A/N: A oneshot I planned a long, long time ago, but never got around to writing – mostly because I had a solid plot without the right characters. Well, I found the characters, everyone. RxR if you feel inclined.
SUSPENDED HOPE
The battle has long come to an end, and the time to try and seek healing has finally come. Without the Oracle's powers among the land of humans, the people have long given up hope that anyone who was maimed during the Hydrean's trial will ever be healed.
Prompto hopes, still. "Please, Iggy, c'mon," he pleads, over and over again, pulling on the elder's sleeve.
Ignis doesn't respond. He can't – he can hear the heartbreak in the younger man's voice, can feel every tremble of his body travel through his hand and into Ignis' very core, can practically taste the saline tears the man weeps, floating in the air.
But he can't see him. It has only been a month since everything has ended, and already, the young blond's face is fading from his memory, his existence taken over by the timber of his voice and the echoes of his footsteps in Ignis' mind.
Ignis has long become accustomed to Prompto's footsteps coming in and out of his room at the Leville; almost every evening, the blond comes to check up on him, to ensure he is alright. He supposes it is partly due to Gladiolus' absence, as the large soldier had immediately joined the Hunters upon their return to the Lucian continent. Prompto had decided to stay with him when Gladio left, in order to make sure that the man was alright adjusting to things – he was far more attentive than he had ever been during their journey together.
He supposes it is because Prompto is lonely without Noctis – his king, his best friend, his travel companion. Without Noct, there is little to do – no goal left, but to await the day that the king will return.
He understands Prompto's feelings. He misses Noct, too.
X
"Please, Iggy, we can fix it." Once again, the insisting voice urges, begs, pleads – thin, wiry hands pull at his sleeve, shake his shoulders, as he sits upon his seat by the ever-frozen window.
"There's no way to fix an injury that has long healed over incorrectly," he says pointedly, but he makes no move to brush off the younger's hands, for if he does, he won't know where the blond will go next.
He can sense the pout on the blond's face, can hear the desperation in his voice, rising steadily. "Please, Iggy. Please come with us to the hospital. We can try, can't we?"
Sturdy, steel-toed footsteps foretell the entrance of their third partner-in-crime, and in a moment the man himself has perched upon the edge of the bed, if the squeaks of the box spring are anything to go by. "He's right," Gladio's voice, husky and gravelly and weary from his never-ending trips with the Hunters, supports Prompto. "We can take you there, and we can at least see what they'll say."
"I've studied medicine extensively, in the case that regular curatives would have not be able to support us throughout the journey," Ignis replies, voice dry and straightforward. "I know what they will say – I can tell how deep the scars run, how damaged my retinas must be." In his mind, he remembers registering a serpent-like spear made of water coming towards him as he rushed citizens into the last of the Altissian passenger boats – searing pain – a scream-
"How would you know, you can't even see the injuries-" and then Prompto realizes his mistake, and Ignis hears the choked sob which erupts from his throat.
But he can't support him, can't apologize, can't console. He barely knows how to forgive himself.
After a moment, he hears a soft grunt, as Gladio stands up and walks towards the door. "We're saying it because we care about you," he murmurs. "Noct wouldn't want to find you wasting away in this little room forever when he comes back – he needs you to be strong, Ignis."
Ignis hears Prompto stand, feels the man let go of his sleeve, hears his light steps stumble towards the door amid his stifled sobs. He hears a hand hitting cloth – Gladio patting him on the back – and the squeal of the door as it swings shut slowly, and once again he is left with nothing but silence, the chill, and the image of Noctis being pulled into the very Crystal they fought so hard to take back.
For naught.
No. For Noct. For Noct.
X
It is by this mantra that finally Ignis relents, puts the walking stick in his hand, and leaves the Leville for the first time in what seems like an eternity. The daemons are relentless, and Prompto and Gladiolus defend him with every ounce of strength they have until they make it to the central hospital set up in the Cleigne area. He offers his expert use of magic whenever he can, but it quickly becomes clear that his weeks shut inside the hotel had reduced his strength and stamina sufficiently to be more of a burden than anything.
