Chapter Text
Quentin, 42
“Bye Honey, have a great day at school,” Quentin said, giving his son a quick squeeze and kissing the top of his head as he took his daughter’s hand and led her out of the classroom. The teacher was looking at him with some exasperation, and he shot her a small “what’re you gonna do?” grin. Harry was already seated at his table in the brightly-decorated kindergarten classroom, showing his friends the string necklace he made that featured a special, shiny pink bead that had been a gift from his best friend. He was one of the youngest in the class, having been born in the summer, and maybe that was why he still wanted to be walked into the classroom by a parent and kissed goodbye. Or maybe he was just like that. Either way was ok, thought Quentin-- he treasured Harry’s sweetness, knowing that it wouldn’t always be quite like this.
Margo held on to Quentin’s hand and frog-jumped exuberantly all the way down the elementary school hall. He laughed as they went, encouraging her enthusiastic jumping skills. She then insisted on pushing the giant, heavy wooden door open by herself, and nearly got started frog-jumping down the tall stairway to the sidewalk before Quentin took her hand and stopped her.
“No no nononono, sweetie.” he stammered urgently. He knelt down to her level, checking to make sure there was no panic or anger in his voice. “I can’t let you jump down these high stairs. That wouldn’t be safe, and you could get hurt. You can either hold the railing and my hand and we can walk down, or you can go down the ramp and I’ll meet you at the bottom.” Margo thought about it and said, “I’m taking the ramp!” She walked backwards down the zigzag of the long wheelchair ramp, eyeing Quentin as if daring him to try to stop her. Quentin carefully didn’t laugh, even though she was adorable. He loved her stubborn, fierce spirit. He did let her practice her jumping on the walk to preschool, and fondly indulged her in stopping several times to pick tiny wildflowers from the grassy areas along the way. Quentin loved being a dad.
+++++++++++
When he got home, he set to clearing up the breakfast dishes and picking up discarded pajamas. He had just poured himself a second cup of coffee and was looking at the back garden through the kitchen window, enjoying the peace and quiet of the morning, when his cell phone rang. Quentin scrambled to set down his coffee and fish it out of his back pocket and answer it without accidentally hanging up; the ringtone told him this was important, and he was a little excited. “Hello? Hi. Anne? I mean, hi. It’s Quentin. Well, you called me, so you know. Um. What’s up?” He listened for a minute, walking in small, nervous circles around the kitchen, waving his free hand as though he was conducting the caller’s voice. “Okay, yes. I’m free and I definitely want to do that. I’m… I’m glad you called. Ok, I’ll be right there, um, bye.” He cringed a little bit, wondering how he never learned to talk on the fucking phone, but it wasn’t enough to sour his good mood.
Snagging his english muffin, Quentin hurried to the bedroom to change clothes. His professional wardrobe didn’t get much use lately, but looking like he knew what he was doing put people at ease. He quickly exchanged his jeans and long-sleeved tee for slacks, a button-up, and a brown herringbone sport-coat with a sliver of a lilac pocket square-- thank you Eliot, he really kind of loved the combination-- slipped into his tan loafers, and checked that his hair was still neatly in its’ bun and no jam was on his face. Finally, Quentin slung his leather bag over his shoulder, double-checked that the house was locked, then headed upstairs to the study. He closed the study door and turned to face it, steadying himself, and performed the complex twisting finger-motions of the two-handed tut to open the portal to Brakebills. He shook out his hands, held his breath, and stepped through.
Quentin let out the breath he was holding, and took in a deep one, drinking in the subtle mix of flowering trees and sunshine and so much magic in the air as he looked out over Brakebills. It was wonderful, and he enjoyed the moment, and reflected lightly on how much he enjoyed enjoying the moment. It was perhaps a little less convenient in terms of travel time than arriving in an office, but he and Eliot were in complete agreement that they liked their portal to open onto the green.
A short time later, Quentin rapped gently on the glass before letting himself into Professor Lipson’s office. “Quentin,” she said, rising from her desk and offering him a half-handshake-half-hug, “thank you for coming.”
“Of course, yeah, I’m really glad I could make it” he replied, cracking a big, warm smile. “How are you, Anne?”
