Chapter Text
Blurry vision
There’s a lag when Arthur turns his head quickly. Sometimes. As his eyes catch up.
John’s view of the words dips and jags when Arthur walks.
His eyes dart when he’s scared.
When he panics, he closes his eyes when he tries to take deep breaths.
He looks to the side when he thinks.
He looks to the other side when he tries to remember.
It’s odd. Looking through the eyes of another. The focal point is rarely where John wants it to be. Because how is Arthur supposed to know where to focus them?
John tries not to let it annoy him. It’s not as if Arthur’s doing it on purpose.
Which is not to say that Arthur has never intentionally blocked his view of things, but he doesn’t do it often. And it’s usually when he’s particularly annoyed Arthur. John does concede that a couple such occasions were deserved.
It’s different when their vision blurs.
That happens with frightening regularity. And it is often one of the early signs that something is wrong with Arthur.
Whether it be lightheadedness, or injury, or just fatigue.
In this case, darting through the underground passageways, too long since Arthur has been granted the kindness of rest, John suspects the smearing of their eyesight to be due to the latter.
“Fucking hell, Arthur, I can’t read this.”
“But- John it’s a riddle. What do you mean you can’t read it? Is it in a different language?”
“I can’t fucking tell Arthur, your eyes… goddamn it, Arthur you need to fucking sleep.”
“What?”
“Arthur, our vision is blurred. I can feel the sting of fatigue behind your eyes. You need to fucking sleep.”
Arthur’s eyes roam around. It doesn’t help the disorientation. But, Arthur is thinking. And if it takes longer than normal, well, John supposes he can blame the sleep deprivation.
“We just had a rest, didn’t we? We only left the hotel…”
“Arthur, that was two fucking days ago.”
“Fucking hell, was it?”
John becomes aware of Arthur faintly trembling, sinking to the floor without realizing it. His hand trailing along the wall for balance.
“And I’m not convinced you actually slept. You kept opening our eyes.”
“Fucking hell…”
Perhaps John shouldn’t have mentioned anything, it seems like Arthur’s not exhaustion caught up with him once John brought his attention to it.
But barging into what could easily be another cult lair with Arthur running on the very last dregs of his reserves would be foolish.
“But. But the girl. We have to.”
A half hearted effort. Tongue leaden.
“Fuck, Arthur. We don’t even know if she’s there. We’ve been following a hunch. We don’t fucking know if she’s there. Or if she’s even in any danger. And even if she is, you won’t be any fucking use to her if you can’t fucking stand.”
Arthur grumbles. Their vision swims when Arthur pulls himself back to his feet. He bumps into a wall trying to orient himself, but seems more than capable of standing under his own power. For now.
By now John knows the perils of sleep deprivation on his human.
He knows the deep ache behind their eyes. The fine tremor in Arthur’s hand as it ghosts along the wall. The clumsy limbs. The smearing of their vision when Arthur continues to drag their eyes open, long past the point they want to stay closed.
“Fucking hell… I. Christ I’m exhausted.” As if he’s only just realized.
Perhaps he has.
Arthur scrubs at his face but makes no further motion.
“You can’t sleep here. The cultists could pass this way at any moment.”
“John, the hotel is…”
“I know it’s far.”
“Fucking hell, we can’t Leave now.”
The fact that Arthur is even considering it is worrying.
“Perhaps you’re right…”. He says at last. Softly against the darkness. “How do we get out of here?”
“The tunnel you came through is on your right.”
“We’re coming back. As soon as I get a little rest. And some food.”
“Of course, Arthur.”
Ringing ears
An oar of all things.
An oar.
Arthur get’s hit in the head with a fucking oar. Just as they are escaping.
Where the cultist got a fucking oar, John has no fucking clue.
Arthur crumples. But not before John manages to shoot their pursuer.
For the best that that was the only one because John loses his grip on the weapon, trying to keep Arthur’s head from cracking on the ground. Again.
The cultist falls, dead in seconds.
The oar hits Arthur again on the way down.
Fucking hell.
“Arthur! Arthur? Can you hear me? Fucking hell.”
Arthur’s ears are ringing. John doubts Arthur can hear him over the cloying and oppressive sound.
And it continues as unfocused eyes roam the ceiling.
His eyes slide closed.
Arthur groans a thankfully limited number of seconds later.
“Arthur?”
Arthur’s face scrunches. So he must be able to hear Something through that incessant ringing.
Fucking hell.
It’s hardly the first time Arthur’s hearing has fuzzed out on them. It’s got to be at least partially internal because Arthur can’t always hear him, and John can hear the ringing too.
It happens when Arthur’s short on air, or losing too much blood, or when he’s lightheaded, or or or. Too many ways this body can fail them both. And nothing John can do to shield it. Not from others and certainly not from Arthur.
Their eyes flick open. Just a little. John’s fully seeing double.
Arthur tries to move , but flops weakly back to the floor.
He groans again.
Fuck.
“Arthur! Fucking Hell!”
Arthur’s face crunches up in pain.
“J’n?”
John can barely hear him over that damned ringing.
“Arthur. Arthur. Don’t…”
Don’t *what*?
He can’t stay here. They can’t stay here. Not for long. Sure the one cultist is dead, but what happens if someone else comes along?
Dead body in a pool of blood. Arthur too injured to run.
Head injuries Scare John.
Despite John’s broken off admonishment. Or perhaps because of it, Arthur rolls onto his side.
It hurts, from the sound of it. From what little John can hear about the ringing.
He gets his knees under him, forehead pressed to the ground. His hand clutching his head.
John isn’t sure if Arthur means to stand or if he means to just stay there, trying to hold his skull together with his hand.
“Arthur…” John tries again.
He doesn’t know what to say. Or how to help.
Fuck.
Arthur whimpers against the floor, but otherwise doesn’t move.
John wonders if he’s passed out again.
But Arthur takes a deep breath and braces himself to stand.
He staggers.
Their vision swims. But he takes a step.
“Good. That’s good Arthur.”
It’s good until Arthur’s knees meet the stone floor and John’s arm is the only thing keeping them out of the former contents of Arthur’s stomach.
“Fuck,” Arthur spits. Word thick against his clumsy tongue.
“Arthur…”
Arthur winces at the sound.
At least their ears are partially working.
Arthur wipes at his mouth.
There’s blood on his hand.
When Arthur’s balance fails and he crumples again. Only narrowly avoiding the mess. John reaches up a gentle hand to feel for the source of the blood.
Well. John knows the source, but he doesn’t know how much Arthur is bleeding.
Arthur hisses in pain.
It’s enough that it’s dripped down his face. But not enough that John is worried he’ll bleed out. Or even lose a concerning amount.
Arthur whimpers at the contact.
Fuck.
Their vision is considerably less distorted the next time Arthur tries to stand.
John catches them on the wall when his knees threaten to give. Arthur’s hand is occupied, still trying to hold his head together.
“That’s good, Arthur. We have to keep moving, but we don’t have to rush.”
“Keep your. Voice down.” Arthur manages, in a whisper. Through gritted teeth.
More steady by the second.
John wishes he could steer them to a hospital, but with cultists this close at their heels, their hotel room is the safest bet.
