Chapter Text
Black has been bed-ridden for months. You wake up every day next to him and, before opening your eyes, you say a prayer that he wouldn’t be writhing in pain like he’s been for what seems like the longest time. You turn around and his eyes are shut tight, his arm covering his head as sweat is glistening on his skin in the morning light. What does he need? Nothing, probably. This isn’t a cold you can treat with soup and ice-cream. No - this is more, this is mutilation. This is more, this isn’t his first and this isn’t as easy as hunting bad guys for chow. This was intentional. And it was man-made.
So this is what you’ve been waking up to - the love of your life struggling to stay alive as he rides through every sleepless night in unimaginable pain. Yet you’ve never heard a peep from him. He’s stopped crying - you can’t even remember when; he’s stopped yelping when another wave of pain shot through him - it didn’t take long for him to become numb to it. Well, mostly, anyway. He is still human. He’s more human than he used to be. Or, as he puts it, he’s less of what he used to be. That couldn’t be a positive thing, but you both do have very different coping mechanisms.
And these are the first 10 minutes of your day - wake up, open eyes, ponder the point of everything, and then -
“Hi,” he says, the same weak but loving voice, maybe with a shred of hope still in it. The scars on his face shift, dancing on his cheeks as he smiles. The stitches don't like that, but he does it anyway.
“Hi,” you say back, taking his hand into yours and pressing a deep kiss to it. And as you look into his eyes you find the strength to go on another day.
He's dehydrated. The stitches have crust around the edges, his eyes are red and the skin on his palm has started peeling. You leave another kiss on his arm before getting up and hopping over the big soft heap of blankets he hoards on the bed. You don’t need to ask, you’ve stopped, you know he’ll say no - I can’t drink anyway. You’re wasting your time. You just don’t give up, do you . And no, you don’t. So, you bring him a water bottle with a big straw that he can shove down his throat and slurp on because he is never a waste of time. And he does as he’s told. Every day. Will today be the first or last of the best? Does it matter? Maybe not, because while you look up at him, propped up on the headboard, slurping his water, side-eyeing you as you giggle back at him, he’s all that matters to you.
`Are you going back to Crux today?` he asks as he hands you back the empty bottle and you nod as if it's the easiest quiz you’ve ever taken.
`I’m going to tailgate his ass forever and some more after that. He knows more than he’s letting on and we both know it,` you shrug and mentally prepare yourself for another day of Sherlock play-pretend with Crux’s blooming bullshit.
`You shouldn’t, it’s not w-`
`Not worth it, uh-huh,` you mock his self-deprecation attempt endearingly before passing him his painkillers. `Take pill, be chill and I'll be back before you know it.`
When you’re out the door and he’s out of your sight, it starts burning. Your whole being - body, soul, your heart’s pumping your insides aflame, your temples hold the tremble that wants to consume you. Fucking bastard. Whoever they are, they know you’ll find them and Saint Peter won’t be the one to welcome them. Let’s not exaggerate, though - Hell won’t have them either. They have a bigger price to pay for maiming the love of your life, and death is cheap. It’s the poor man’s revenge. If they die, you bring them back. You lay them on a stretcher, you dig through their neck and take out the vocal chords first, as you’ve been properly taught. Then you return everything tenfold.