“I’m well,” she said, with genuine fondness. After all that they had been through, Anne had become a friend as well as a colleague. “How are your kids?”
“Big,” said Quentin, “and energetic, and smart, and, and messy! They keep me busy, but I’m happy to be here. How can I help?”
She led him down a corridor to the infirmary while filling him in on the details of the case. A lump formed in Quentin’s throat, and he swallowed around it. He took a deep breath and let it out before pushing through the swinging double-doors behind Anne. On the bed was a young man in his early twenties, propped up against the headboard on pillows, two other students seated at his side. The friends rose as they approached.
“Good morning,” Lipson began, “This is Doctor Coldwater-Waugh, our wound specialist.” The title wasn’t strictly accurate, in either traditional sense, but Quentin allowed it. He listened to the students’ names and shook their hands.
One of the students did a double-take. “There are two?” she began, clearly confused.
“I’m his husband,” Quentin supplied, “on-call for special cases.” He grinned and met her eyes, half-cheekily daring her to have a weird reaction to that.
The student stammered a little but seemed relieved as her cognitive dissonance lifted. Quentin smirked slightly to himself as Anne requested privacy for the healing process and saw the additional students out.
“Hi,” Quentin said kindly to the young man in the bed, “do you mind if I examine your wound?” His name was George; he was lanky, with light brown hair and full-body freckles. Quentin gently unwrapped the bandages around his torso. A long, deep-looking gash crossed the boy’s pale abdomen, its edges red and raw. It was held together with thick, black stitches.
Quentin nodded, covering for himself, and forced out, “Looks good so far. Professor, I’ll be right back, just a moment, please,” before willing himself to walk, calm-looking, out the door and into a side-room, locking the door behind him.
Quentin turned his back to the door and slid down it to the floor. He gasped, mouth open and eyes wide. This was just… oh my god. His breathing was shallow and his heart raced in his chest, as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images that were flooding his mind. Eliot, bleeding out on a forest floor. Eliot, unconscious and battered in an infirmary bed. Eliot’s stomach, bisected by an angry gash with horrible black lines. He gasped again, and nearly choked on a sob. He couldn’t… he could barely breathe.
Gripping the bottom of the door so hard his knuckles must have been white, Quentin forced himself to take a deep breath, let it out, take another. It wasn’t Eliot. It wasn’t. Eliot was fine. He was ok. He was fully healed. He was alive and well and on the other side of campus. It had been sixteen years, and Eliot was alive, and it was going to be ok. It was already ok.
Quentin continued to breathe. He curled his toes and uncurled them. He tapped on the pressure-points on his brow. He lifted his feet and stomped them flat on the floor. Slowly, the flight-or-fight response receded. Quentin stood up and planted his feet and grounded himself in his body, trying to get his residual anxiety and frantic energy to drain out of him through the soles of his feet into the ground. He shook out his hands, crossed to the little sink, and got himself a drink of water in a paper cup. He counted backward from twenty, twice, visualizing himself descending in an elevator as he did, feeling each floor before reaching the ground and stepping out. Finally, he felt calm. Finally, he was in the present. After checking in with himself to see if he could think clearly, finally, he straightened his jacket and went back to the infirmary.
“Sorry about that,” he said, pretending that this was perfectly normal, that a healer disappearing for twenty minutes was perfectly, perfectly normal. Anne rose from the seat she was in and gave him a concerned glance, but he focused on the patient and plowed ahead. “Now I understand this was caused by an enchanted sword? May I?” Having gotten the nod, he lowered George’s blankets and settled his fingertips around the wound. He knew the answer already, but wanted to give the boy the chance to explain.
While he half-listened, Quentin gently probed beneath the wound with his magic, examining the layers of damage and the surgical and magical healing that had already been done. It had been done perfectly; the gashes in his smooth muscle had been tightly sutured and three layers of stitching held the fascia, muscle, and skin firmly. Anne was a gifted trauma surgeon, and had clearly saved George’s life. Quentin knew that she was treating him for pain, as well as guarding against infection. He had been brought in to do the finishing work, as it were.
