A/N: thanks for your lovely reviews guys! I apologise in advance for how long it will take before I manage to update over the next few weeks, things are about to get a bit hectic for me, but I hate to leave it too long between updates so if I can I will. As always, I really appreciate your thoughts on this.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
His voice is full of accusation, fists clenched and brow furrowed, slamming the door behind them for effect. She seems oblivious to his anger, stumbling towards the stairs in her crazy high heels, muttering something incoherent under her breath.
"What?" He can hear the impatience in his own voice as she seems lost in her own world, carelessly kicking off her shoes, nearly toppling over in the process.
Suddenly she clasps her hand tightly over her mouth and runs up the stairs before he has a chance to question her further. He sighs as he slowly climbs the stairs after her, shaking his head as he hears her retching noises from the bathroom. By the time he catches up with her she's slumped over the toilet, gurgling and dry heaving. He's furious with her, but he still bends over and pulls back the hair from her face. She tries to stand up, tries to tell him she's fine, but she can't seem to arrange her legs right and stays on the floor. It's impossible to stay angry with her, so he pulls her up from the floor, but she is fighting him, trying to push him away. He grabs her wrists and pulls her close, her arms still struggling inside his hands, but her head flops onto his shoulder, muttering expletives into his shirt. She finally calms down but she almost slumps to the floor again as she does, still intoxicated.
"I'm fine, honestly" she tries, pushing back from him, except she muffles her words so baldly it doesn't sound like three words, just one. "Hon-est-ly." She tries again, enunciating each syllable, as if that would convince him.
"Right," he sighs, turning her around and unzipping her dress, realising he has to sober her up.
She's too drunk to register what he's doing, he has to steady her with one arm as he slides the dress to the floor. He reminds himself that he's a doctor, they both are, as he realises she's not wearing a bra underneath, tries to avert his eyes as he clumsily maneuvers her into the bathtub. She's only semi-conscious as he turns the shower on, seemingly unaffected by the cool water hitting her. He tries to avert his eyes, but the marks on her legs are impossible to overlook. He almost laughs at his own concern a minute ago regarding her bare chest, because this is what she really wouldn't want him to see, this is what she is running from, this is what she is thinking of when she says she is fine and he knows she's lying. Her thighs are red and raw, covered in angry cuts and gashes, thick scar tissue already forming over the older marks. The water under her turns pink as it washes away dried blood, marbling the white tub. This is what pain looks like, liquid self-hatred circling the drain and disappearing, leaving behind fading marks that will be replaced by fresh ones before they are entirely gone.
He watches her sleep, her chest rising and falling under the sheets, breathing heavily under her alcohol fuelled oblivion. He slips out of her room quietly, noting the empty whiskey bottles neatly lined up by the door. He knows she's been hurting, he's seen the fake smile, the red-rimmed eyes, noticed that her laugh has just been a little too loud and lasted a little too long. He's seen that she always wears thick pj bottoms even if the weather is hot, noticed that she ducks into the toilet in the locker room and stays in there for a long time, always emerging visibly calmer. He's tried talking to her, even though he's got no idea what to say to her, but she avoids, deflects and rebuffs like a pro. Their shaky alliance has him wondering whether he's entitled to push her on this, if they are good enough friends for him to have an opinion at all, though deep down he knows that she's it for him, and vice versa. He has to be the one to do this with her, there is no one else, so after a restless night, punctuated by the usual nightmare, he slips back into her room and watches her sleep, waiting for her to wake up.
"Ouch" is all she can manage as she slowly wakes, clutching her head and wincing as she tries to sit up.
He's not sure how much she remembers from last night, though the way she clutches the sheets around her and refuses to look him in the eye tells him she at least remembers how she got into bed.
"You need to start talking to me" he says quietly, trying to catch her eye. "This isn't you."
"Maybe I'm not the person everyone thinks I am."
Her voice is unsteady, barely audible and she still refuses to look at him. The silence hangs between them. He doesn't say that she scares him, that he doesn't know how far she will go. He doesn't say that he's worried that he's too late, that he's out of his depth. He doesn't say that he is scared she has only just started.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers, his own voice unreliable as he is reminded how deep some of the cuts on her legs were.
"Because you wouldn't understand," she replies, voice shaking. "Because you don't understand. I hope you never do, I hope you never have to know what it feels like to hate yourself so much that carving up your own skin is the only thing that feels better, to be so desperate for relief. I hope you'll never find out."
He swallows hard at her words, staring plainly into the darkest, dustiest corners of her mixed up soul.
"It's hard for me to watch you hurt yourself," he simply says, still trying to catch her eye.
