A/N: Damn you Eddie Gluskin for being Bae
Inspired by the Outlast Comic I'm So Sorry by the amazingly talented relina-ru on DA!
(OMFG YOU ARE AN AMAZING ARTIST AND UNF)
Groom's Bride
It had been weeks, and still Waylon was trapped. He just couldn't get out of the hellhole known as Mount Massive Asylum, and he'd tried, God how he'd tried!
He'd thought he'd made it, had been in the jeep with the Walrider walking-walking?!-slowly towards him. Had made it out of the gates but, barely a half-mile down the road, he'd been forced to slam on the brakes and make a duck-and-run out of the Jeep and back towards the Asylum. Murkoff's goons had been waiting and hadn't hesitated to open fire on him, and so he had returned to the madhouse.
And so he had stayed, sleeping in vents and sneaking through the various Territories that the Variants had set up, trying to ignore the vicious headaches that made his eyes water and the disturbing, face-like inkblots of the Engine that flickered into view when he was asleep or tired or sick (He'd spent two days holed up in a vent with several blood-stained rags that had once been clothes, shivering through a fever and trying not to vomit. Damn chills would kill him before the Variants at this rate). He'd kept his camera with him, filming where he could and hoarding batteries but...
But there were only so many batteries, and he only had so much willpower.
He'd never been a brave man, always a pacifist first and a hero never. Hell, he'd met Lisa when her date had given him a black eye for bumping into their table while he was a waiter as one of those bar-and-grills that was more bar than grill, accidentally spilling the jerk's fourth beer on him. Lisa had punched her date right back, broken his nose even, and had then helped get an ice pack for Waylon's eye.
They'd spent the rest of his shift talking and laughing and...
Damn it, he missed her so much.
But...
But he would die here, sitting in this ragged, rubble-filled room far to close to Eddies Territory than he ever wanted to be. Especially after he'd heard the screams and whispers, because, apparently, not even impalement could keep The Groom from the search for his Darling.
Honestly, there were times where Waylon was at his lowest, and legitimately considered going out to greet his death, by either Firing Squad, Variant, or the Work Table of The Groom. Even now, he had a broken piece of glass next to him, because he never knew if he would need to either defend himself, or if he'd finally get up the balls to just end it now, before he could fall either to his own mind or to one of the madmen that surrounded him.
He was just so damn tired, of being scared, being hunted, being alone and cut off.
He missed the sun and warmth and genuine, soft laughter.
He missed his children.
He missed Lisa, his Wife and Best Friend.
He just...
He was so damn tired.
Slowly, he turned the camera, staring into the lens and turning the screen so he could see his gaunt, broken form in the Night Vision. There was only one battery left, half-gone already. He would use it for this.
"Lisa," he whispered, trying to smile but stopping after he saw how dim it looked. "I didn't make it... Forgive me," he pleaded softly, staring into the screen as a more genuine smile twitched his lips up a little, making the cut under his eye sting. "I fucked up..." He let out a stuttery breath. "I love you..." He whispered, and stared for a moment longer, before he turned the camera off and slowly set his hands in his lap.
A treacherous tear slid down his cheek, followed by another, and he choked, gritting his teeth as he tried not to break down completely. The Engine was buzzing in his head again, and he just wanted it all to stop-!
He could feel Her Hand on his shoulder, shocking him out off his tears, making him go still. He could feel her breath on his ear as she leaned her head against his, a comforting, silent warmth against his back, just like when he'd wake up from the nightmare memories of his childhood. His shoulders slumped, and, without looking, Waylon slowly lifted a hand, fingers curling around hers.
"I'm so sorry, Baby," he murmured, exhaustedly closing his eyes as more tears slid slowly down his cheek. "I'm so sorry..." He clenched his eyes shut and leaned slightly back into he-
"It's alright, Darling," Eddie's voice soothed lowly, making Waylon's eyes shoot open as he froze in terror. Suddenly, the fingers in his own were large, curled over the entirety of his shoulder, the breath against his ear fever-hot, the head against his massive and smooth as it slowly nuzzled his ratty, filthy hair. He didn't even dare to breath as The Groom continued lowly, softly behind him.
"I Forgive You."
He couldn't move, frozen and horrified, the Engine Buzzing, and tears still slowly falling. Eddie moved him, the massive hand on his shoulder squeezing gently, ever-so-gently, before slipping out from under his own hand and cupping his jaw, slowly turning his head, and Waylon could no more resist the silent order to look than he could have faced the Firing Squad unflinching.
The Groom was smiling, not bright and giddy like before, but sweet and soft and tender, and he moved to better face the frozen Waylon so he could use both hands to cup his face, dwarfing the smaller man easily, just as always. His hands were warm and his thumbs gently wiped away the trailing tears as his pale blue eyes held Waylon's own green-hazel.
"Shh, my Darling," Eddie murmured, smiling. "There's no need for tears." Waylon stared, silent and still, and something in him-his head or heart or soul-just broke.