The sword-fight story now over, Quentin removed his hands and looked George in the eye. “What I’m going to do,” he said kindly, “if it’s alright with you-- and it’s your choice-- will be to use magic to help your tissues heal, a little bit at a time. I work with my hands about here,” he held his hands slightly above the gash, “and it won’t be painful for you, ok?” George was listening, and Quentin wanted to reassure him, as well as explain. “This is a medical specialty of my discipline, which is Minor Mending. It works very well on wounds like the ones you have. There’s a lot of damage to a lot of different layers here, so it will take a long time, I’m guessing probably about six hours, but we can break that up into several sessions-- probably two today and one tomorrow. When it’s over, you should be almost completely healed.” He smiled softly. He loved that he could do this, could help people like this.
“Another option would be to allow your wounds to heal on their own, but it will take months that way,” he swallowed and forced himself to stay in the present, “and will leave a lot of scarring. You may also have some nerve damage, and some loss of muscular function. But it’s your choice.” Quentin knew that these weren’t really the only options; he had to do this ethically. “Or, if you really wanted, less-extensive wound-healing methods do exist, that take less time. They wouldn’t fully restore your body to the way it was before, but they would help. Professor Lipson oversees a number of very talented healing students.”
He stepped back and looked away, nervously, awaiting a decision, and was relieved when it turned out that George was perfectly comfortable with being his patient. They got him settled on his back, with full pain-control and a mild sedative to help him remain still, before Anne left the room. Quentin took off his own jacket and set it aside, rolled the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows. He adjusted the seat of the rolling stool to the right height and positioned himself at the side of the infirmary bed, shook out his hands again, and got to work.
As soon as he settled his fingertips above George’s stomach, Quentin felt his whole body relax. He was able to stop acting like a doctor, worrying about whether he was pulling it off, trying to keep himself in the present… and just be there. In the moment, in his magic, just doing what he did. It was wonderful, in the true sense of the word.
Quentin felt through the layers of skin and muscle to George’s deeper wounds. He gently tuned his fingers, feeling the energy of the smooth muscle, the jagged edges, the torn cell walls, the new joinings held by careful silk stitches. Beginning at one end of one cut, he carefully removed the silk and let the whole cells find each other, re-fusing the connections between them, dissolving the scar tissue that had begun to form. As he worked, microscopic nerve channels branched through the tissue and reconnected; electrical and chemical exchange reestablished, and cells began to contract and release in gentle rhythm. Quentin focused, carefully waking the newly-healed smooth muscle, allowing it to remember what it was. Satisfied, he moved on to the next wound.
It was like creating music, for Quentin, healing like this. He moved smoothly between parts, gently feeling, channeling, encouraging, repairing. He loved the feeling of collagen fibers realigning; letting blood flow through un-collapsed capillaries was like bringing in the violins. Whatever gracelessness Quentin had felt in his life was gone now as he sat over his patient, fully immersed in the beauty of his work.
After a couple of hours, Quentin had finished healing all of the wounds to the interior organs, and the visceral peritoneum covering them. He sat back, and slowly lifted his warm hands away, flexing and stretching his fingers, then shaking them out. George had fallen asleep. Pleased with his progress, Quentin collected his jacket and left the infirmary. He spotted a healing student who didn’t look busy. “Hey”, he said, “could you do me a favor?” He didn’t really have to ask; he had authority and the students were normally eager to help, but he asked anyway. When the student looked at him like they were actually excited to run an errand for him, he continued, “would you, ah, run over to seminar-A and tell Professor Coldwater-Waugh that his husband is at the infirmary and would like to see him as soon as possible?” The student started to book it for the door, and Quentin called out, “Tell him I’m working at the infirmary, please!”
Eliot, 44
Eliot was wrapping up his upper-level seminar on advanced magical shielding; the eight students arrayed around the tables in the small seminar room were busy with a lively debate on a theoretical question to which there was, as yet, no satisfactory answer. It required coaxing, every single time, and a level of patience that he had had to cultivate, but he wanted them to work through the ramifications themselves. Different theories about the fundamental nature of magic led to different hypotheses, design approaches, and results. He needed to get the students to the point where they realized that, given that several supposedly mutually-exclusive theories all led to their own positive results, there was a fundamental flaw in the way the question was being asked.
