men with low smooth voices, long hair they wear in the same style, a sarcastic sense of humor, and they both have an affinity for life and plants (druid vs the Living Force). Neither enjoys leading and they just want to fuck off and go where nature/the force takes them. They're both guardians. We associate both of them with tea. They both meditate! Qui-Gon's lightsaber is green!! The wrinkles!!! Please tell me you see it??!?!! Anyone??

...even their discourse is similar 😇😈😘

[kirby-the-gorb]

[sipsoftea]

Since I did one for my first farmer, I obviously had to do one for my second. We don’t play favorites in this house (except we totally do, I love her sm)

Her name is Jeannie, and she’s a half vampire on her dad’s side. Other than her appearance, vampirism hasn’t really affected her life that much, she just has to deal with a mild garlic allergy and getting sunburnt real easy. She also ages a tad slower than a normal person, but she does still age

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[cloned-eyes]

I present you with the king (i forgot who wanted him, I'm sorry)

[asteralley]

thinking a bit too much about this

[bigskydreaming]

Imagine if you were a gay or bi man who tried a certain firefighter show because of all the attention it was getting for one of its mains having a later in life bi awakening.....and between seasons you ventured into its fandom in search of material to tide you over til the next one. And you're greeted by a deluge of posts and fics that are just cheerfully homophobic towards one half of the newly out bi character's canon relationship on the basis of 'well he's not the RIGHT gay guy' and pushing the idea that actually its fine to cheat on him because Reasons and he's sexually predacious based on......behind the scenes implications people have divined like they're reading fucking tea leaves.

But don't get it twisted....this fandom, like all fandoms, really cares about representation!

Sorry not sorry, but we really need to kill this idea that fandoms are welcoming and inviting and inherently progressive when they're frequently insular and reductive as fuck. Every single fandom I've been in has had major trends of people doubling down on their own headcanons and fanon interpretations of the characters and willfully enacting trends aimed at running off people who like the 'wrong' characters (usually characters marginalized along one or multiple axes), like the characters in the 'wrong ways' or other bullshit.

Scott is a Bad Friend fics overtaking Teen Wolf fandom was not incidental, it was a FEATURE of the fandom, because the vast majority of that fandom did not want to share its space with anyone who had the nerve to like its main character. Survivors complaining about or criticizing the prevalance of rape fics in a certain fandom has in my experience always led to a reactionary UPTICK in those fics, with gems like 'this character can, will, must be raped' in the tags making it crystal clear that some of these fics exist because how fucking DARE anyone try and push forth a narrative not agreed upon by Fandom Main.

I could cite examples for so many other fandoms, with the commonalities always being that vast majorities in these fandoms are explicitly reacting defensively to being asked to be more mindful of fandom trends revolving around or exacerbating racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape or abuse apologia, ableism, etc....

With the most prolific fucking rallying cry across countless fandoms being "No the fuck we will NOT be doing that," because lolololol.....

Fandom is an inherently progressive space, didn't you hear?

[carpsoup]

WP, how do you spend your time nowadays?

normal iterator things mostly

lore dump below!

@403-418 WP is a mostly normally functioning iterator, yes.

While the WP project was still in its planning phase it was decided by the ruling council of that time to bestow the honor of designing Winding Pathways in most of its entirety, structure and puppet, to an artist that had become extremely famous and influential. This was meant as a show of goodwill towards WPs future citizens, as there had been increasing complaints about the councils leadership. The Artist was well liked among the people, so they hoped it would make them feel more included and heard when it came to the new iterator project. The Artist being one of the top sponsors of the project certainly helped with that decision as well.

The Artist, in turn, took this as an opportunity to create her magnum opus. A (near) eternal monument that not even the cycle could change.

So, WP was built to be as labyrinthian as possible, to represent the struggle all life had to go through to escape the cycle and ascend, so the Artist claimed. How should an iterator find an answer if it could not experience the maze? The council couldn't really back out of the deal at that point, and the people seemed happy, so as long as the iterator still remained functional, they let it happen. There had been some major frustration among the construction crew, however.

WP is made up of hallways and chambers that change places and lead in nonsensical directions constantly, the lights are disorienting and it echoes in ways that makes you think someone else is calling to you from deeper in the structure. This doesn't really impact their ability to iterate. But sometimes some parts get lost, temporarily

[perfectlovepoison]

i picked up this 2005 JR calendar from mercari bc i couldnt help it and i love the old art. plus the sketches too!!!

