"You'll thank me later, Professor."
Fire...smoke...heat...
Pain...terrible pain...fear...blood...
Darkness.
"...something I was going to tell him..."
Lights. Bright. Harsh. Hurts.
No more heat. Cold. Too cold.
Pain.
Jagged, sharp, hollow in his chest.
Burning again. But still cold.
Not right.
"...doesn't have family..."
Darkness again.
Close. Claustrophobic. Heavy.
Pressure on his...everything.
Weight of the world.
Like Atlas.
Hurts still.
Maybe a little less.
"...but Christ, that's unnerving..."
"...and help me get him..."
Pressure's gone.
Pain's gone, too.
Not cold burning with harsh lights.
Not heat and fire with smoky darkness.
Warm...soft...safe? Maybe.
Better than before, at least.
"...still isn't awake..."
"...took you even longer..."
Feeling. Sensation somewhere...other...else...not here...
Movement? Little twitches, separately. Fingers. And a hand. Two, actually.
And the hand bones' connected to the arm bones...
Arms? And legs and feet...
A body. Huh. Forgot he had one.
He? Yes...he...him...his.
I, me, my.
My...what? Body? Yes.
More than bones. Cartilage, joints, tendons, ligaments. Organs, nerves, glands, muscles.
All working, but...different. Stronger. New.
Shiny.
Movement again. More of it now. Getting better at it.
Feels...soft, still. But new soft. Different soft. Better.
Other things present, not physical, too. Bits of...things, other than now, which was most important.
Things other than now could wait. Now was difficult enough.
Bugger.
Pain's back.
In his mouth. No, not quite. Jaw? Closer. Teeth. Yes, teeth.
"...finally coming 'round..."
Oh, oh new sensation. Not good. Rough, painful, bad, get away!
Lungs work, air hissed out.
"...bit sensitive yet..."
Bloody right, sensitive!
Darkness still, but different. Controlled. Could be ended, with effort.
Oh, but light hurt, stung, drew tears. Eyes shut, turn away. Try again later, when lights go away.
New things coming back, new sensations to go with.
Scent. Woodsmoke and leather and aftershave and forest, blood and recycled air and oil and plastic and metal.
Taste. Blood, rich and thick and newpenny and copper and honey and liquid smoke.
Hearing. Soft breathing and heartbeats (three of them) and quiet crackling and shifting fabric. And voices.
Ones he knew. From...from...before, before now and before the pain and fire. But wait...no. Wrong. One voice was out of place. Shouldn't be heard, not ever again.
"Cutter? Nick?"
Nick? Oh. Right.
I, me, my. Nick Cutter. My name.
Voice was still wrong. Shouldn't be hearing that one. Not now, not ever.
"At least let us know you're still kicking in there, mate."
Pieces coming together. Falling together, finding places after being thrown far and wide by fire and burning and blood.
Frayed threads coming back, weaving into tapestry. Disjointed sensations reforming to memories. So close...seeking...searching...
A touch.
SNAP_
Found.
Nick's arm snapped up hard and fast, hand in a fist, to connect with skin and bone. The impact trembled up his arm in a most delightful way, startling through his bones. The sound of a body falling back against hard floor, sputtering an angry, "Motherfucker!" Another voice laughing, a bright, merry sound.
He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the light in bits and pieces. An unfamiliar room, unfamiliar bed, but familiar clothes. His best suit. The hell was he wearing his suit for? What was wrong with his other clothes? He had to close his eyes again because his mind was currently imploding with an overload of new and different. Everything felt new and different. Even him. He was aware of himself in a way he hadn't ever been. He shifted, rolling his shoulders and flexing his muscles. He felt strangely aware of his body, feeling all his joints and muscles working in a way that was almost magical. Like a snake that'd shed its old skin for the strong new one underneath, like his skin had been peeled back and his nerves were all exposed.
"Nick."
He opened on eye slowly, still trying to make sense of everything swirling around all helter-skelter in his head and the new sensations that were taking over his body.
Connor? He wasn't sure he could make his throat work yet, still trying to get a handle on everything else, and instead asked with his eyes. His student looked just as new and different. No more odd, mismatched layers. Sleek and neat suit. And fingerless gloves, dear Lord. But more than that. He had an air of confidence, of self-assuredness, holding himself upright and steady, certain. "What do you remember, Nick?" he asked quietly, voice low and urgent, no stumbling or stammering.
Remember?
He remembered heat and smoke and fire... Helen. And then pain, sharp and bright and...and... He lifted a hand, pressing it to his chest. Oh. She'd shot him. Bit not good. And then Connor, coughing and sooty and sad-eyed, coming to sit next to him. Nick had given him the artefact, told him it was his now. And...Connor's eyes had gone hard, resolved, and he'd pulled off one of his gloves.
You'll thank me later, Professor.
The taste of blood in his mouth. The darkness. The pressure, the claustrophobic feeling of being close and trapped and...oh, God.
Nick felt his heart pick up speed, breath coming faster. He'd died. He had died and been buried and had been in a coffin under six feet of dirt and...his suit. He was wearing his best suit. For his funeral. Oh, God.
