CW for some blood (not abuse-related) and discussion of abuse
em·pa·thy | \ ˈem-pə-thē
noun
: the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner
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xix
fall
age twenty-four
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Uncle Wes is right, and all Sting can do is hope.
He keeps visiting the restaurant, trying his best to make Gray comfortable each time he's there. Rogue comes with him a few times, and when he manages to coax a shy smile out of Gray, it warms something in Sting's chest.
Cool spring days turn quickly to muggy summer afternoons, and when Sting's not working, he and Rogue spend their afternoons at the beach, or helping Uncle Wes with his garden.
"What kind of flowers do you want for the wedding?" Sting asks Rogue one afternoon when they're both kneeling in the dirt and pulling weeds. Rogue's hair is pulled back in a messy bun, but strands of it have escaped and are curling around his face. His cheeks are pink from the summer heat, and Sting thinks he's the prettiest thing he's ever seen.
Rogue doesn't answer right away. He tosses the handful of weeds into a bucket, then pushes himself back until he's sitting cross-legged in the grass and looks up at the bright blue sky. A bumblebee zigzags through the patch of clover behind him, then takes off into the heat of the afternoon.
"Dandelions," Rogue says eventually, and when Sting raises an eyebrow, he laughs. "I know it's a bit unconventional. They just always remind me of you." He leans back and runs his hand over a small patch that they'd left unmowed just for the bees. "Everyone says they're weeds, but I like them. They're stubborn." He looks up at Sting and smiles. "Like you."
"I resent that," Sting says, grinning as he wipes his dirty hands on his shorts and leans in for a kiss. "I prefer 'determined.'" He rubs his nose against Rogue's, then nudges him to lie down and shuffles so they're side-by-side, holding hands and staring up at the cloudless sky.
"We could have it in the back yard," Rogue suggests, slipping his fingers between Sting's. "The wedding, I mean."
"That sounds perfect," Sting says. They'd only moved in a few weeks ago, and it's still a bit strange to think of the house as theirs. Sting tips his head onto Rogue's shoulder and hums happily when Rogue kisses his hair, then closes his eyes as they both bask in the warmth of a perfect summer afternoon.
Three days before Halloween, everything changes.
"We've got a bar fight called in over at the Iron Horse," the dispatcher says over Sting's radio. "You wanna check it out? Kim and Janson are on their way, but you look like you're close by."
Sting sighs. Janson's one of his least favorite officers, and Sting has been tempted to report him on more than one occasion. He's rude and abrasive, and something about him reminds Sting of his father.
"On my way." Sting doesn't bother with the lights until he's right outside the bar and sees the other cruiser parked near the door. As soon as he gets out of the car and heads over to the other officers, he can hear shouting from inside.
"This place is always full of idiots," Janson mutters, rolling his eyes as they move toward the door. "But what do you expect from this kind of neighborhood?"
Sting bristles at the words, irritation tightening a knot in his stomach. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, keeping his voice even as he stares down Janson.
"Oh, lighten up, Eucliffe," Janson says, rolling his eyes as he pushes the door open. "You're always such a hardass."
Sting doesn't have time to argue with him once they step inside. Two men are staring each other down at the bar, one with blood dripping from his nose. The one who isn't bleeding looks familiar in the dim light, and when Sting steps closer, he realizes it's Joel. Gray is standing nearby, looking at Joel desperately and cradling his arm against his chest. Sting's stomach drops when he realizes Gray is bleeding.
"You got these two?" he asks Kim, who nods as she moves forward to cuff Joel and the other man. Sting ducks though the crowd, avoiding Joel, and makes his way over to Gray. Sting hasn't seen him in over a month – not since Natsu had called him in tears and told him that it wasn't safe for him to visit Gray anymore.
"Hey," Sting says gently, reaching out and touching Gray's elbow. Gray blinks, dragging his gaze from Joel's retreating back to stare blankly at Sting. He looks awful – pale and exhausted – and blood from the deep cut in his hand drips down onto the floor. "You're hurt."