At least Arthur is up and moving.
The journey is tense. They have to pause several times. Once more for Arthur to be sick. Twice more when their vision swims too much for John to guide them. But each stop is shorter than the previous.
“We’re almost there. Then you can rest.”
“Good. That’s. That’s good. And we aren’t being chased?”
“No, Arthur.”
“Fucking brilliant.”
John barely manages to convince Arthur out of his shoes before he lies down on the mattress back in their room.
There’s nothing else he can do. Just hope his human is resilient enough to wake up again in the morning.
Balance
“Arthur, don’t drink that. Fucking hell. Don’t fucking drink that! I do not give a Fuck how naturally curious you are. Do not fucking drink that. We don’t know what it is.”
John can’t help the fear that laces his voice with venomous anger.
“John, I… we will die if I do not drink something. ” Barely a whisper. Voice dwindled to nothing by the baking air of the otherworldly desert.
Back in the fucking Dreamlands.
How the fuck did they even get here?
“Arthur. We don’t know if that fucking goo you found in this fucking cave is poison or not.”
“Then it will be a swifter death than dehydration.” The cracked whisper almost enough of an argument for John to agree.
Undeterred by John’s warnings, nor by the viscous nature of the goo they’ve stumbled upon.
John, damn him for it or not, doesn’t try to stop Arthur when he cups some into his mouth.
“At least wait a few minutes, just in case…”
His pleas go unheard.
Arthur’s thirst winning over any logic.
“Better?” he asks, anger still lacing his tone. Fear, if he’s honest with himself.
“Fuck you, John.” He sounds better at least.
Of course it could be highly poisonous.
They may die.
“Can you stand?” They’d been relegated to crawling as hours without water stretched to plural days. John isn’t sure how many. If he’d had to venture a guess based on prior experience, he’d say over two. Well over two.
“Give me a fucking minute.”
Right. Because Arthur’s body still needs to decide if this will revitalize them or kill them horrifically.
At least Arthur had the sense to drink slowly enough not to make himself ill. Perhaps that’s his prior experience at play too. Or perhaps the viscous nature of the goo prevented too swift consumption.
Would Arthur have made the same choice if he could see it?
John wouldn’t know, he doesn’t have thirst of his own.
He takes his comfort in the way Arthur isn’t coughing in the dry air anymore. He’s not sure how much more Arthur’s battered lungs could take. And the dry wheeze is gone as well.
“Arthur. Just…. Just fucking tell me if anything starts to feel wrong?”
“John, our body was shutting down. I’m not sure I could tell the difference. Right. I might be able to stand now, in any case. We can’t stay here.”
“No. We can’t.”
Arthur stands slowly.
Dizziness has plagued him since the first day. Well. That’s not true. Arthur hasn’t had the most sure footing since before… well, since before John.
Arthur catches himself on the wall. Hand still wet from the goo.
If John had a stomach, it would turn at the way it sticks Arthur’s hand to the wall for a few short moments.
Still. This is an improvement.
Hopefully if the fucking goo kills them, it will have the decency to do it quickly.
They make good progress for a while. The given definition of good here being: walking is faster than crawling. With the caveat of they don’t know where the fuck they are going. So the idea of progress is all but meaningless.
But John can’t allow himself to be optimistic.
It’s with both resignation and a complete lack of surprise that John catches them on the wall.
Again.
And again.
Arthur still upright, but seeming to have difficulty finding his foot.
Fuck.
Barely standing again and his foot catches on nothing at all, and Arthur goes sprawling.
“Arthur?” Cautious.
Is this it? Has Arthur finally stuck his nose, or in this case: mouth, into something that finally kills them?
“I…”
Well. That’s not fucking encouraging, is it?
“Arthur, talk to me.”
Their vision is, well, mostly clear. Their ears aren’t ringing. Maybe that will change soon, but for now he can cling to this.
“…Let me preface this by saying I don’t feel bad …”
Something in Arthur’s tone fills him with dread. He’s over-enunciating. Not to mention the inherent dread of knowing Arthur is going to follow that sentence with something worrying.
John growls. Just slightly.
He Told Arthur not to touch it or drink it.
Fuck.
“I. I feel odd.”
Fucking hell, that’s all Arthur has to say?
“IS THAT FUCKING ALL?”
“Fuck, John keep your fucking voice down.”
John does his very best to bite down on his fear but he’s seething with it.
“ARTHUR WHAT…” He can feel an odd sort of pressure behind their eyes. Not pain. Just not normal. He tries to calm himself. **Arthur, what the fuck does that mean?**
Arthur seems to have no intention of getting up, but he doesn’t seem too upset about it.
Arthur giggles.
Giggles.
John feels cold to his core.
“Arthur, please .”
“I..Fuck.” Their eyes feel wet with this mirth. “I… said I didn’t feel bad. I don’t!”
John growls.
Which sets Arthur giggling again. He’s rolled onto his back, leaving John staring at the ceiling of the cave, lit by a blue fungus that almost looks like a foreign galaxy… not dissimilar to the one on the outside of the cave. It’s delicate and beautiful, although fractured with the tears clinging to their eyelashes.
“Arthur, what exactly are you feeling?”
He considers for a long moment. So long that John worries that whatever is acting on his system has gone from whatever this is to something imminently more dangerous. But no. Arthur speaks and he’s hesitant.
“Happy.”
That doesn’t exactly ease John’s fear.
“Probably not good that I feel happy after drinking goo.”
Well at least he’s self aware. John sighs. “We would have died if you hadn’t.” Not something John wants to think about much. Or ever. He shouldn’t encourage these rash decisions, but if Arthur hadn’t taken the gamble, they’d be dead.
Arthur hums.
“What else are you feeling?” Aside from balance issues.
“Light. Unburdened. Free.”
Not a single word that John would ever use to describe Arthur.
“And physically?”
Arthur laughs again. Breathless and heady. “Not thirsty, which is an improvement. My head feels light… but not lightheaded. Buoyant. Like I could simply I don’t know…. take flight. I feel like I’ve had quite a lot of champagne… Not drunk. Exactly. I don’t know John.”
“Well let’s not test that.”
Arthur laughs again.
It wasn’t that funny. And John certainly can’t think of it as such, not when Arthur is so vulnerable.
And not with their track record of Arthur falling or being thrown into holes.
And holes are something this cave system is full of.
Part of the reason they’d gone into the caves to begin with. Arthur had postulated these caves could have been created by water. The air had been damper. And of course keeping out of the sun would help Arthur not to dehydrate quite so rapidly.
So into the darkness they had gone. Crawling when Arthur no longer had the strength to stand. Until they’d found the goo in the otherwise bone dry cave.
An expression that John simply doesn’t understand. Most bones he’s encountered have been wet.
The dreadful irony is, of course, that the moment Arthur’s laughter finally subsides, John becomes aware of the distant sounds of water.
It’s not a drip.
It’s not waves.
It’s gentle lapping that echoes around what sounds like a large space.
Fucking hell. If they got Arthur there sooner, perhaps Arthur wouldn’t be in this state.
He almost wishes that Arthur was queasy. It might get whatever it is out of their system and he could get some real water. At least what John hopes is real water.