They always got there, eventually, but the first student to figure it out was going to receive some major classroom props. This seminar heavily featured Eliot’s own work in advanced tessellated magical shielding; it sometimes drew in students with the potential to be good research assistants. He was a popular professor, thank you very much, and always had a bit of a following, but he didn’t need groupies. He needed smart, reliable students with proven interest in his field. Thus, he coaxed.
Eliot heard the soft knock on the door and felt a stab of impatience at the interruption, but he got up and answered it while his students carried on. “Yes,” he asked, as kindly as he could, staring down the student who was looking up at him.
“Professor, um Coldwater-Waugh,” they said quickly, “Doctor Coldwater-Waugh is in the infirmary and needs you to meet him. Um. As soon as possible, he said.” Eliot blanched: was Quentin all right? The student added, “He said to tell you he was working. At the infirmary.” Oh. Okay. Thank God. He let out the breath he was holding.
“Thank you for relaying the message,” he said, “please excuse me.”
Turning back to his seminar, Eliot clapped his hands. “All right, people,” he said theatrically, and the students fell silent. “I’m sorry to have to cut our time a bit short, but I’ve been summoned by one of the few people who could pull me away from all of you. Feel free to stay and discuss if you like.” He was packing up his briefcase and grabbing his books. “For Thursday, I want everyone fully prepared to discuss Margineaux’s Cordorata Arcanum , and I want to see your progress on tessellated cellular architecture, so I expect you to practice . If you haven’t I’ll know.” He gave all of them a playful, exaggerated glare and swept out the door.
Eliot cut a dashing figure as he stalked across the quad in his perfectly-fitted three-piece suit. His style was slightly less flamboyant than it had been when he was a student, leaning more toward “intimidating” than “insouciant” these days, but it was only a subtle change; he was still very much himself. Confident and comfortable in his own skin, he carried himself with an ease that would have been affected when he was a younger man. Eliot didn’t mind the attention directed his way as he broke into an easy lope upon nearing the infirmary, and he threw a cheeky smile to a faculty member that he passed as he headed for the door. Quentin was inside; Eliot could hardly wait to see him.
He found him in Anne Lipson’s office, evidently discussing a patient, but Quentin fell silent when he saw him, and his smile lit up the room. “Eliot,” Quentin said, with apparent relief, and Eliot quickly crossed the room and pulled him into a warm but brief hug, then kissed him on the cheek. He turned to his colleague, his arm still around Quentin’s shoulders. “Anne,” he said fondly, “busy morning for you two?”
“More for Quentin than for me,” she replied lightly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll let him fill you in. I’ll go get us all some lunch, shall I?” She took her jacket and bag and backed out of the office with a small smile, closing the door and leaving them alone.
Well that was… unusual. But okay. Eliot turned to Quentin, who had wrapped his arms around him the moment the door closed. He circled his arms around his shoulders and held him tight, knowing from experience this was what Quentin wanted, and kissed his forehead.
“Hi Sweetheart,” he said, “What’s going on?”
He could feel the tension in Quentin’s smaller frame. Quentin replied, with relief in his voice, “El. I’m so glad to see you. Um, could I just hold on to you, for a few minutes, please? I just need to feel you being alive.” And fuck, that was heavy, but yeah, of course. He would do anything for Q, anything he needed.
“Sure, of course you can,” he said, and Quentin was pressing his ear over Eliot’s heart, now. After a couple of minutes of just holding, Eliot said, “Q, are you okay?”
“Well yeah, I’m kind of, yes and no, you know?” Quentin gave Eliot another squeeze and then loosened his arms to lean back and look at him. He looked serious. “El, I need to look at your scar. Can I do that?” And that knocked the breath out of him a little more, but he hurried to agree.
“Yes. Here, let’s do it like this.” He pulled back from the hug and faced Quentin, still close-in, and untucked his shirt and twisted his fingers, unbuttoning all of the buttons on his shirt and vest with a quick little bit of magic. He pulled his shirt open in the front and lifted his undershirt, so that Quentin could see, so that he could run the fingers of his hand across the light-colored scar that stretched across his abdomen. Q appeared to be in a daze, and Eliot placed a finger under his chin and lifted it to catch his eyes. “Q, what’s going on?” he asked, as gently as he could.
