Chapter Text
When Ruben locks the barn door, there’s a choked-off noise and then a loud crash behind him. He spins on his heel to find Niall flat out on the floor.
That’s new.
He drops his bag and gets on his knees. He nudges Niall in the shoulder, but there’s no answering flinch. Ruben leans over him, hooks his arms under Niall’s armpits to haul him up. There’s no resistance: no sign at all from Niall that he’s aware of Ruben manhandling him. There’s a faint scrape along his cheekbone from where he hit the floor, blood beading in the welts. Ruben shuffles them both along, setting Niall to rest against the wall. His head slumps down towards his chest, eyes still shut. Ruben scrambles back over to the bag and rifles through it until he finds the hipflask. He considers trying to make Niall drink the whiskey, but settles on just splashing him in the face with it.
He’s stuck there, anointing Niall like some kind of fucked up priest, for an uncomfortable length of time. Finally, Niall’s eyes scrunch in response to the flecks of whiskey hitting him in the face. Ruben’s throat constricts around Niall’s name.
Niall mumbles something Ruben can’t figure out. His eyes, when they eventually flicker open, are unfocused and glazed over. His pupils are dilated like he’s on something—or maybe like he’s concussed.
“Hey,” says Ruben, patting him on the cheek. “What’s all this about?”
Niall stares right through him, even as Ruben gets right up in his face, blocking his view of anything else. Ruben is beginning to wonder if it’s some sort of imprint of the trauma lingering from the last round. Are their injuries stacking up inside them, ready to start slowly bleeding out over the course of each repeat?
“Come on, Bambers. Niall, come on, now.” He cradles Niall’s jaw, turns his head this way and that, searching for a sign—any sign—that Niall is still in there somewhere.
There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s gone and done it again. Passed the point of no return.
He never realises until it’s already too late.
Something rolls down his cheek, and he tastes salt at the corner of his lips. He shakes Niall by the shoulders until his teeth rattle.
“What the fuck is it? Niall! Come on, Niall! Give me something to work with, here. Niall. Bambi. Niall. Jesus, just fucking stop it!”
He gets nothing but a slow blink in reply. He sits back on his heels, at a loss. Niall’s never not been able to play his part. Ruben’s fingers leave indents in the shoulder of his suit jacket when he lets him go, but Niall doesn’t brush them out. He’s completely still, except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Ruben can’t do this. He staggers to his feet and stumbles over to his bag. He shrugs off his jacket as he goes, leaving himself in the vest for a few beats longer than usual. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Not without Niall.
He scrubs at his face then stands there frozen with his head turned away, unable to look at this hollow version of Niall. It’s worse than seeing his corpse, somehow.
Finally, he hears the rustle of starched fabric from the floor. His heart smashes hard against his ribs. When Niall’s voice follows, it’s weak and wavering, but it strikes Ruben like a rock to the side of the head.
“What are you doing?”
Ruben takes a breath.
“Changing,” he says, staring down into the black bag. He sounds less shaken than he feels. He tells himself it’s fine now; whatever momentary glitch it was in the matrix has fixed itself. Niall’s back in the game. He pulls off his vest and reaches into the bag for the wraps.
“Changing for what?” Niall asks. He sounds tired.
“Just changing.”
And so, it starts again.