[lighthouseshepard]

writing idea - john gets considerably injured and doesn't tell arthur cause he thinks arthur would judge him cause "arthurs had so much worse happen and he just got back up" and arthurs like "dude you've had a human body for like two weeks i would expect you to not be used to pain" and its like a stereotypical hiding injury thing you know

HI HI thanks for this!! again i tried to keep it under 1k but. it ended up... 4.3k.....

heres a mostly unedited first draft i might play around with more later!! (: not so much a considerable injury but this is where my brain went anyways!

As John takes the stairs up to their small apartment building, Arthur in tow with one arm wrapped loosely around his just behind him, he stumbles.

It’s a quick, clean slip of his left ankle, rolling outward at an unnatural angle just as he reaches the last step. The movement itself would have been almost unnoticeable if not for the sharp stab of pain which accompanied it, a searing pressure radiating outwards in undulating bursts. He hisses under his breath, hurriedly letting Arthur go so as not to accidentally drag him down too, and tries to casually play off the lurch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, righting himself. Immediately he bangs it against the cement edge, eliciting another silent wince he’s immensely grateful Arthur isn’t privy to. “Lost my footing, I guess.”

Arthur hums, instinctively reaching out for John’s guidance and huffing when none was received. Cautiously he takes the remaining steps, coming to stand just beside John at the top before the door.

“It’s alright, John,” he replies, head tilted in his direction. “Thanks for not pulling me down with you.”

His smile begins to fade after a moment of silence in which John stares dizzily at his own feet, struggling to control his breathing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” comes the hasty retort. “I just… hit it on the stone, I think.”

His brow furrows. “Hit what?”

“My ankle,” John growls, blinking away spots of light dancing across his vision. In the dying sunlight they blended in amongst the cloudless sky, shimmering specks deceptively working to trip him up again as they wavered in front of him. As soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them. 

“I mean,” he clarifies, “I barely knocked it. Nothing to worry over.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns, searching for John’s hand in the middle distance between them. “Do you want me to take a - well, not a look, but perhaps we could patch it up? Is it bleeding?”

“No.” John pushes slightly past him, fidgeting for keys in his pocket. Arthur’s arm is left hanging at his side, fingers lightly clenched. “I said it’s fine, Arthur. Can we drop it?”

“Okay,” Arthur mutters exasperatedly under his breath, following him hesitantly inside once the door is unlocked. “Whatever you say.”

John all but limps his way into the front hall. If the shuffle makes a noticeable sound against the faded rug he attempts to ignore it, desperately gritting his teeth. With each shift of his leg the throbbing increased, sending burning jolts of agony up through his foot. Beads of cool sweat were breaking out on his temples. Irritably he wipes them away, squinting into the living room through the haze of pain clouding the forefront of his mind.

“Stupid fucking ankle,” he mumbles.

 “What was that?” Arthur calls from behind him. John struggles to turn, one flattened palm braced against the wall. He watches as Arthur unwinds the scarf from around his neck, smoothly kicking off his shoes into the corner. Shoes that he, too, needed to probably remove if bending down didn’t seem like a far impossibility.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he slowly twists back around, hobbling towards the promise of relief found in the couch awaiting him.

“John? Did you hear me?”

His eyes shut tightly as soon as he sinks into the cushions. The pain refuses to dull despite the lack of pressure once he sits, if anything only growing stronger when he attempts to prop it up on the coffee table, as though gravity were relentlessly trying to tug it down again for his own good. He groans, the noise pulled unbidden from his throat, and hastily covers it up with an aimless cough he feels as a weak imitation of one in his chest.

“John,” he hears a second time. Arthur’s voice is closer now, somewhere directly to his left. Although he turns his head in acknowledgement, his eyelids remain closed, brow furrowed. 

“What? I heard you.”

He could practically sense the crossed arms. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, his tone firm. “Why are you sitting like someone threw you there and you don’t know how to get up?”

“How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess."

"Nothing’s going on. I’m… comfortable.”

“Really? You don’t sound like it.”

“I said it’s nothing,” John snaps. The wince which pulls his lips taut lessens any blow he’d intended within his retort. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“I thought you hit your ankle on the steps?” Arthur says thinly, stepping closer. “So which is it?”