Quentin was having a little trouble meeting his eyes-- he didn’t seem ashamed, just maybe like this was hard to say. “I had to tell myself that you were ok, that you were healed and alive. So, so I just needed to see your scar so my brain could complete the process of, you know, verifying that, like… like finishing a circuit.” He was gesturing with his hands as he spoke, his eyes serious and his tone a little frustrated. He also looked… sad. Quentin looked at him. “El, I had a panic attack in the middle of meeting a patient. It’s been so long since that happened. I got away and it,” he swallowed, “it was okay, eventually. But it was so awful.”
And oh, this was fucking hard to hear. Eliot’s heart hurt. They had been doing so just beautifully with Quentin’s mental health, lately, like they were really, really good at this. He was taking his meds and they were working. The major depressive episodes weren’t great by any means, but they were down to about two per year, and they knew how to get him through them; it wasn’t terrifying, like it had once been. And his healing work was so good for him right now. Well, normally. Eliot pulled him in and held him tight. He grimaced a little, while Q couldn’t see.
“Baby. I’m sorry” he said softly, “are you ready to talk about it?” Quentin nodded. “And can I um?” he gestured to his shirt, and got a small smile in return.
Eliot lead them over to sit together on Anne’s small sofa, as he began to do his buttons back up. Quentin sat down sideways, leaning against the arm of the sofa and pulling his knees up to his chest. Eliot finished dressing and regarded him fondly as he sat down like a normal person who knew how to sit. Some things never changed.
“So what happened?” He took Quentin’s hand and looked at him gently, waiting for him to be ready.
“Sword fight,” said Quentin.
“Hmm?”
Quentin sighed. “It’s a huge gash,” he illustrated by drawing a finger across his own abdomen, “right here. It’s deep, El, with a lot of damage.”
And Oh. Fuck. Eliot immediately understood. He acted almost involuntarily, reaching across and pulling Quentin in. He was half in his lap in the middle of an academic office, but it didn’t even matter. Eliot let out a deep breath and held Quentin, shaken. Finally he said, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Those familiar words. Over and over, over the years. This was always it, always what Quentin needed to hear, half of what he needed to know.
“I love you.”
The other half.
Quentin’s body had gone soft in his arms, almost collapsed, but after a minute he stirred and sat up. “So I handled it okay,” he said, “I mean, I got out okay, and got somewhere safe, and I did all the things. Like, I got through it. It was… it was hard but I was ok.” He smiled at Eliot, sweet and a little goofy. “You would have been proud of me, El, I was so doctory.” He laughed, a little chuckle, but to Eliot it was like music. “But, but once I started the work I was fine, I was great.”
“You were able to still do the healing?” Eliot was deeply impressed.
Quentin nodded. “Yeah, I finished the interior cuts already, but it’s gonna take a lot more. I can do it now, it was just… my initial reaction. I had flashbacks, they caught me off guard.”
Flashbacks. God.
“So you’re going to do the whole healing? You’re ok with that?” He took both of his hands and looked him in the eyes. Eliot wanted to know if Quentin was genuinely all right. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like for Quentin, being confronted for hours by such a tangible reminder of when Eliot was nearly lost to him, when he nearly died. When they both did.
“Yeah, El, I am,” Quentin replied. “I was fine, the whole time. When I’m working it’s just… it’s really peaceful, you know? And… and magical.” Quentin smiled, and had a bit of that beautiful look of innocent wonder in his eyes. Eliot loved this about him. It was one of his favorite things. He took his face in his hands and gently kissed him.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” He asked. “I can pick up the kids. Or do you want me to stay here? We could see if Julia’s free.”
“Um, could you get them?” Quentin asked. “I’m going to do another session after lunch, and I’d like to, just, come home to you all? If that’s ok? Then I’ll come back in the morning.”
“That sounds perfect,” said Eliot. They could have lunch with Anne, and he would reschedule his office hours and go pick up the kids from school. And when Q came home, they would all be there. He kissed him again, sweet and tender. This beautiful man. His husband. His heart swelling with pride and protectiveness, he put his arm around him and just held on.