But any discomfort of the abdomen Arthur might experience is more likely to be from this laughter.
“Arthur. We need to get up. I think I hear water ahead. Can you stand?”
“Well. If I can’t stand, I certainly can fly.”
It still isn’t funny.
But Arthur cackles to himself as he tries to get to his feat.
John finds himself picturing a turtle stuck on its back. Gangly limbs stretching for freedom from its walless prison.
Arthur doesn’t get stuck on his back, but his limbs wave wildly as he attempts to find where they are in space.
He pulls himself up, and staggers into the wall of the cave.
And staggers again.
Into another fucking hole.
Fucking hell.
Arthur drops like a fucking stone. Doesn’t even make a sound.
John doesn’t even get a good look at what they are falling into. Hadn’t even seen the fucking place where the floor gave way.
So fucking much for being Arthur’s eyes. Can’t even keep him from falling into another fucking pit.
They fall and they hit water.
At least John assumes it’s water. It’s cold. And doesn’t stink of iron. It isn’t viscous or sticky. That’s all John can tell with their eyes closed, a reflex against the cold.
Arthur continues to sink.
“Arthur! Arthur! We have to get to the surface. Fucking Christ! Arthur! Listen to me!”
Arthur twitches. Then slows their descent, limbs splayed out so the drag of the presumed water cancels their acceleration. Then starts to swim.
Arthur breaks the surface with a gasp. Spluttering.
“Fuck, John. We found water!”
And he’s laughing again. Until his limbs are weak and he dips below the surface again. Only to come up spluttering and laughing harder.
“We did it!”
“Keep your fucking voice down, and let me get a look around.”
Arthur spares his hand from their treading of water to try to clear their eyes.
John appreciates the effort but still dislikes the feeling of the foreign liquid against their eyes.
“Can you turn slowly- No. Slower. What the fuck are you doing?”
Arthur is spinning them in circles. Giggling.
“Fucking hell.”
“Sorry! Sorry!” Breathless.
“Slowly, Arthur. I don’t know how big this… lake? Pool? Whatever is. The walls are smooth. Well. Not smooth as in polished. It looks like this body of water has been here for some time. The cavern is quite large. I can still see the luminescent fungus above us. Some of it is even on the upper portion of the walls. Jesus, Arthur. We fell a long way.”
“Flew,” Arthur corrects with a grin.
John hasn’t known Arthur to grin. It’s unsettling.
“Doesn’t flying imply that we shouldn’t have gone down?”
“No. Just that we didn’t hit the ground!”
Well. That just doesn’t make any sense.
“Fuck, Arthur. We did. You hit the water very hard.” Talking slowly, so maybe Arthur can understand. Because clearly his cognition is impaired.
“But we didn’t hit the ground, we hit the water. Ergo, we flew!”
If John had a head, he would shake it.
If he had hands, he’d be shaking Arthur by the shoulder until he started talking sense.
“Fuck. I can’t see a way out. And the walls look too smooth to climb.” Even if they weren’t, he doesn’t think Arthur could climb something at the moment. He’s doing a piss poor job of holding them steady in the water. Dipping almost below every few moments. The slight bobbing turning into something a little more deliberate and infinitely more disorienting. “Arthur. Arthur. Fucking stop that. We need to make as little noise as possible. Sound is going to travel in a cavern like this and you are making way too much fucking noise.”
How long can Arthur keep swimming?
He tries to remember the last time Arthur had any food. How much strength can he hope for?
It’s been about three days since Arthur had access to drinkable water. Likely the same since food.
And Arthur still doesn’t have much to spare, still recovering from …everything. Still far too hollow and sharp where he shouldn’t be.
“Why don’t you swim to the edge? We can follow the wall and hope we can find some sort of way out.”
And that way if something is in here with them, at least one side won’t be open to an attack.
It takes a while to reach the wall. Arthur is breathing hard. Worry tightens inside John.
John doesn’t know how long. But at least the constant motion is slowing how rapidly the water sucks the heat from Arthur.
Once again John finds himself fretting about how thin Arthur is. He never really got the chance to recover from the coma. From the prison pits. From the illness that followed Addison.
And now half starved, pulled from the brink once more mere minutes ago by some fucking goo that stole his reason. Hardly an ounce of body fat to protect him from the fridges water.
He’d never been large. Long and lean. Harsh angles and intense expressions. But he’d been healthy.
John desperately wants him to be healthy again. Even if it means John has to sit and watch him eat.
“Stop. We’ve reached the wall.”
Arthur bumps into it with an oof.
John bites back a sigh.
Any other time, he would find it funny.
Arthur seems to think it’s very funny. He pats the wall almost …fondly, for some inexplicable reason. “This feels like a good wall.”
If John had a head, he’s sure it would be aching. “Arthur, what exactly makes a wall good?”
“I don’t know. It feels nice. Here, feel the wall, John!”
“Arthur, I’m trying to keep us above water. I will trust you to …enjoy the wall for me. Why don’t you keep …enjoying it. We’ll go right. See if we can find a way out.”
Arthur complies happily. Doesn’t so much as weigh in.
So unlike Arthur that it sets his metaphorical teeth on edge.
The cave is big. Really, really fucking big. And Arthur is making a lot of noise. True, Arthur seems to be having a great time, but his body has already been pushed well past the brink.
He’s breathing hard. Arms trembling with effort and cold.
And yet he’s trying to sing, or so John believes. Although it’s lacking musicality around gasping breaths. John doesn’t even try to make out any words.
“Arthur. I think I see… fucking hell I don’t know. Hold still, damn it. Yes. It looks like some sort of crevice. It might be a way out of here. Or it could be a more easily defensible place to rest. Keep going forward. Stop. We are getting close. …Arthur it’s not very big.”
“What?” Not alert or aware in the slightest.
John sighs. Might as well pretend things are normal. “Before it is what looks like a small crack in the cavern wall. It’s dark inside. None of the luminescent fungus lines the walls. It’s partially submerged. But this might be a good place for you to rest a little. Maybe there will be somewhere above the water level where you can dry off and wait for your head to clear.”
Hopefully the crevice doesn’t house anything. But John cannot see anything else above the level of the water.
Which doesn’t mean it isn’t there. But, that’s not a gamble he wants to take right now, with Arthur the way he is.
Arthur laughs between panting. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful to get in a tight space. How. How do I get up?”
“What, you aren’t going to give flying a go?”
They need to let that bit go. It wasn’t funny the first time and it isn’t funny now.
But it sends Arthur giggling again.
“There’s an uneven dip in the rock. To the right. If we can get your foot up there and if I grab into the- Yes you’ve got it. I think I can pull us up. Yes, good.”
Of course, Arthur barely had a foot in before the worn sole of his shoe slides off the algae slick lip of the crevice, like a greased banana.
He hits the water with a splash.
Too loud. Too loud. Too loud.
Something stirs beneath them.
Something big.
“ Fucking Hell, Arthur there’s something below us.”
Arthur is struggling to get back to the surface. His strength starting to give out.
Fuck.
Arthur gets his head above water and John reaches up for the divots in the wall again.
“Arthur you have to fucking climb. The handhold is just over shoulder height. No a little to the left. Good. Fucking move Arthur!”