"If you knew what was going on in my head, the cuts would be nothing," she whispers, pulling the sheets tighter around her.
Her fake smile is nowhere in sight as she finally looks at him, face crumpled, tears slowly rolling down her face.
"I don't want to be me."
The blood keeps coming, spilling over and soaking the light blue cloth covering the patient in front of him, dripping heavily on the floor and filling up his shoes. He tries to stem the flow, frantically grabbing lap pads, but this time he's not alone. He recognises April's eyes peering over a surgical mask, calmly focused on the gaping hole in the patient's abdomen. It takes a moment for the scene to come into focus, but as it does he realises she isn't helping, she's got a scalpel dug deep into her arm, blood pouring, filling up the cavity he's trying to repair, and its only now he looks at the patient's face and realises it's Charles lying there. He wakes up with a jolt, throat sore from a scream he never heard. His room is pitch black, but he can see a figure hovering at the end of his bed, barely lit up by the light from his alarm clock, which would tell him it's 4.15 am if he could be bothered to look. April climbs into bed and crawls up next to him as he turns on the small lamp on the nightstand next to him. Before he can even turn back to her fully, her arms are around his neck, clutching him tightly. He understands this is as much for her as it is for him, but it still takes him by surprise that she's back after weeks of absence.
"Hey, I'm ok," he reassures her, stroking her back softly. "You're ok."
"Me and you," she sniffs, pulling back slightly.
Her eyes are red and puffy, hair still an unholy mess from the unskilled rinse he gave it last night.
"Me and you," he agrees, gently brushing away a lock of red hair from her tear stained face.
Her mouth is on his before he has a chance to register what's happening. Her lips draw him in, and he instinctively kisses her back, his tongue meeting hers. He pulls back with some effort when his brain catches up.
"April," he protests, mouth still on hers. "We shouldn't."
"Jackson, please," she mumbles into his lips, not breaking contact.
She pulls him in again, hands grasping the back of his head, tugging him down towards her.
"You're a virgin," he reminds her, and himself, tearing away from her. "You're a virgin, you're a virgin."
Whatever this is, it doesn't feel right. She is broken, he is too, and this feels like it might destroy them both.
"I need to feel something other than pain," she pleads, leaning her forehead on his. "I need something to keep me from going insane. I need you."
She looks up, hands clutching his neck, eyes steady. She seems so certain, determined even, that this is right and that this should happen, when all he can think of are the reasons why it shouldn't.
"It's ok, really," she says softly when he still hesitates, kissing him softly, carefully, convincingly.
He's not at all sure he should be doing this, but he does anyway, because he also wants to feel something other than pain, to feel like there is more to him than anger, guilt and grief. He lets her yank him down on top of her, lets his instinct take over and pull her top over her head and her pj bottoms down her legs. He pauses when he sees that there are fresh cuts that weren't there last night, but she drags him back up and distracts him with her mouth and her tongue. Though he is the one that is supposed to know what to do, he is at her mercy, he follows her lead. She should be worse at this, but her hands are decisive, she doesn't hesitate for a moment as she removes his clothes and pulls him closer. Desire takes a hold of his body, burning his flesh, surprising him with its intensity. He pours all his pain into her, lets his grief poison her skin, his anger torture her body. He clings to her with every suppressed emotion he has, claims her with all his sharp and broken edges. The dried tears on her cheeks taste like salt, her breath still tastes like whiskey. She presses against him with all she has, her wounds, her bleeding flesh, her injured soul, her pain pressing against his. She needs something from this that he is unsure if he can deliver, not sure he can get her high enough to free her from her sadness, that his drug is what she wants coursing through her veins. He loves her without loving, makes love to her so they can forget, so they can erase space and time, because love is what it is when your friend asks you to help her feel, love is all it could be.
Afterwards the worry comes back. He strokes her hair as she rests her head on his chest, calming her breath and trying to calm his own beating heart and racing brain.
"You glad we did that?" he asks breathlessly, carefully.
"Yeah," she says, half-heartedly, unconvincingly. "Yeah." The second confirmation is more certain, but he's not sure if it's for his benefit or her own.
He knows this is not what she had in mind when she waited this long, he knows she wanted special, she wanted romance, she wanted a beach at sunset. She hadn't planned to bang her friend because of some physical necessity born out of grief and terror, as a way to mess herself up without resorting to a blade, just as he hadn't planned on being the one to help her do it. He worries he took advantage of her, that she took advantage of him, that somehow they have started hurting each other instead of helping each other.
"We should get some sleep," she mutters into his chest, voice sleepy, breath warm against his skin.
"Mmm," he agrees, moving her closer, but she's already asleep.