They make it to the building. "It's kinda dingy, but the inside looks great!" Prompto chirps in the cheeriest tone Ignis has heard from him since returning to Lucis. He almost doesn't regret coming to the hospital.
The doctors sound weary when they enter, but after hearing his status as the mentor to the king, he is admitted immediately for examination. For a long time, they leave him on a table, waiting, dressed in a hospital gown with little strength nor the weapons to defend himself. He feels more naked than he should.
Eventually, the hospital staff examine him, and after a series of tests around his eyes – still painful, just not working – they ask him what he wants to do.
Find Noctis. "I'm not sure," he lies, voice smooth and convincing, speaking as if every nerve in his body is not telling him to go find his two travel companions and go hunting for his life-long ward.
He feels… desperation. It hits him when they tell him they'll keep him there, get him healthy again so they might do surgery – after all, not eating in the Leville often enough had left him weak, too weak to operate.
'Too weak to operate' is like saying he's too weak to be useful. It scares him.
X
The incapacitated man sighs, lets a hand hang onto the windowsill where he feels the draft come in. "It's colder, but it should be morning right now."
A sigh, a harsh swallow. "The sun hasn't come up for almost 18 hours now. They say… they say there's something in the clouds. Something blotting out the light."
His hand goes limp, and he rests his weary head upon his pillow. "Our light isn't out," he mutters under his breath, thinking of his charge, his ward, somewhere alone, fighting still-
Prompto hears his words. Prompto stands, clenches his fist, then pats Ignis' shoulder and steps out of the room. It is only after he closes the door firmly behind him, making it to the vending machine around the corner, when he allows himself to sink to the floor, resting on his haunches, tears and mucus flowing down his face and dripping onto the sterile linoleum.
"You do what you gotta do, Noct. I'll take care o' Iggy. I promise."
Ignis hears him. The walls are thin. The promise feels too fragile, yet unbearably strong. It hurts.
X
The paper folding is a suggestion from Iris – one made on a whim, something out of a children's story she read long, long ago. Prompto takes it to heart, however, and soon he is sitting in Ignis' hospital room, evading the questions the man is throwing at him.
"Cease that incessant paper shuffling. It's enough to drive a man mad."
The younger quips, "Well, good thing I've always been the crazy one!"
Ignis sighs, rearranges his arm so the IV drip needle won't be uncomfortably pressed into him anymore, and hums quietly. He pauses, breathes deep, replaces the sounds of Prompto folding pages on the floor next to his sterile, cold bed with the sounds of a crackling fire, a sizzling stove. Almost without warning, the smell of meats and warm bread fills his nose, the imagination creating a scent so heady and thick he almost drools.
Hospital food is bland. They can't afford to make anything extravagant – harvesting is hard enough, but now that daemons run amok endlessly in eternal night, large farms are inaccessible.
He misses cooking.
X
Iris visits, sometimes. Gladio joins often, with and without her, to keep him updated. She's started learning to hunt, and Gladio's both proud and terrified of his younger sister.
The wounds left from Insomnia's fall - Clarus' fall - are still hidden, still strong, still too fresh to touch.
Ignis knows that if Gladio loses Iris too, he'll break.
Still, a part of him never truly cares about what news the man has to bring – whatever horrors exist in the outside world are not of his concern. He can't see any of it, not anymore, no matter what the doctors come up with.
"I miss him," Iris whispers one day as they sit quietly, her reading a book, him tracing the veins upon the back of his hand.
Ignis doesn't respond, but Prompto, who remains folding busily on the floor day after day, hums in response. "I'm sure he misses us too. We were… his only friends, you know?" His voice is tired, as if he's cried all the tears he has to cry.
She still sniffles, closes the book with a gentle thud, and pushes back the chair she is seated upon. She stands, walks steadily towards the door. Before she leaves, Prompto calls, "There are tissue boxes around the corner. Turn right, you won't miss them."