With the last of his strength, Arthur gets his foot up and more or less pitches into the crevice with a splash.
John looks around as best he can as Arthur takes gasping breaths.
It’s narrow on the bottom. Arthur’s hips are jammed against the rock at an angle. Legs still partly exposed. Hopefully the creature can’t reach up and grab them. John didn’t exactly get a good look.
They are still wet. But the water only seems to come up to Arthur’s shoulders, half horizontal as he is.
“This might be the entrance of a cave. Or it might just be a place to rest and let you clear your head before moving on. The water is fairly shallow. I don’t think there’s enough room for you to stand in here, but if you could, it might only come up to your knees. It is wider at the top. And there looks to be enough of a ledge that you can get out of the water and dry off. The ledge is on our left. Just a little above where your head is now.”
If John was hoping for a response, he doesn’t get one. Or at least an insightful one.
Arthur’s giggling again. “I. I should probably hate this.” Still breathless.
John thinks back to every other moment Arthur’s narrow and bony limbs have been pressed up against solid stone and has to agree.
He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that he isn’t talking Arthur out of a panic attack.
“You should get our legs in. And turn so we can try to take a better look at the creature.”
Arthur.
Well… he tries.
Muscles shaking with cold and fatigue and laughter, he gives a very weak wiggle.
“Fucking Move Arthur.”
That rallies him somewhat.
Just a little. Enough to make a slightly less pathetic wiggle. Enough to draw his knees to his chest, knees and back and elbow all pressed tight against solid stone. Water lapping higher now. Arthur’s meager weight trapping it higher, and Arthur compressed a little lower down, himself.
But at least hopefully out of the grasp of any creature.
If only John could see it.
Gradually Arthur’s breathing recovers from the exertion. If not for the shivering as the icy water continues to steal his body heat, he might be considered calm.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
“You should get out of the water. There’s a ledge on your left. The cave isn’t tall enough for you to stand, but if you get our feet under you, and get into a crouch, it should give you enough height to get onto it. And if you lay on it facing the other way, we might be able to see what’s in there. I want to keep an eye on it while you…” John tries and fails to think of a kinder way to say ‘sober up.’ Or perhaps something a little more descriptive of whatever this is. Because this is Not Arthur drunk. He’s Seen Arthur drunk. And this isn’t it.
Not that Arthur is even listening. He’s humming to himself.
The sound bouncing off the walls of their enclosed space.
It’s …eerie. And a little otherworldly.
It would be pleasant if not for the creature that could very well hear them lurking just outside.
“The ledge, Arthur.”
This is exhausting. And humiliating.
What little he’s seen of human children, he likes. And is endlessly fascinated by. However, babysitting a grown man, who he knows will be equally exhausted and humiliated when his senses return to him, isn’t his idea of fun.
“You could stand to be less fussy,” Arthur says. Slurring slightly.
But he manages to find his legs. And, John’s hand stabilizing, wobbles to their feet.
He feels for the ledge. And flops onto it in an ungainly pile of limbs.
At least he managed to face his head in the direction that John asked.
John bites back a sigh. “Well done, Arthur.”
He hopes a future Arthur will forgive his lack of enthusiasm. And he turns his attention to trying to spot the creature.
Arthur’s head is turned. Eyes half lidded. Helpful.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He wishes he could pray to something to grant him patience.
“Arthur, I need you to look a little to the left.”
No response.
Fucking hell.
“Arthur?”
Their eyes are open. Well, half open. Arthur is breathing just fine. Heart rate slowing to normal the longer he has to recover.
Well, at the very least, John is now fairly certain whatever Arthur drank won’t kill them. Between dehydration and exertion, he’s pretty sure that it’s well and truly had every opportunity to kill Arthur quickly if it was going to do so. Now, they just have to wait the rest of the effects out.
Annoying, and dangerous when trying to run from creatures. But it’s a small comfort.
Deciding that Arthur isn’t going to respond, John reaches up his hand and gently turns Arthur’s head so he can see out of the cave.
Arthur hums. He doesn’t so much as flinch. He hums and leans into it. Eyes closing. “Your hand feels nice.”
John can’t fathom why . His hand is cold, and Arthur (thankfully) doesn’t seem to be running hot. Although having him warmer (within reason) would be nice, because he is a little worried that Arthur won’t be able to warm up, wet as he is.
But all told, both Arthur’s face and John’s hand are cold. So, there should be no reason for Arthur to do anything but flinch in response to an unfamiliar touch.
Well, unfamiliar in the sense that it isn’t Arthur’s hand anymore, and Arthur has good reason to flinch at touch these days.
But, John can see out of their little crevice now.
He can get a better look at what drove them out of the main cavern.
It’s big. And it looks to contain its own bioluminescence.
“Arthur. I can see the creature.” He breathes. Hand still on Arthur’s face. He has the mad impulse to brush his finger over Arthur's cheek. Still feeling the urge to offer comfort over their tight accommodations, although this Arthur- the Arthur filled with goop instead of water doesn’t seem to care.
If John had a head to shake, he would do so to clear it. He can fuss over Arthur. But not now. “Arthur the creature is massive. It’s. It looks like a massive, bloated orb. Behind it, trail a mass of tentacles float gently beneath it. It seems almost formless. Moving with the grace of the water itself. I don’t see any eyes, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t seen us. It’s. It looks almost …gelatinous. When it moves, it swells itself up and…” He doesn’t know how to describe it.
He hopes that Arthur will have the barest traces of sense to stay quiet.
“A. Bloated orb? In water. John…” Arthur makes a sound that John is pretty sure is a laugh that Arthur didn’t want to happen. “John do you-“ he breaks off in a breathless giggle. “Do you know what a jellyfish is?”
“A what?”
The question falls upon deaf ears. Arthur is laughing again.
“Fucking hell John. Maybe- Maybe it’s friendly.” If there was any room to, John is sure Arthur would be doubled over. His remaining hand is already pressed to his middle as he tries to wheeze in a breath.
“I wouldn’t go that far. At best, it just isn’t aware of us. Arthur, are you saying jellyfish are harmless?”
It’s too soon to relax. And for all they know, even if they are on Earth, well. This isn’t Earth.
“Oh. Oh no. Don’t. Don’t touch the stingers. They. Sting.” And for some unfathomable reason, that starts Arthur tittering again.
Wonderful. So it is dangerous.
“A giant stinging creature isn’t going to be friendly.” He has to say it. Even if it’s like trying to reason with a rock.
“Perhaps not, but it hardly makes it outright hostile.”
John hums. Perhaps that would be a reasonable argument, however Arthur is still leaning into his hand, slurring and eyes half lidded. He cannot trust this Arthur.
Well… perhaps he cannot trust even Arthur at his best to be careful with his precious life. But, perhaps that is unfair of John to say.
Arthur abruptly yawns.
John sighs. He doesn’t know if it’s safe for Arthur to sleep while this cold. But. But well. Maybe Arthur can sleep this off. And a chilly cave is better for sleeping than icy water. And Arthur is far past the point of fatigue.
“You should sleep. We can find a way out when your head is clearer. Maybe there’s a way out through this cave. Or. Or maybe we’ll have to try to get past this …this jellyfish and try to find another way out. There’s still a fair bit of the cavern to search.”