Gray shakes his head, then stumbles and immediately leans forward and throws up on the floor.
"Son of a—" Sting grabs Gray's arm to steady him, then looks over at the bartender. "I need a first aid kit – quick."
The bartender nods and Sting takes Gray's shoulders, guiding him carefully over to a chair and helping him sit down. Gray squeezes his eyes shut and makes a quiet sound of pain. The red and blue of Sting's cruiser lights flash across his face, highlighting the deep lines of exhaustion.
Let me help you, Sting thinks as he crouches down in front of Gray and sets a comforting hand on his knee. He can feel Gray trembling under his touch and he desperately wants to comfort him. Everything about him is a painful reminder of Sting's own past, and he has to hold himself back from pulling Gray into a hug.
"Here." The bartender reappears, holding out an ice pack wrapped in a towel. Sting takes it, nodding in thanks, then places it carefully against the back of Gray's neck.
"Take some deep breaths," he says, but Gray doesn't answer, just keeps his eyes shut and shivers. A woman appears with a first aid kit and digs through it for a bandage. When she touches Gray's arm to press the gauze to his wound, he flinches, and his eyes fly open.
"Hey, it's okay." Sting keeps his voice gentle as he takes the gauze from the woman and carefully wraps it around Gray's hand. Gray's wrist is bruised, and the bruises look like fingerprints, and Sting wants to strangle Joel with his bare hands. "You're bleeding pretty badly," he says, trying to focus on the present.
"'m fine," Gray mumbles, but Sting shakes his head. Gray frowns, then looks down at the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage.
"I'm gonna take you to the hospital, okay?" Sting says, squeezing his knee. They need to get out of here – out of the heat and stink of alcohol and sweat, somewhere Gray won't feel so scared and overwhelmed. "C'mon."
He carefully takes Gray's elbow and helps him to his feet, nodding his thanks to the woman with the first aid kit as they move toward the door. "Careful," he murmurs as Gray sways unsteadily. "I've got you."
"What's gonna happen to him?" Gray asks softly when they get to the cruiser. Sting opens the door and helps Gray in carefully, passing him the seatbelt and making sure he's buckled in before having him put pressure on the bandage on his hand.
"They'll keep him for twenty-four hours until he sobers up," Sting says as Gray shuts his eyes and tips his head back against the seat. "After that, we'll see."
He makes his way around to his seat, flicking the lights off as soon as he gets in the car. The quiet inside the cruiser is a relief from the din of the bar, and he watches as the tense lines on Gray's forehead slowly relax.
"Why don't we just get you taken care of for now, okay?"
Gray throws up again when they get to the hospital, but Sting manages to get him through triage without running into anyone else. When a sweet-looking nurse comes to take Gray away, Sting almost insists on coming with him. His heart breaks at the slump of Gray's shoulders; the way he curls in on himself like everything is a threat.
"You'll be okay," Sting says, squeezing Gray's arm. Gray doesn't answer, just follows the nurse down the hallway, gaze never leaving the floor.
The next few hours are a blur of paperwork and processing. Sting avoids the holding cell at the precinct – he's not sure he can refrain from punching Joel in the face. When the officers at lockup refuse to release Gray's belongings, Sting sighs and heads back to the hospital.
Waiting for Gray leaves Sting anxious. Even though it's been thirteen years, being here still makes him feel small and scared. He spends the time playing games on his phone until he can barely see the screen.
"Hey," he says softly when the nurse brings Gray back to the waiting area. Gray's hand is bandaged, and he cradles it against his chest, fingers running absently over the edge of the gauze. Sting feels the pull to hug him again, but instead asks, "How're you feeling?"
Gray shrugs.
"The painkillers might have made him sleepy," Doris says, touching Gray's elbow gently. She's a sweet woman with kind eyes, and Sting can see the concern in them when she looks at Gray. "He's got a nasty concussion and he shouldn't be alone for a bit."