It never ceased to irritate and amaze, Arthur’s ability to weasel the truth out of him. Back when he’d just been a voice behind those deep amber eyes it was magnificently easier to conceal the truth, hiding himself in falsehoods he had ample time to conjure up while Arthur slept or moved about the world amongst others, unable to talk to him. He hadn’t been bound to a body which would betray him at the slightest inconvenience: all his emotions, he felt, were visible on his face and in the lines of his silhouette all the time. Being given away by the twitch of his mouth or the hesitancy in one look of his eyes was maddening. He couldn’t control it, hadn’t yet mastered the subtle art of physical deception. He had no reason to, he knew, but it continued to bother him regardless, being so visibly and openly seen by everyone around him. Every thought was laid bare, ripe for someone else to pluck.

These visual cues didn’t apply to Arthur, of course, but it didn’t need to. It didn’t matter when it came to him. He could sense each ripple of truths withheld in John’s voice as though they were tangible vibrations running beneath his fingers, plucking incorrect notes from a string of music. Whether this was a skill gained through time or familiarity, he didn’t want to ask. Perhaps he’d just had plenty of practice, before John came along.

“It’s… both,” he says lamely, eyes flicking open to watch as Arthur shifts from one foot to the other impatiently. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he exclaims, a frustrated scoff behind his words. “I’m not even looking at you. I can’t.”

“Like you know exactly what I’m thinking,” John presses, willing himself not to wither beneath that sightless gaze. Like a parent, he thinks to himself, who’s just caught someone doing something they shouldn’t.

“Maybe I do.” Arthur comes to stand beside him, bumping up against the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m just trying to help, you donkey. What is going on with you?”

“It’s-” he begins to say, but he’s quickly cut off.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been like this all day: grumpy, antagonistic, walking… very oddly. Did you not sleep very well?”

“I slept fine,” John mutters. “How could you possibly know I was walking strangely?”

“Ah, so he admits something!” Arthur says with a scoff. “I can feel it along your arm when I’m holding onto you. The movement of your gait is different from anyone else - Noel, Oscar, even Marie. Your footsteps all sound unique, too. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying not to limp.”

The silence stretches. John breathes in shallowly, as if the quieter he became, the more likely he was to become invisible.

“John?” Arthur asks uncertainly. “Have you been limping all day?”

“I… not all day, Arthur.”

He sighs, a ragged exhale. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I knew it!” he says, throwing his arms up. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John tries to prop himself farther up on the couch cushions, sliding the dead weight of his leg along the coffee table. “Because it’s not important, Arthur,” he protests angrily. “It’s just a - a sprained ankle or something! Noel says it happens to people all the time.”

“You told Noel?” Arthur’s demeanor shifts, and John can’t quite place where it was going. “Is that who you hung up on over the telephone yesterday, when I walked in?”

“I - yes, I told Noel,” John says, glancing away. “I didn’t want to… I mean, I wouldn’t-”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Arthur states, frowning. “I don’t understand, John.”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you with it, alright? Jesus fuck, Arthur! It’s just a little bit of pain!”

His shout rebounds around the living room, echoing along corners and twisting through the dark. Once it dissipates, all that nervous, fearful energy fading into thin air, John realizes the sun had already set. In the shadow of the singular lamp they’d kept on after they left earlier that day, Arthur looked smaller than John had ever seen him previously - socked feet, soft button down shirt untucked, shoulders slumped while his head was turned away from John’s direction.

Hurt, he understood after a solid minute of nothing spoken. There was hurt on his face.

“Arthur,” he says hastily, backtracking. “I didn’t…”

But Arthur was already interrupting.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks flatly. “From where you knocked it as we were coming in.”

John’s eyes widen. “What? No, no, like I said it’s probably just a sprain.”

“Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t. Where are you going?”

He watches helplessly as Arthur begins to trod across the living room to the hallway just behind them. His left hand searches for the wall, brushing against it occasionally as he vanishes around the corner, the thin lines of his silhouette blending into the darkness. John waits with gritted teeth, listening to the faint but unmistakable sound of a drawer opening in the bathroom, before he’s rejoined in the living room.

“Give me your foot,” Arthur instructs. He comes around on the opposite side, taking a careful seat on the table in front of the couch. “Which one is it?”

“It’s… it’s this one,” John stutters, glancing at the little white box he’d placed between them. “What is that?”

“First aid kit. Came with the apartment, I think. Never thought I’d have to use it.”