He should shut up. It’s not like Arthur is fucking listening.
Arthur makes a soft sound. Eyes dipping closed. Face pressed against John’s palm.
He turns himself to face the wall, softly grasping John’s wrist. His hand is deposited under Arthur’s face. Keeping it off the cold stone.
And keeping John warm.
It’s. Odd.
Not a place John typically keeps his hand while Arthur is sleeping.
He can’t keep watch. And he can’t get them out of there alone.
Nothing to do but listen to the gentle lapping of water from outside. And count the soft, warm puffs of Arthur’s breaths across his wrist.
Arthur’s shivering stills slowly, as his clothes start to dry. Leaving them stiff and uncomfortable. Still damp, but something approaching warmer.
John thinks the closeness of the ledge to the ceiling might be trapping their body heat.
He worries about Arthur waking up like this. Quite literally pressed between a rock and a hard place.
But even his panic might be a comfort after the wrongness of the past stretch of time. To John, at least.
John wishes he could have enjoyed Arthur being happy. God fucking knows the man deserves it.
John can’t even begin to measure it, how long they’ve been down here. Here in the Dreamlands again.
They don’t know how they got back into the Dreamlands, not really. John just knows he needs to get Arthur out again. Before they are reduced to drinking any other mysterious goo.
He has to remind himself the alternative was death.
After everything they’ve been through, it would have been an insult to have Arthur die of dehydration. And yet it had been a near thing.
Too many close calls.
Still… He’d rather them not be stuck down another hole. At least they’re on better terms this time.
Maybe if they’d managed to not fight last time…. Well, maybe a lot of things would be different.
Best not to think about.
Especially since there is a slight shift in Arthur’s breathing. He tries to still his spinning thoughts.
Arthur wakes with a soft sigh and a slight wiggle and a groan.
His face scrunching up. Perhaps against a headache. John can feel the pressure behind their eyes.
If the only negative effect lingering is a headache, John will count them very lucky indeed.
“Arthur? Are you back with me?”
Arthur presses his face more firmly in John’s hand. “Mmmmmm.”
Encouraging.
“Arthur?”
“Yes. Yes. ‘M here.” Thick and muzzy.
He hears the catch in Arthur’s breathing when remembers where they are. Or perhaps when he feels the brush of his angled shoulders on both the ledge and the ceiling.
A probable precursor to panic shouldn’t be a relief. But it is.
“John?” Instantly more alert. Panic already edging in on his voice. Eyes open and bringing the hand he’s tucked around himself out to feel the wall inches from his nose. “John,” choking on panic before John can get a word in.
“Arthur. Arthur. I need you to take a breath. We are in a small cave off of a larger chamber. Do you remember how…. I’m not sure how much of the past hours you remember.”
Distracted by the question, at least marginally, but still closer to hyperventilation than John would like, Arthur takes a moment to think. “I. I. I drank something. And fell down another fucking pit.”
Somewhat lacking in details. Possibly due to Arthur’s current lack of air. But John can work with that.
“Yes. We …probably would have died if you hadn’t drunk it. But, it wasn’t water and it had… an effect on you. The irony was we found water immediately after. Speaking of, you should drink some.”
“How?” Tight and bordering on annoyed.
“ Breathe , Arthur. While this crevice is small, there is more room than where you are now. This was just the area out of the water. You are on a ledge. It isn’t very tall. Maybe a foot or two above the bottom of the cave. It isn’t big enough to stand, but the cave opens into the large chamber a couple feet past where your head is. We explored part of it. It’s mostly dark in there, but this is the only break in the stone we could find. Arthur there’s a creature out there. We haven’t explored the area on the end of the crevice. I hope we can find a way out there. I know it feels like there are walls on all sides, but there’s no wall at your back. You can take a full breath.”
Arthur tries.
“Are… How are you feeling? I’ve been worried. …We are lucky the goo you drank didn’t kill us.”
Arthur bites back a groan amongst his shallow breaths. “Cramped. Terrified. But. But if you mean physically. URG . Christ my head feels Awful . And I’m stiff, and sore and… and damp…. But. Aside from that. Nothing feels amiss.”
Attention drawn to the pounding behind their eyes, Arthur rubs at his temple.
“Fucking hell. What did I drink?”
“I don’t fucking know, Arthur. But if the only consequence is a headache, I’ll count ourself fortunate.”
Arthur snorts. “You're not the one with the headache. You’ve never had a headache. You don’t even have a head!” Quickly growing indignant.
Argumentative twit, John thinks fondly. “If you roll over, carefully- the ledge is narrow, you’ll be able to reach the water. It’s probably potable. Honestly you probably swallowed a fair bit of it earlier.”
“Well. If it hasn’t killed me yet, it’s probably better than dehydration.”
He grumbles as he turns over. Joints and overextended muscles complaining about everything they’ve been through.
John flexes his hand a few times. It had gone numb some hours ago, but it was worth it to give Arthur what small comfort he could.
Arthur feels for the water level and scoops a little into his mouth. He considered the taste briefly before drinking desperately.
“Slow down. Don’t make yourself sick.”
Arthur waves him off. Drinking his fill, then laying back on the ledge. Panting.
He lets Arthur recover himself. Lets him splash some water on his face.
“Better?”
Arthur hums. “Less thirsty at any rate. Christ, I’m exhausted. Let’s… Let’s get out of here. What are we looking at?”
He’s facing away from the large chamber.
“We are facing away from the pit we fell into. It’s dark. But I think there might be the faint glow from the fungus farther back. It’s hard to tell. Get closer. Carefully. The ledge continues for a ways but I’m not sure when it will end or if the ceiling will get too low. I know it’s tight. But there is more room. We just might want to keep you dry for as long as we can.”
“Yes. The water is… very cold.”
It’s too low to crawl. So Arthur shimmies himself around, and farther back.
“ Oh Arthur . I think it opens up. A bit of a squeeze first, but I can see a larger chamber back there. It’s better lit. It might be a way out. Do you want to chance the creature and the lake or-”
“This way. It sounds less wet.”
“Alright then. Let’s get out of here.”
“Fucking hell, let’s.”
Snappishness
“And here I was hoping that getting out of the Dreamlands would be the first step to getting some rest.”
Arthur leans back against the run down building. He closes his eyes. His breathing doesn’t sound right, but John hopes it’s adrenaline and exertion.
He has his palm pressed against his chest where the large cultist had kicked him a handful of minutes earlier.
He’s dead now.
John made sure of it.
And Arthur is crouched in an alley. Trying to recover his breath.
“Yes, well. You wanted to follow up that lead instead of going back to our room.”
“I didn’t want to lose our opening.”
There’s more bite to it than John had been expecting.
Not by much. He knows Arthur. Knows that his sharp tongue is his first line of defense, and John can hardly blame him for keeping those walls up.
Still. They’ve been trying to be a little less… divided.
Which is difficult when bickering is somewhat of a default. But. They are working on knowing what lines not to cross so that their arguments have less dire consequences.
This is the harshest he’s heard Arthur in a while.
Arthur’s tired. He’s probably hungry. Definitely thirsty.
