The Screams Behind the Shadows
He looked so damn broken laying there. The light from the hallway spilled in behind her, highlighting the bruises marching across his bare back. One arm was jammed beneath the pillow under his head. The other stretched across the mattress like he was reaching for something. Sweat plastered his hair to his head.
A glass stood on the bedside table, still filled with Scotch. She eased into the room and picked it up, downing it before she gave herself chance to think about it. It went through her like a bolt of lightning.
"Burns, doesn't it?" he drawled.
She put the glass back down with a distinct click. "How do you feel?" she asked and studied him, taking in the clammy pallor of his skin, the shadows below his eyes, the sheer exhaustion that was so very evident now that she'd learned to read him.
"Pour us another love, will ya?" He eased onto his side, then sat, slumping back against the headboard. A sudden chill hit him and he reached for the blanket, drawing it over his aching body. How do I bloody feel? He thought sourly. Like I've been ridden hard and put up wet. "I've had better mornings."
"It's five o clock." She refilled the glass and held it out to him.
"Like I said, I've had better mornings," he said and reached for the glass, not quite managing to hide the tremor in his hands. The second mouthful hit his stomach before he realised what a mistake he was making. Spit flooded his mouth as his stomach rolled. He let the glass drop and closed his eyes, focusing on not puking all over himself.
Cool hands grabbed his arm and he flinched, jerking away. The nausea eased, then redoubled. The hands vanished for a second, then one returned, pressing something into his fists. He latched onto it automatically, realising it was a bowl just as he lost the battle with his stomach. It was mostly dry heaves, but he lost the Scotch he'd just swallowed. It burned just as much on the way back up.
"John!" Zed's voice finally made it through the buzzing in his skull.
Wouldn't that be bloody typical, he thought fuzzily. I survive a demon and it's the bloody smack that does me in.
She shook him lightly. The movement set off the nausea again. He retched, bringing up nothing but bile. I should have got them to kill me. Hell couldn't be worse than this. The spasm faded, leaving him shaking and spent, leaning on the headboard for support. His head throbbed like someone was beating it with a hammer, and the rest of his body wasn't much better. His usual cocky confidence had gone, chased away by sheer bloody exhaustion and the pain that was gnawing at his joints.
"What's going on, John?" Zed asked. "Is this from the demon?"
He wasn't sure how much of it was withdrawal and how much of it was from being a hellspawn's finger puppet. Human bodies just weren't designed to be used as living taxis for major demons. Add in the beating he'd received at the hands of the gang, and it was a clusterfuck of misery.
"I thought the demon healed you?" she continued.
"Just what was likely to kill me." He sighed. "This isn't likely to kill me, love." He cracked an eye open and looked at her. "Much as I want bloody want it to."
The bed shifted under her weight as she sat down, back to him. Her shoulders were stiff, and he could see faint movement as she toyed with one of her rings. "I had a friend when I was fifteen. She liked to party, got in with a bad crowd." She paused, and he waited, content to let her find the words. "Two days before my sixteenth birthday, she overdosed and died. I won't go through that again. I can't."
"I'm not going anywhere, love," he promised. Now that the nausea had passed, all he wanted to do was sleep again, but something was prodding him to stay awake. "What was her name?"
Zed turned and looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. "Anna."
"I saw it all around me when I was growing up. Kids had nothing to do, so they'd dabble." He swiped his hand under his nose. "Drugs are a great escape. So was magic, for me."
"Until it wasn't?" she ventured.
"Until I fucked up," he said bluntly. "I'll pay for that, down the line."
The chills were getting to him again. He pulled the blanket higher, wishing the wooden headboard wasn't so cold against his back. His teeth wanted to chatter. He bit his lip, riding it out, waiting for the spasm to pass. It did, after a long, aching moment.
"What can I do for you?" she asked.
"Stay?" he asked, knowing that if he'd been well, the word wouldn't have ever crossed his lips. Don't let anyone too close, because they'll either betray you or get hurt. Don't get attached, because when you fuck up again, it won't matter. You can just drop everything and go, and no-one will be there to give a damn.
She kicked her boots off and settled in next to him, shoulder against the headboard. "For as long as you'll have me," she answered, beating down the panic that train of thought raised in her. I won't go back there. I'll throw myself into the grey room before I let them drag me back.
He shifted and something brushed the inside of her wrist. She looked down, seeing one of his hands resting there, fingers curled gently against her skin. "I'm sorry about your friend," he murmured, voice thick and heavy with sleep.
"Yeah, me too." She flipped the blanket over her jean clad legs and eyed the sleeping man next to her. "I'm sorry about a lot of things, John." She sighed. "But I guess you'll find that out soon enough."