There’s a bite to his tone which causes something in John to cower. Panicking at the unfamiliarity of the uneasy feeling, he thinks immediately to fight back against it. Yet no manipulation tactic in his mental catalog nor no insult he’d ever learned from Arthur was readily able to be wielded. He stares, unsettlingly dispirited, at Arthur’s hands while he begins to search through random items in the kit.

“Arthur.”

“Put your leg on my knees, John,” he says. He’s facing away, still wholly focused on determining which items were what through sensation alone. The subtle surprise when John does as asked without further complaint doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh. Thank you. Now tell me where it hurts.”

Stretching over as much as he was able, halfway balanced on the edge of the cushions and held now partially up by Arthur’s own legs, John indicates with one pointed finger. 

“Here,” he says, lightly touching the far side of his ankle. “Move your hand just - just there.”

As slender fingers come into contact with the swollen skin, John hisses. Arthur moves as if to draw back, but after some hesitation makes a second attempt with a touch so gentle John hardly senses the wandering examination at all.

“It’s swollen, John,” Arthur says, staring into the middle distance as he feels along the reddened skin. “You’re going to have to take your shoes off.”

“I know it’s swollen,” he grinds out, “I can feel it.”

Immediately he regrets the display of aggravation. Eyes flick worriedly to Arthur’s face, searching for any kind of reaction there, but he may as well have been surveying a blank canvas.

“I think we should try ice,” is all he says. “Before attempting any kind of compression. Wait here.”

“It’s not like I could go anywhere,” he mumbles beneath his breath as Arthur leaves him for the second time. “I’m not running a fucking race on this thing.”

When he returns, grasping a cloth wrapped bundle, John studies him curiously. Nervous muscles stiffen in preparation for another round of sharp throbbing; but as Arthur sits again opposite him, the grip which guides his foot is somehow even kinder than before, cradling the injury into position across his knees.

“Let me take your shoe off,” he murmurs. “I’ll be quick.”

"I’d rather you didn’t,” John protests. “Can’t we just - God, Arthur!”

No apology is forthcoming. It’s palpable in the tension of Arthur’s fingers regardless, the unhappy twist of his mouth. He fumbles the laces undone with one hand and slips the shoe off, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. One black sock follows. The hem of his trousers is rolled back up to his calf, delicately smoothed along by a soothing touch.

The introduction of cold is almost worse than the prodding he’d just undergone. John jolts as the cloth touches his skin. A pang similar to shattered glass ricochets across his foot and he has to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. Arthur holds him steady, other hand firm on his calf, bent over the injury.

“Easy,” he says quietly. “It’ll hurt for a minute or two, but this will help to numb some of the pain and swelling.”

“Numb?” John gasps, “or worsen? What even is that?”

Arthur readjusts the bundle. “Peas wrapped in a washcloth. You should know, you bought all the groceries last.”

“Why the hell would I buy peas? They’re repulsive.”

“Well I didn’t, and we don’t have ice in right now, so it’ll have to do.”

True to his word, after some uncomfortable minutes of silence, the throbbing begins to lessen. John sinks back in relief, a sweet dullness overtaking pain receptors which had not let up on their constant alarm for what seemed like eons now. Thoughts broken up by the unrelenting ache finally begin to clear. From behind the haze he sighs, tilting his chin up towards the ceiling. Long hair spills over the back of the cushions.

“That’s… much better,” he says weakly. “Thank you.”

“I imagine it is, yes… John?”

“Yes?” he answers, anticipation sitting nauseatingly in his gut. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you hurt your ankle?”

In the low light he steals a glance over. His vision was better than most - better than Arthur’s, when he had been able to see out of his eyes. Things came across with astonishing clarity, even when there was little illumination to help refine the world around him. John narrows in on the long pink scar across Arthur’s throat, an indelicate reminder of the Dreamlands, the incomprehensible weight of that last stand reduced to one single, jagged divide. His torn ear hid neatly enough behind reddish gold curls, but the mark across his face where those dangerous sands had scraped away the skin there was not so easy to miss. 

In the break between their conversation he rolled up his shirtsleeves and there too John could spot scars, dots and lines of invisible constellations, healed but not forgotten. The wooden pinky finger taps his ankle as he shifts the peas. John’s pinky, he thought. Or, it had been.

Everything about Arthur was a testament to some horror he’d survived, that they had survived together. And John, in this new body, had nothing to show for it.

“John?” Arthur asks. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he argues. “It hurts.”

“Is this helping at all? We can always wrap it afterward. Hopefully it won’t need to be seen by anyone.”