John has to remind himself of this. Since the last time Arthur snapped at him badly enough that he had to explain himself once he’d calmed down, he’d tried to explain to John what exactly happens when the physical needs aren’t met.
And while he doesn’t get it, a lot of their time in the prison pits and immediately after made a lot more sense. He’d gathered bits and pieces through observation, of course. But between Arthur’s attempted explanations, and John’s curious questioning, he has a better understanding.
He’s taken to repeating all of the physical needs that Arthur hasn’t been able to take care of that could be contributing to stupidity and irritability Before John yells back.
It doesn’t always work.
It often doesn’t. In the heat of the moment.
But mutual understanding does make the aftermath of their fights a little easier.
Even if John directs Arthur to a diner without his asking instead of giving an actual apology. It’s progress.
And once Arthur can think a little more clearly, he tends to be a lot more receptive to John’s thoughts and feelings and advice.
John tries to imagine the chaos of having so many obstacles preventing thinking properly. He can’t.
“We should go back to our room now.”
“Just. Give me a fucking minute.” Still harsh. Angry.
John tries to think of anything he could have said to piss Arthur off recently, but draws a blank.
He’d only made the one comment. And he doesn’t think he’d been that ornery.
Which settles the first inklings of dread in his core.
Further cemented when Arthur finally stands, and hisses in pain.
“Arthur?”
“Fine,” he spits through gritted teeth.
John can’t see any blood. But that’s a small comfort.
It would be a bigger comfort if he could see all of Arthur. But if he were bleeding out again, John would probably be able to see some, at least.
All he sees is Arthur’s hand still pressed to his chest, and the grimy alleyway.
“How far are we from the car?” Still unreasonably harsh.
“I’m not sure.”
“Some fucking help you are.” A grumble. Still with the bite that John isn’t expecting.
John fights the impulse to snap back, but has to steady Arthur instead. The head rush of standing too quickly, the fading adrenaline, and Arthur’s already tenuous balance all working against them.
It doesn’t take long for Arthur to reorient himself. But John worries. Was it longer than usual? He can’t be certain.
His scale is skewed towards all the negative. He has plenty more experience when something is majorly wrong with Arthur. Less so for determining anything in between.
“I'm not sure how far it is, but I do know where it is.”
Arthur sighs as if that in itself is a relief.
“Good. That’s good.” Softer. More within John’s expectations. Not entirely, but it’s enough to take the edge off his fear.
Arthur is walking well enough. Although he keeps his arm close to his body. He doesn’t run his hand over the wall as he walks. It leads him to brush it a few times, each time making a soft sound of discomfort and surprise. But he’s upright and has finally regained his breath.
Still. John can’t help but keep an ear out. Waiting to hear a catch or… t here . A slight wheeze. But they’ve been walking for a while. He is walking quickly.
Arthur is tired, John reminds himself.
Still. He worries.
He holds his tongue as Arthur slides into the car. Air leaving him in a whoosh as he drops into the seat. Perhaps a little harder than he means to.
He leans back into the seat with a groan. Closing his eyes for a long moment. But opens them and feels for the ignition before John can remind him to keep them open.
“Is it clear?” Tone edged. Putting John on edge once more.
“Yes. There is a car behind you, be careful backing up. I’ll tell you when to- good. Stop. We should be able to get out around the car ahead. Good. We’re in the lane. We can start accelerating.”
Arthur does so.
They work in practiced motions to get the car up to speed. John keeping them steady in the lane.
No distortions in their vision.
But something. There’s something. He tries to catch Arthur’s reflection in anything he can. Still no blood. So what…?
It occurs to him that he could ask. Although there is no guarantee Arthur will answer.
“Arthur? Are you hurt?”
Arthur sucks a breath in through his teeth.
“I. I don’t know. John. I don’t know. A lot of things hurt right now. I’m Tired . We can talk about it later.”
John can feel the tautness in Arthur’s face. Pulling in a sure path towards a tension headache. Not that John really experiences such things, but he can feel the tightness. The pulse of …something. Even if not the pain itself.
He doesn’t want to drop it.
Arthur sighs. “Look. It’s hard to tell in the heat of the moment. I can’t be certain if I’m injured, but I think we would know by now if there was something life threatening.” Voice tight. Still decidedly hostile.
But John knows he’s trying.
“But you are in pain.”
It isn’t a question, because the edge in his tone tells him plenty.
“...Yes.” Reluctant.
John gives him a moment to elaborate. Knowing that Arthur likely won’t.
“We need to turn left in just a- start slowing. Good. We are almost there.”
“Good.” Clipped.
Perhaps the confirmation makes Arthur’s discomfort easier to read. Or perhaps he’s not trying so hard to hide it, now that he’s already admitted it.
Arthur’s hand drifts towards where the cultist’s boots met his ribs.
John makes an effort not to comment.
Arthur hisses when he turns to get their bag from the passenger seat. Hands flying to his ribs.
Well then, John supposes he has his answer.
What he doesn’t know is how badly Arthur is hurt. Is this something that Arthur can sleep off over a few days or weeks of rest ( ha ) or do they need a hospital?
“Arthur?”
He bites off the impulse to press further.
Arthur has them moving though, and John almost stumbles to help direct them before Arthur gets impatient and starts feeling for the entrance of the hotel on his own.
“Another step before the door. Pull to open. Good. The staircase is towards the back on the right, I’ll tell you where to turn. A little further. Yes. Turn. Stairs. Good. Not far now.”
Arthur gets winded on the stairs. Hand pressed against his ribs again.
“Arthur. Your ribs… That cultist kicked you very hard.”
“I fucking know that,” Arthur spits around exaggerated breaths.
“Are they broken?”
“I don’t fucking know, John. I don’t think so. But they fucking hurt.”
“Try poking them. If they crunch we should get you to a hospital.”
“I’m not going to fucking poke them. I want to get some fucking sleep. And have a shower.” Arthur pushes them off the wall he’d been leaning on. “Where’s the fucking room?” He isn’t any less winded. But apparently Arthur is done with the conversation.
“Just a few more stairs. There. Now we’re the third door on the left. That’s one. Two. Annnd three. Here. I’ll get the key.”
John struggles to latch the door behind them as Arthur trudges towards the bed with single minded determination.
John bites back a curse.
“Don’t you at least want to take a look at your ribs?” He asks in an act of desperation. He cannot be blamed for wanting to see the damage with their own eyes.
How is he supposed to help if he can’t assess the damage?
“Later, John.” Arthur sounds tired. Tone clipped, still.
John tries to bite down the sinking feeling that he will be stuck with a very irritable Arthur for a while.
“For now. I would very much like to sleep.”
Something that proves difficult almost as soon as Arthur lies down.
Arthur typically begins nights on his side. He seems to have a preference for his right side, but does pick the left a fair number of times as well, which John doesn’t mind, so long as his half of the arm isn’t folded against the body in a way that cuts off his circulation.
Which happens often enough anyways, since Arthur is not a quiet sleeper.
Even less so when on an actually comfortable mattress. When the ground is hard, it often means Arthur is more depleted by circumstance, and that even if he wasn’t, there are fewer positions that aren’t uncomfortable to the point that the discomfort often wakes Arthur if he moves wrong. A problem that became infinitely more relevant the farther his bones jutted out from his thin skin in the prison pits.