"Nick, don't panic. You're alright." Connor moved closer to him, reaching out to curl one hand around his wrist. And the contact was like summer lightning darting up his arm, all his nerves prickling in awareness of the younger man's presence, not a student anymore. More important than that, so much more important. A siren song, calling through his bones and blood, promising safety and comfort and warmth, here with him... His body relaxed, melting down into a puddle of contentment on what he realised was a bed. Connor smiled, his voice becoming soft and lilting, almost a coo. "See? It's all alright, now, Nick. You're safe. I won't let anyone else hurt you, and once you've gotten a hold of yourself again, we can go find the others and we can all be a family together."
We? He kept saying 'we' like there was someone else...but there was someone else. The third heartbeat, the second voice, the one he shouldn't hear now or ever again. A new part of him which prickled with all-consuming awareness of Connor also felt something, someone else, standing behind him, where he couldn't see, but he wasn't afraid. Connor wasn't frightened, so neither was he. Languidly, he rolled over, turning onto his back; the sheets gliding across his skin were a delight all their own.
But the sight which greeted him was enough to stun him into complete stillness, despite the summer lightning presence of Connor's hand, now gently rubbing his upper arm. Nick felt his breath catch and his heart shiver, a peculiar tightening clenching so sharp in his chest it ached.
"I know. Now I'm almost as ugly as you are," Stephen Hart remarked, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. Across his throat was a latticework of pale scars, one of them inching up his jaw to cut across his cheek, just missing his mouth. More scars darted this way and that across his arms, disappearing under his clothes.
Nick turned his head up to Connor, trying to make sense of what was happening, of everything. This was wrong, everything was wrong here, had to be, because Stephen was dead...just like Nick was supposed to be dead and...oh.
Connor slid fingers back through his hair, and Nick arched back into the touch, eyes drifting shut. "Shh. It's okay. What you're feeling now, that fear, it's just the leftover bits from when you died. It'll go away. You'll see. All that fear and uncertainty goes away, and once it does, you'll feel so much better. We'll be a family, Nick. Promise. I'll go find Abby and Miss Lewis, and they'll be with us, too. Proper family."
Family? Yes. That was right. Because Stephen was his brother, his friend, his companion. And Connor was...was their father, the ones that'd brought them to this new life where everything felt sharp and clean and good. And once they had Abby and Jenny, they'd be a whole family, just like they had been before, only with much stronger ties, these ones forged in blood rather than just feeling.
He opened his eyes once Connor took his hand from Nick's hair, only to see him peeling off his gloves, a sight Nick couldn't ever recall seeing before. Connor placed one fingernail against the fragile skin of his inner wrist and drew across, blood welling up easy and quick beneath the sharp edge.
Nick felt his whole being swell with a burning, glowing, brilliant sensation of...of...oh, hell, he hadn't a word for it, except that it was wanting and needing and lust and love and desire and craving and hunger all twisted and tangled up into one. Connor held his wrist to Nick's mouth, but now it didn't taste like blood used to taste, newpenny copper. Now it was sweet and rich like wild honey with a bite of smoke to it, like silk down his throat.
Vaguely, he felt the bed shift, heard Stephen's quiet whimper, "Connor? Sire?"
"Needn't be jealous of your little brother, Stephen," Connor murmured, and Nick opened his eyes to see Stephen leaning over Connor's other arm, mouth pressed to the crook of his elbow.
Connor was right. He did feel better.
Gently yet firmly, Connor pulled his wrist from Nick and his arm from Stephen, the two small wounds disappearing in only a few seconds as if they'd never been at all. He fixed his clothes neatly and then smiled at them both. "Very good. Now, let's go get our girls, shall we?"
Jenny dropped her keys on the hall table as she shuffled through the front door, then slumped back against the wall, her breath leaving her in a ragged, gasping sob. She slid down the wall, hand pressed over her mouth to hold in any other sound despite the fact she was alone.
She had quit the ARC. She said that almost dying was a catalyst, but it wasn't true. Nick dying had taken it out of her. She couldn't bear working there so long as he wasn't there, it simply wasn't the same. However, she had stayed as long as she had for the team, because she knew that they couldn't bear another loss so soon. If not for Abby and Connor, she would've turned in her resignation the day after Nick's funeral.
Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands, sobbing. It hurt all over again, and she was beginning to wonder if it would ever not hurt, that ragged ache in her chest, in her heart. Leaving had rubbed salt in the wound, ripped it open anew, knowing that she wouldn't ever be in that place again, never see anything of Nick's.
Finally, after the tears stopped coming and her breath was hitching in the way it only did after a proper crying fit, Jenny managed to get to her feet and start towards the stairs. She was having a good, long, hot shower, perhaps another good cry, and then to bed for her, perhaps for the next day or so.
Rough hands seized her from behind, an arm around her waist. Jenny opened her mouth to scream, but before could even draw breath, a rough, bricklayer hand was pressed over her mouth, a solid body pressed firmly to her back. She bucked and writhed, but then a low voice speaking in her ear made her freeze. She was quite certain her heart even stopped a moment.
"No, no, mustn't sing for me just yet, darling," Nick Cutter murmured against her ear. "Now be a good girl and come along with me. I'm going to take you back to Father and Big Brother, and then you'll be our new sister and my mate, just like we should've been before. And don't be afraid, either. Once you come back to yourself and all your pieces fall together, you'll feel so very good."
She was able to tilt her head back just enough to see his face as he grinned broadly. And there was just enough light for her to see that his teeth were sharp.
"Come along now, love," he said, sharp teeth gleaming. "We're going to be a family."