There’s concern in his voice, so genuine despite the way he’d just been treated that something snaps just around John’s lungs, a sharp, bitter pull. Whatever he had been about to say dies under his tongue. Nothing comes out, although his lips part for several seconds.

“John?”

His restraint falters.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

“...What?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, yanking the words agonizingly out. “It wasn’t my intention to lie to you from the start, I - I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what, John?” comes the baffled prompt. “That you injured yourself?”

“Yes,” he emphasizes. “I don’t even remember how I did it, I guess I just… stepped incorrectly? Tripped over something? I don’t fucking know, Arthur, and it’s so goddamned stupid. I can’t even control my own two legs! How am I going to keep existing in this body if I break under the slightest influence? It’s not like you get hung up over a fucking sprain, or don’t bounce back from a coma, or a car crash, or-”

“Hang on, John, wait,” Arthur interrupts. “Is that what this is about? Me?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know, Arthur. A bit of both?”

Frustration boils beneath his skin, hot and shimmering. The corners of his eyes prickle but he doesn’t move up to rub at the sting coiled there, waiting for release.

“You don’t let anything stop you,” he says, the living room blurring. “Gunshot wounds to the chest, electrocution, multiple stabbings, so many falls I’ve lost count-”

“Technically the gunshot would have killed me if not for the wraith, " Arthur offers feebly, but John doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Not even getting gutted through inside those mines in Addison! Not even my shitty job of sewing you back up.” He swallows, breathing heavily. “You’re practically fucking invincible, and meanwhile I take one wrong step and I’m incapacitated for days, can’t even take a stroll with you down the street, can’t carry you up to bed when you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.”

Tears were flowing now, trickling in trails of shame down flushed cheeks. “It’s ridiculous. I witnessed you wade through literal nightmares, Arthur, and you did it without losing yourself. You still managed to laugh where you could, to have hope, and-”

The thought was running swiftly away from him. He twists sideways as far as he could, facing the other side of the room, held in place only by his ankle. Again wishing to disappear, again wanting to crawl back inside Arthur’s head where it was safe.

It takes Arthur far too long to respond. For some time nothing moves in their midst, save for the rapid rise and fall of John’s chest, the hitched cadence of his breathing. Eventually Arthur shifts. John listens to his clothes rustle and wonders when the floor would swallow him whole.

“John?” Arthur says softly. 

His jaw clenches. “What.”

“Look at me.”

Sniffing, he turns. The hand not keeping the frozen vegetables on his foot coaxes his chin up and over. Arthur’s touch doesn’t linger, giving him ample space. John wishes it would. Frustration continues to slip across his face, lines of damp salt.

“I didn’t react that way to all of those things because I wanted to, John,” he says gently. “I did so because I had to. I was surviving, trying to keep us both alive. What would have happened if I gave in and just laid down and let it all overtake me?”

John mulls it over. 

“Nothing,” he concludes, wiping angrily at one eye. “We wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Exactly. You think I didn’t struggle? You saw me, John, you saw through me!”

He laughs, the first bright sound to filter through the room since they’d come home, tinged by bittersweet memory. “You were there for every second of it. Remember me waking up from the coma? I could hardly drag myself out of the bed, much less walk. And everything else that’s happened to my body, well…”

Briefly he touches his stomach. “Sometimes I wonder how there’s any blood left in me. I feel patchy, like I’m just made up of gaps a person could see straight through. It all still aches, John. I’m aware of it all, every stupid mistake or scar or… whatever else Addison and the Dreamlands, all those monsters did to me; but if I refused to accept in some capacity, where would that get me? Fuck, I’d never leave the bed, and I’d have every right to do so. Why do you think I still sleep in some mornings?”

“You’re saying you’re hiding things too, then,” John says slowly. A flutter of remorse crosses Arthur’s smile, curving it downward. 

“Yes,” he nods. “A little bit. I didn’t want you to worry, John.”

“This is the same thing, then!” John exclaims. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry!”

“It’s not the same, but… it is similar, sure. I’m still figuring this all out, what to do now afterwards. I know we both are. I suppose we’re each guilty of something here, aren’t we?”

A mutter answers him, unintelligible. Arthur sighs, rubbing John’s leg placatingly. 

“I have experience with this kind of thing, John. You, frankly, do not. We don’t know how this body is going to react to the smallest of injuries, so when you’ve hurt yourself, or tripped, whatever, you need to tell me. I can’t help you if you’re so determined to be… stoically adamant that you can handle it.”