Thankfully, he’s a bit less skeletal these days. Not quite healthy, but something closer to it.
As much as John despises the concept of eating, it is rather nice to not be constantly worried that Arthur will simply snap in half if the wind blows a little too hard.
But when Arthur tries to settle himself, he inhales sharply.
John knows him well enough to recognize the sound of Arthur in pain.
“You might want to stick with lying on your back.”
He tries to say it gently. But isn’t surprised when Arthur all but snarls at him. “I fucking know that.”
John decides not to point out that Arthur Hadn’t , or he wouldn’t have lay down like that to start with.
Arthur closes his eyes and tries to settle on his back, hand coming up instinctively to make sure his ribs hadn’t gone anywhere.
John strains to hear if anything shifts in there that shouldn’t.
“Do they feel broken?” The anxiety eats at him. Much as he knows that Arthur wants him to drop it.
“Lay off, John. We can take a look tomorrow. I’m fucking spent.”
John waits as Arthur’s shallow breathing eases into something more natural and gentle as exhaustion pulls him under.
When he is sure Arthur is asleep, John carefully moves his hand to Arthur’s chest. If the ribs are broken, well… there isn’t much to be done, but John needs to know. He needs to know just how much to worry. Because if he doesn’t know how much to worry, this lump of panic will continue to choke him.
Do you know how disconcerting a feeling it is to choke when one doesn’t have a throat or lungs?
Good.
He pulls back his hand when Arthur whimpers at the contact. But he doesn’t wake.
Good. That’s good. Arthur needs his sleep.
He runs himself into the ground, mortal peril or not, and when their body can’t keep up, he sleeps for a truly impressive number of hours.
Something that scared the shit out of John the first time it occurred when Arthur wasn’t actively in a coma or fevered out of his mind.
He’d pat Arthur awake in a panic. Only to have him grumble unintelligibly and roll on top of John’s hand and proceed to sleep like the dead once more.
On a more average night Arthur twists and sighs and shifts almost waking repeatedly. Never in one position long. And often mumbling to himself.
He remembers early days when he tried to speak back.
It made him feel less alone. Less on edge.
He supposes it still does, in a way. At least one tangible proof that Arthur is still there. That he will wake up in a matter of minutes or hours instead of days or months. But he doesn’t often speak back anymore. Just glad that Arthur is getting any rest he can.
He’s not sure when it dawned on him that humans don’t typically look as worn and tired as his.
Even at the start, Arthur had looked tired. Which he hasn’t really realized wasn’t typical for a while.
John wants him to sleep well.
John presses a little more firmly on Arthur’s ribs. Straining to hear the sound of bones grinding and shifting where they shouldn’t. Thankfully, he hears nothing of the sort. And he doesn’t feel unnatural movement.
However Arthur inhales sharply, it’s more of a bitten off cry than a whimper.
John holds his metaphorical breath, praying that Arthur won’t wake.
Their eyes blink. And a few tears leak onto Arthur’s cheeks.
“John?” He calls softly.
“Go back to sleep, Arthur. You’re alright.”
Debatably.
But nothing’s broken. As far as John can tell.
Of course the trick will be getting Arthur to rest long enough for them to heal. Or at least prevent him from getting hit in the chest until they heal so things don’t get worse.
John knows keeping Arthur in one place long enough to heal is beyond him. Arthur despises staying in one place that long.
Perhaps John can persuade him to stick to detective work and encourage him away from bursting in guns (which they’ve lost again in reality) blazing.
John wipes away Arthur’s tears. The guilt of causing Arthur pain twisting in him.
John smooths his hand lightly down Arthur’s chest until he comes to rest on a less bruised area, gently running his thumb back and forth, hoping that will soothe Arthur back into sleep.
Arthur closes his eyes again. Breathing shallow. But it evens into sleep eventually.
It’s a restless night.
Well. Restless in the sense that Arthur shifts and stirs and wakes himself up with harsh gasps of pain.
He does sleep between that.
And he sleeps longer than he often manages.
It might not be restful or restive. But Arthur does rest.
When he wakes, it’s with a groan, slowly pushing himself to sitting.
“Arthur?” John asks as Arthur sits up, slowly. Arm crossed protectively over his ribs.
“Morning, John,” He says. More than a little forced, but less hostile for the rest. More wry than pissed off. An improvement. “We should… ah. Take a look at these. I don’t suppose I’m going to feel any better for waiting.” He taps at his chest, feather light, as if John could possibly forget what he’s been worrying about.
Anything else Arthur could have said is lost to a jaw cracking yawn.
It ends in a wince, as many things have for Arthur recently.
John would very much like that to not be the case.
He wonders how much more pleasant their lives would be without Arthur constantly injured or tired or hot or thirsty or hungry.
“Fuck,” Arthur mumbles to himself as he drags them to their feet.
“Are you…?” John hesitates to ask the rest of the question. He doesn’t want to be snapped at first thing in the morning.
Well. It is hardly the first thing.
Mid morning, if he hazards a guess.
Arthur had slept a long time, although looks none the better for it as he comes to a stop in front of the bathroom mirror, having felt his way there with audible discomfort.
“What do we do if they are broken? We can’t afford to sit around in hospital when those fucking cultists could come after us.” He taps his long fingers against the edge of the sink, nervous.
John does not point out that if Arthur hadn’t stuck his nose into fucking cultist layer, then no one would be after them right now.
“Unbutton your shirt. Let’s take a look.”
He decides to not tell Arthur that he checked the ribs last night. It wasn’t a proper examination, and he isn’t sure how Arthur feels about being touched by the entity sharing his body while he sleeps.
Surely he knows that John has no intention of crossing any lines. At least lines he knows exist.
Not always a given.
But John doesn’t want to test Arthur’s charity at the moment.
Humans are so touchy.
In any case, Arthur unbuttons his shirt, slowly.
Fingers still numb from the long sleep.
“ Fucking hell , you’ve got a bruised outline of a shoe on your chest. I can almost make out the tread on this thing.”
Arthur raises a finger to trace the outline of his hurt. He hisses in pain.
“Any idea how to tell if they are broken or…?”
“Not really, but …Arthur I am going to need to touch them. I’ll try to be gentle.”
Arthur makes a face.
He inhales sharply when John brushes his fingers across the deep bruising. He closes their eyes on instinct, but opens them again before John scolds him for it. Not that John really needs to see this. He just needs to feel for it.
…Actually, he is starting to feel guilty for making Arthur stand through this when he doesn’t really need to see beyond wanting to see if there was any visible deformation of the area. Particularly of the bones themselves, but he’s done that now. There shouldn’t be further cause to keep Arthur on his feet.
Now he runs his hand as gently as he can over Arthur’s still far too prominent ribs, as distinct as piano keys. He is fairly certain that rib cages aren’t supposed to look like that, and it makes him worry that the bones themselves will be more brittle than they ought. But while Arthur does flinch away from the pain of even the light touch, John can’t feel any breaks in the bone.
That doesn’t mean they aren’t cracked, but… between his cursory check last night and this, he might be able to put a pin in those worries for now.
