"Hon, I'm still a little drunk, but… I think I've sobered up enough to try."
These words echo in Amy's head, like a desperate bellow in the belly of a cavern. The way out seems so far out of reach, a pinprick of light. She isn't sure what 'out' even means, anymore. Didn't it – he – used to be Sonic? Who or what is she even reaching for? How long as she been in this cavern, bellowing? How to get out? How to get out?
Currently, Rouge keeps herself quiet, keeps her hands steady. Her eyes are focused on completing these stitches. Breaths hot and stinging on naked flesh.
The hedgehog doesn't know how much time has passed. Remains dull like this until a murmur at her back stirs her from wakeful sleep. Too unsettled to have been meditation.
"I'm finished."
"Thanks."
Both women sound unenthused.
"Try to take it easy on yourself for a while, okay? Give yourself time to heal."
"I'll stick to the lighter stuff."
"Good girl." The bat withdraws slowly, peeling off latex gloves and tossing the bundle into a little bin, the used needle included. She supposes the time will soon come where she will be forced to recycle. It's a grim prospect.
Amy reaches for her clothes, similarly discarded on a nearby surface.
Rouge tries to ignore the lithe, supple flesh in her peripheral vision.
The hedgehog dresses clumsily, as if numb.
"Would you like me to walk you back?"
"No, thank you. I'll be fine."
The bat pops open a little container filled with pills. "Alright, then." Without water, she takes two.
"Headache?"
She is startled to find green eyes, bloodshot and tired, upon her. "No."
"Are you in pain? Those… were painkillers, weren't they?"
"Yes." Aquamarine gaze, heavily lidded, reveals nothing. But residual alcohol talks. "And yes."
"Are you injured?"
"That's up for interpretation."
"What do you mean?"
"Depends on whether or not you're the poetic type."
Amy sits forward, one knee drawn beneath her chin, leaving her other leg dangling over the edge. "Where does it hurt?" she asks quietly.
"It hurts inside."
"I see. Then you know those pills won't help you."
"Right. The pills don't do a damn thing."
"Then why take them?"
"Because," says Rouge through a sigh, "I believe in modern medicine, honey, and I believe in it a lot more than I believe in psychology."
"Don't you want help?"
"Call me old-fashioned, if you want to, or call me stupid. Either way, I'm unwilling to get the help I need."
"But you do want help."
"What does it matter? Even if I swallowed up my pride and tried, all the psychologists are gone. I'm all alone with the pain inside and so are you."
The hedgehog blinks slowly, contemplating the cavern, the bellowing, the pinprick of light high above the nothing.
"Time to get some sleep, now." The bat limps closer, waving a large hand toward the door, gesturing for the other woman to get moving. "Do not break your stitches. I won't do this little favour again."
"And if I need stitches someplace else?" Amy's green eyes follow Rouge's advance without any visible emotion, despite the evidence of tears.
The bat reaches for the hedgehog with that same gesturing hand, grasping a slender, yet muscular shoulder. "That's a different favour."
"Ah-ha."
"Come along, you."
Amy allows herself to be guided onto the soles of her scuffed boots. "You know something?"
"Maybe," grumbles Rouge, offering a gentle push toward the door.
"You're a good surgeon."
"I'm not terrible."
"Where did you learn to stitch?"
They stand outside the makeshift infirmary, its crudely painted doors swinging shut behind them. One of the many rooms in a greater makeshift burrow. A hiding place out of reach of the sun, below the city ruins.
The bat seems to be contemplating whether or not to humour the hedgehog's question.
"Is it strange, that I want to be around you some more?"
"You're clearly very confused."
"Yeah. You do that to me. Not that I'm… angry."
"Solo adventures."
"Hmm?"
"I taught myself to stitch on my solo adventures as a child. Before you and I met."
"What was your childhood like?"
"Crappy, honestly. Since I was a kid on the streets, I was always hungry, always dirty, and I had nobody around to hold me when I cried or keep me warm and dry when it rained. Nobody to patch me up when I got hurt. So, I had to adapt."
Amy is visibly concerned by how casually Rouge said all of that. "You've mentioned your mother. Did you run away from home?"
"I ran from a prison. Not a home. I don't remember it well – I was so small – but I know I wasn't happy, there. Sometimes I see a big, scary man in my dreams and I'm pretty sure he was my father. Don't recall my mother at all."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. I'm being poetic, again. Anyway, my momma was the woman who adopted me when I was just a scruffy little urchin, disposed to picking pockets. I tried picking hers, she caught me by the scruff of my neck and I expected a beating, but suddenly, I had a home."
The hedgehog intently watches an unusual surge of emotion flood the bat's cold aquamarine eyes.
"I haven't seen or spoken to her in years. Dunno if she's still alive. Dunno if Eggman got to her."
"I think… maybe you got swept up in running a club, working for GUN and saving the world with Shadow."
"No, honey. Truth is, I'm no good at keeping attachments when they become inconvenient to me. I prefer to remain free."
"Isn't being in love with Shadow, inconvenient?"
Rouge's plump, glossy lips part sensually, showing her curved fangs in a grimace.
"Sorry. That was unfair."
There is no response.
"I'll leave you alone, now."
Still, no response.
"Goodnight, sweetheart." With a downturned gaze and polite nod, Amy quietly walks past the larger woman, expecting a hand to seize her once again by her wrist.
The bat makes no move beyond her gemstone eyes fluttering shut.
As the distance between them grows, so does a strange sensation.
The hedgehog doesn't understand it – this feeling of disappointment.
"You're late."
"How can I be? I don't keep regular hours, honey, you know that."
"And you know what I meant."
"My love, I'm sorry I worried you, again." Seated on the edge of one of two beds, Rouge kicks off her boots whilst smiling fondly at him. "What's that you've got there?"
Shadow has something in his hands, shielded behind his careful fingers like a bird in a cage. With a smirk he mutters, "A pet project."
She grunts with interest, wiggling her feet.
Stepping closer, he carefully sets a tiny pot on the crate that serves as a bedside table for the both of them, the delicate yellow flower adding a beacon of cheer in the space between their pillows.
"Aw."
He sits opposite her, now, his fierce eyes resting kindly upon the little flowering plant. He already took off his shoes some time ago. His socks are torn. It's so intimate, being with him in this way.
She caresses a leaf.
"It won't provide food. It serves no purpose to the Resistance. Nurturing such a thing would be a waste of time and other resources. I should let it live or die on its own."
"But."
"But…" He shakes his head, angular quills jostled by the motion. "I suppose the war has made me soft. I saw it growing through a crack in the pavement outside. Surviving. Struggling. Helpless but defiant. And I both admired and pitied it."
"I told you, you're cute."
"Humph."
"Congratulations, babe. You've officially adopted this little guy."
"I hope you don't mind. It will require care and attention. Not much, but still."
"I'm delighted, actually."
"It is very nice, isn't it? Having some colour in this dreary hole."
She stretches her leg, running the back of her foot against him.
He doesn't mind the contact. Watches her fingers play with sunny petals.
"You should read to it."
"Oh, yes?"
"Like you read to me. In your softest voice."
"Do you suppose it will appreciate my poetry?"
"If your poems can soothe this rugged treasure hunter, why, I'm sure they'll do wonders for our little friend, here."
He chuckles quietly as she flops back onto her bed, her hand poised at an odd angle so as to continue petting the plant. He hopes that this small effort helps, somehow, in dealing with whatever pain it is she drags herself through.