A strangled grunt is their only reply. Ignis misses the days when he could comfort them, if with nothing but his cooking. At least then, he could see what was wrong.
X
It takes three weeks to complete his project, but finally, Ignis is woken up by the kiss of a paper crease upon his brow. Furrowing his forehead, he sits upright, carefully feeling for his shades with one hand and the paper with the other.
"It's finally done, Iggy!" Prompto sounds cheerier than he has in weeks.
Ignis groans, places the shades upon his nose to cover his scars – he still doesn't like anyone seeing them, confirming them with their own eyes, understanding their implications and their effects – and feels around the paper. "An… an animal?"
"It's a bird," the blond murmurs, and Ignis feels the foot of his bed sink as Prompto takes a seat. "A crane, to be specific. I wanted chocobos – thought the yellow might just cheer ya up, but Iris said the charm wouldn't work that way."
His curiosity peaked, he responds, "And what charm is this?"
The younger man stands abruptly, and Ignis is initially thrown by the sudden lift of his bed. "I'll explain. Stand up, come on!"
Suddenly, Ignis is being pulled out of his bed and dragged onto his feet, both hands which are held by Prompto raised into the air. As he extends his arms upwards, he feels the touch of another crane brushing his hand – and as he steps forward, hesitant without his walking stick (always hesitant without the walking stick) he feels more and more of them.
"How many of these bloody things did you manage to hang from the ceiling?"
The answer is meek, awkward. "…one thousand."
Ignis spins, the image in his mind incredibly ludicrous, as one thousand cranes hung with twine and tape litter the ceiling of the darkened, sickly room he envisions is his own. "That's what you've been folding all this time?"
"She said there's a legend that if you make one thousand paper cranes, your wish will come true!"
And with that, Ignis' steps falter, and he topples. He is lucky that the bed is there to catch his fall. With a shaky breath, he whispers, "And what in the world did you wish for then, hm?"
He hears Prompto move closer, feels the bed sink beside him, feels a supportive arm around his shoulders. "I wished for…"
Ignis shakes under Prompto's consoling arm, his voice rising. "Don't tell me you wasted all this effort for my eyes, I bloody well told you they're not getting-"
"I wished that," Prompto interrupts, voice breaking and chest heaving and breaths short and ragged, "that you… that one day…"
His breath hitches, so Ignis only hears his words in a whisper.
"I wished that you find the strength to keep fighting… 'cause I know when Noct comes back, he won't be able to fight without your cooking, Iggy. Wouldn't Noct love to taste test your cooking again?"
And with that, for the very first time since the Revelation of the Hydrean, since Leviathan's attack and Luna's death and Noct's heartbreak and Gladio's anger and Prompto's loneliness-
And Ignis' injury-
Ignis cries. With a thousand paper cranes blessing him from above, that simple, childish wish, made from a simple, childish hope from a simple, childish friend-
He hangs his head low, feels his tears drip onto the insides of his sunglasses. He cries silently, shaking, and doesn't stop even when he feels the strong arms of Gladio around him, the soft hands of Iris holding his, the comforting words of Monica and Dustin and Talcott and-
Ignis cries.
X
"What would you like to eat tonight, Noct?"
The dark haired man pauses, brushing his long bangs back with grimy fingers. "Iggy, you don't have to-"
Ignis stands, looks over to where the younger man's voice had come from. It's a lot deeper than he remembers. In his mind, he still sees the boy, young and soft as the day he was taken away from the realm - he imagines him in his kingly raiments, strong as he upholds his father's legacy. It fills him with pride. "Come turn on the stove. Well, unless you want your meal tonight to be from a can…"
His light words are met with a snort. "I'll always eat whatever you make, Iggy, you know that. After all, your food… it's like home, isn't it?"
And Ignis smiles, because it's been ten years since cooking mattered to him, and the wait was worth it.