“I. I don’t think they’re broken.”
Arthur’s shoulders sag in relief.
“Perhaps we should still get them looked at…”
“No. No. If they aren’t broken, there’s nothing to be done about it. Yes, it hurts, but I suppose we will just have to be careful.”
John snorts. “You? Careful? ”
Arthur’s face twists into a frown. “Fuck off.” Harsh once more. And John remembers why he had been holding his tongue.
After a long moment he lets out a breath. “I’m. I’m sorry John. That was. Unfair of me. Yes. Let’s. Be more careful than I typically am. We still have leads to follow. Perhaps we can start at the library… No. Breakfast. Then the library. I’d be anxious to learn more about this cult. We don’t even know who or what they follow.”
And John supposed he can’t argue with that.
Agreeability
Arthur makes a small pained sound as the needle goes in. But he keeps their eyes open.
“Good Arthur. This should be the last stitch.”
“Good thing…”. Arthur breaks off panting. Which isn’t a good sign. But he’s conscious. Which is better than- no he cannot think about last time right now. The next inhale is shaky. “Good thing we bought the first aid kit.” The words lax in his mouth.
John ties off the stitch. It’s neat. He’s been practicing. Perhaps he’s tied the knot a little on the large side. But come hell and high water (both likely to come sooner or later knowing their luck) the stitches won’t be going anywhere.
“Yes. And good thing there’s a little disinfectant in your bag. We will need to get more. But this will work for now.”
“You. John. You take such good care of me.”
The sentiment makes him freeze.
While it’s nice to be appreciated, this is Not normal behavior for Arthur.
“Are you sure you aren’t bleeding from anywhere else?”
“Wh- what? I don’t think so. You’d know..”. He has to stop for breath again. “Better than me.”
He slowly moves his head so John can take a look.
There’s a lot of blood. But he’s fairly sure it’s all from the shoulder wound he’s already sewn up.
It’s a lot of blood.
John hastily snips the excess thread, cleaning the needle and the wound, winding a bandage around the area and stowing the kit in their bag once again.
“How are you feeling?” Fear still twisting in his gut. Or lack of gut. Still pricking with anxiety that the creature will return to finish the job.
“Woozy. But. I think I can walk. Thank you John. You. You saved me again.” Words warm. Voice unsteady.
He wishes he could let Arthur rest.
But they do have to move.
John catches them in the wall with unfortunately practiced ease when Arthur gets to their feet.
By now John knows that their vision will darken. That Arthur sways dangerously when that much red has spilled out of him. Knows that their fingers will tremble. Cold and clammy against the basement wall. That Arthur won’t be getting enough air if they move too quickly. That his answers get distant and dim.
And sure enough, John’s field of view narrows to almost nothing and Arthur sways against where John has grasped onto the wall.
His breath catches and John can’t be certain if it’s pain or wooziness that leaves him breathless.
Probably both.
“The stairs are across the room. Maybe about forty paces in front of us. And a little to the left. I can keep us steady on the wall.”
Arthur’s head bobs and John sincerely hopes that’s supposed to be agreement and not that Arthur will be fainting imminently.
There’s no guarantee either way.
“The next time I-“ he has to pause for breath. Their feet uneven beneath them. John steadies them, but so far hasn’t worried about Arthur falling. Yet at least. The stairs might be an obstacle, but Arthur has climbed far more stairs with far less blood. “The next time I get stabbed, or-“ he gasps again. “Or or whatever. Ground floor. Ground- let’s try for the-“ he coughs slightly. Chokes on his own lack of air.
“Easy, Arthur. Take it slowly. I think the cultists ran when that creature appeared. And the creature ran off after you stabbed it. We probably don’t need to worry about it coming back until it’s had some time to recover.”
Arthur doesn’t stop trying to walk, but he almost stumbles. Doubling over to cough again while John clings to the wall. “Let’s try for the ground floor next time I’m stabbed.”
Logically John knows that Arthur isn’t as close to death as last time. That the cough is as much the dry air and dehydration as it is the blood loss. But that doesn’t stop him from being afraid.
And the almost jovial tone isn’t easing his fears.
“Let’s hope this isn’t a common occurrence,” John says, although it already is. He aims for dry humor and misses.
Still, he feels Arthur’s lips twist into a smile.
Arthur draws breath to respond, but it catches in his parched throat, and he’s doubled over coughing again.
“It’s okay, Arthur. Take a minute. Fucking hell. ”
His vision is swimming again. Their vision. That awful ringing in their ears again. And he can feel Arthur’s rapid pulse echoing through his limbs.
At least they aren’t being chased, at least for the moment.
He has the urge to place his palm over Arthur’s heart until it stops pounding quite so frantically, but Arthur’s knees wobble, and John knows he can’t risk letting go.
Not unless he fancies trying to scrape Arthur off the cold basement floor.
“We’re at the stairs. Can you climb them?”
Arthur’s panting heavily, but at least he isn’t coughing, for the moment.
“You,” another gasp. John desperately wants to lead Arthur somewhere where he can get some clean water and rest. “You worry too much.”
He stifles another cough, rubbing at his face, which does nothing at all to clear their vision. Possibly makes it worse, with the blood that is still wet and sticky all down Arthur’s arm.
And winces, as it pulls on the stitches.
It’s on Arthur’s face now. Clinging to their eyelashes.
Arthur makes a faint sound of disgust.
“The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can clean up.”
John doesn’t have to urge him forward. He takes the first step on his own.
Which. Well. He doesn’t fall. But John fights to hold Arthur steady. Arthur’s blood still slick on his hand.
He tries not to think about how he’s essentially leaving a bloody trail for anyone to follow.
Arthur closes his eyes against the dizziness without stopping and John finds himself snapping “Keep your fucking eyes open!”
Arthur doesn’t have breath to answer, coughing again, but once he’s recovered, he feels for John’s hand and gives it a fond squeeze while he gasps.
It makes him nervous that Arthur doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Doesn’t say a goddamn thing.
They make it to the top of the stairs, where Arthur abruptly sits.
“No. No. No . Arthur, you can’t rest here. We’re so fucking close! Get the Fuck up!”
Arthur mumbles something through slack lips but John doesn’t catch it before Arthur slumps sideways, in a faint.
He gasps awake less than a minute later. Not even enough time for John to really get into yelling.
An abyss of fear opens in him any time Arthur’s eyes close.
What if he won’t wake?
What if he can’t reach him and he’s trapped and what if something happens to Arthur and he doesn’t get his friend back?
The fears flee his mind as Arthur groans. Making to sit up, and immediately swaying until John catches them again.
“Easy, Arthur,” he reminds Arthur with all the gentleness he can manage.
Arthur reaches for John’s hand again. Perhaps not up to speaking just yet. He squeezes once and pushes to his feet.
John is once again appreciative of Arthur’s strength of will. And of course frustrated, as Arthur almost crashes back down again. But John catches him.
“Slowly, Arthur. The door is in front of you. Maybe 15 paces. Can you make it?”
Arthur doesn’t answer. But he takes a step.
And another.
And another.
And with John guiding, they make their way out of the stupid fucking cult building, and towards what John sincerely hopes is safety.