Weeks of running and hiding, of being terrified and hurt and starving, of being so utterly isolated and alone, culminated into a single, heartbreaking moment as he realized that his only relief in this whole damn place, was either Death or the man before him.
He broke, and the dam fell away.
"E-Eddie," he choked, and the tears came hard and fast as he sobbed, and Eddie moved with that unnatural speed, arms wrapping firm and warm around Waylon's back as he collapsed forward, face buried against The Groom's shoulder as wretched sobs escaped him. "I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry," he wept, and didn't even know who he was apologizing to anymore, but it didn't matter. Eddie crooned lowly, words sounding distant as Waylon's mind went dark and his ears buzzed and all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the Buzz of the Engine.
"Shh, shh," he felt against his hair as Eddie easily moved him, as if he weighed no more than a child, just like before. The Groom settled the technician in his lap, legs curling up on either side of him as the sobbing man's hands curled around Eddie's shoulders. Waylon couldn't find it in himself to care, at the moment, not when he could feel another person's heartbeat, not when he was warm and felt safer than he had in weeks.
Not safe, just safer. He remembered the Hanging Room after all, but he was more than willing to ignore it. The comfort, the safety, the feel of a touch that didn't promise immediate pain or death...
It was worth the risk.
He didn't know how long he just sat there in the murderous man's lap, crying like he was a child again, but by the time he began to taper off into hiccups, he was just leaning limply into Eddie's vest-covered chest.
He smelled like sawdust, blood, and mothballs.
"Poor Darling," Eddie murmured softly, large hand slowly petting from the back of his head down to his lower back, leaving a trail of heat and pressure that made Waylon want to instinctively curl into it, but he couldn't even muster the power to open his eyes. "What horrors you must have faced while you were away. Don't worry, my sweet. I will keep you safe." Waylon could do nothing more than release a shuttery breath, feeling ill and drained and wrung-out.
He didn't care anymore.
He registered the tenseness in Eddie's body seconds before the massive man was lifting him into the air, as if he was a child. Waylon let him, let him shift his body sideway into a princess-carry, his face still buried in his chest but his limps arms weakly curling against the Groom's shoulders.
Eddie began to hum that awful, familiar tune as he cradled Waylon close and started walking, his long, confident strides gently rocking the exhausted man against his chest.
"Let's get you back to bed, Darling," Eddie murmured as he easily opened a door, barely jostling Waylon as he went. "And you've no need to worry about your chastity, especially when you've been so wretchedly treated by those maniacs and whores," his voice grew dark on the final word, before returning to its soft, charming tone. "I know that I was an over-eager fool, before, but it's not every day the woman of your dreams falls into your lap!" He laughed lightly, and opened another door, this one darker from the sudden shading Waylon could wearily make out behind his eyelids. Then, he was being lowered onto what felt like a bed, his body rolling limply from Eddies careful hold.
"I was so eager to marry you, that, well, I never even learned my bride's name!" He laughed again, one of those 'aw, shucks' good-ol'-boy chuckles, even as he gently manhandled Waylon out of the bloody, filthy uniform Blaire had shoved him into after forcing him through the Engine. The make-shift bandages around the gut-wound the bastard had given him were exposed, and made Eddie pause. His large, blunt fingertips brushed against them, and Waylon made a soft noise in protest. The wound was deep, and stubborn. It was on the edge of infection even after these last weeks, his fever and lack of food not exactly helping.
"Oh, Darling," Eddie murmured, carefully pulling the bandages away, exposing what Waylon knew was the three-inch-long, gaping wound that was dark red, swollen and hot. Waylon forced his swollen, tired eyes open to squint up at the sorrowful expression on the madman's face, his large fingers brushing the sensitive skin around the wound.
"...Waylon," he choked out, getting Eddie's attention; the man cocked his head, pale blue eyes blinking slowly, the heavily blood-shot whites making them almost glow in the dim lighting from the open door.
"What was taht, Darling?" He asked; Waylon sighed lowly, laboriously forcing his eyes open after a long blink.
"My name..." He muttered, Eddie leaning closer, expression sharpening with focus. "It's Waylon." And then he let his eyes close. He didn't care anymore.
"Waylon..."
He began drifting, the gentle, warm touches of the Groom not registering beyond a comforting warmth as he wrapped Waylon's stomach in new bandages and something, some kind of cold gel, that he dripping into the cut. After that, Waylon registered being manhandled into some type of nightgown thing and tucked under a heavy quilt. Eddie pressed a long, slow kiss to his forehead.
His lips were dry and slightly chapped.
"Sleep well, my Darling Waylon."
He drifted off to the low, quiet hum of that familiar tune.
A/N: AHHHHH OUTLAST WHYYYYYY
I dunno if I'll continue this?
I mean, I could totally just leave it like this and it would be a nice OneShot.
Thoughts?