He winces. “No, poor choice of words. You’re more than capable of handling anything. The point here is that you don’t need to do it alone. I didn’t do it all by myself, either, even if it was our body at the time. I still had you there with me.”

“Okay,” John mumbles. The tears had stopped, drying in faintly gleaming tracks. Unable to help himself, he reaches over and directs Arthur’s free hand to his face. Arthur catches on quickly enough. One gentle thumb brushes the dampness away beneath both eyes.

“You said I didn’t lose myself in the midst of all that,” Arthur adds contemplatively, “but I did. You brought me back over and over. I won’t let you drown here, either. I guess we need to be more honest with each other in general.”

He flashes a small smile. “Works in progress, hmm?”

“Sure,” John says, wavering under that look. It was impossible not to. “Okay, Arthur. Thank you. I guess I…”

“Hmm?”

“I know it wasn’t easy, but you made it seem so effortless. I guess I wanted to be able to react the same way.”

“Nothing about being human is effortless, John. If it were easy, you’d be something else altogether.”

Neither are sure what else to say, so they choose to say nothing at all. Arthur removes the cloth, saturated with condensation. The swelling had gone down somewhat. Beneath the inflamed skin a dull ache persisted, but it was milder, simpler to deal with. Darkness shot through with distant city lights and a sliver of the rising moon sits just behind the glass window panes of the front room, enticing and comforting with its allure of endless promise. In the lamp’s glow, John watches Arthur start to slide off the table, cradling his foot until he’s able to place it down atop its surface.

“I think you should sit here for a while,” he advises, frowning. “I can help you down the hall later. If you want, that is. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to keep much weight on this over the next few days if you want it to heal properly.”

“Great,” John mutters. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To change out of these clothes? Why?”

“Can’t you,” he stutters, “stay here? I can’t reach the washcloth. What if I need it again?”

“I can place it next to you,” Arthur says wryly, catching on. “It’s only a foot away.”

“What if I have to get up?”

“You shouldn’t be moving at all.”

“Arthur, please.”

“Christ, alright,” he agrees, fondly. “Just for a while. I’m exhausted too, you know.”

He slips next to him. They fit together seamlessly after some adjusting, John avoiding old wounds, Arthur working around this new one. It’s a recently acquired habit, this circling of one another, quietly curling up until they were consoled enough in their own selves and each other. John’s head ends up across Arthur’s thighs, his foot propped up on the armrest of the other end. He was so tall his leg stretched past the edge of the sofa, halfway dangling in mid air.

“John, darling?” Arthur asks absently, untangling dark curls spread out across his lap.

“Yes?”

“You’ve… carried me up to bed before?”

John blinks. “Of course. I couldn’t leave you on the sofa like that, shivering.”

“I wasn’t shivering,” he retorts with mock affront. “Was I?”

“It was kind of pitiful. To give you credit, you had kicked off the blanket I put over you earlier.”

“I was wondering where that had come from,” Arthur mumbles. “Thanks, John.”

“You’re welcome. You sleep like you’re the prize boxer in a dream ring.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You kick,” John says meaningfully, eyes already beginning to close. “Hard.”

“Oh. Sorry. At least I don’t hog the blankets all the time,” Arthur retorts sheepishly.

“I do not hog anything. I’m much taller than you now! I need more of it.”

“Not all of it.”

“Buy a second blanket, then, if you’re so concerned.”

They bicker until John falls asleep. Sentences drop to single word responses, and soon enough he’s out, trying to get one last quip through the heavy pull of slumber. Arthur sighs as he feels his breathing even out, one palm flat on his chest. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change clothes. 

“John?” he whispers. “John?”

He doesn’t answer. Arthur lets loose another weary exhale. There was no way he could move now.

“I think you did this on purpose,” he says softly, yawning. “You just want me to play with your hair, don’t you? Unfortunately for you, I’m probably going to fall asleep right here beneath you.”

He brushes stray strands off John’s forehead. It continued to puzzle him how someone who had once spent thousands of years inflicting agony on others now flinched beneath the prospect of bothering those closest to him with pain of his own.

Arthur drifts into unconsciousness soon after the thought dissipates like smoke, head dipping to rest sideways on one shoulder. John, clinging to the last dredges of wakefulness, peers up through heavy lidded eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s silent goodnight, John, on his lips. 

[lilypatchkins]

7.10.24