Sting nods. "I've got it," he says, and she gives Gray another sad look as she squeezes his arm, then walks away.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Sting asks, even though he already knows the answer. Gray doesn't say anything, just stares at the floor. "Gray? You with me?"
Gray blinks, looking up at him slowly. His pupils are still dilated, and he looks like a lost, scared little boy.
"Do you have your keys?" Sting asks. Gray shakes his head and Sting sighs, chewing on his lip. Technically he shouldn't offer, but there's no way he's sending Gray to a shelter after what happened. "Would you feel okay staying with me overnight?" he asks. "As a friend, not a cop. I'm off duty now, and I've got a guest bedroom. Rogue's asleep but he won't mind."
Gray looks like he might say no, but eventually just nods, staring down at the floor again.
"Okay," Sting says, breathing out a sigh of relief and gesturing to the parking lot. "C'mon, you need to get some sleep."
It's raining on the drive home. Sting watches the water make patterns across the windshield before they're quickly wiped away, keeping an eye on Gray out of the corner of his eye. He's curled up against the passenger door, head on the window, gaze vacant as he stares out at the rain.
It had been raining when Uncle Wes had driven Sting home from the hospital, too. He can feel himself in Gray's place – rough fabric under his fingers, cool glass on his forehead, a dull, aching pain in his arm and his heart and his head. Gray looks so small and alone, and eventually, Sting can't take it anymore.
"I've only been a cop for a few years," he says softly. His voice feels out of place in the dark of the night, but Gray looks over at him, so Sting keeps going. "My dad was one, and I always wanted to be just like him."
A knot curls in Sting's stomach and he breathes through it, counting the inhales and exhales, in and out. This isn't the same as telling Natsu while he struggled through withdrawal, or how he told Rogue, in pieces in the dark. This feels raw and so, so real, because Gray knows.
Gray knows, and Sting wishes to hell that he didn't.
"He wasn't a very good cop, though." The words stick in his throat, but he forces himself to keep going, to keep telling the story no matter how much it hurts. Gray needs to know that he's not alone.
Sting talks about his dad, about people trying to help him, about loving his dad and trying not to make him angry. Eventually Gray starts to cry and Sting bites back his own tears.
"I know how hard it is," he says eventually. "I know what it's like to love someone so much that you want them to be the best thing for you, even when they aren't." A quiet sob breaks out of Gray's chest. "And I know you don't want help right now, and that's okay, just… none if it's your fault."
He knows Gray blames himself – he can almost hear the thoughts that he's sure are going through Gray's mind. It's not always like this. He loves me. It's my fault. I shouldn't have made him mad.
"Nobody should be hurting you," Sting says, hoping the words make a dent in the armor of shame Gray's been wearing for so long. "No matter what. And if ever do decide you want help, there are people who will believe you, and who will be there for you."
For a moment there's no sound in the car but the swish of the windshield wipers and Gray's quiet crying. "I…" Gray manages after a moment. "I d-don't… I can't…"
"I know," Sting says gently. "It's been a long night."
By the time they get back to Sting's house, it's clear that Gray's too worked up to be on his own. Sting spends the next hour or so sitting on the couch with him until he finally falls asleep with Frosche curled up on his chest and purring happily. Sting grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over Gray, heart aching as he tries not to look at the bruises on Gray's wrists. Part of him is tempted to stay here, stay up, make sure Gray's safe because even though there's no way anything could happen, the fear's still there.
He ends up stumbling up the stairs and settling onto the bed next to Rogue, who's lying on his back, fast asleep with his arm across the pillow. Sting watches him for a while – takes in the soft rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair spreads across the blanket, the freckles over the bridge of his nose. When Sting rests his fingertips lightly across Rogue's wrist, the soft heartbeat he finds there helps loosen the knot in his chest.
It's not enough, though, and now he knows how to ask for help.
"Hey," he whispers, rubbing his thumb across Rogue's cheek. Rogue mumbles something, blinking slowly awake and frowning at Sting.
"Hey, love," he says softly, looking over at the clock. It's nearly four in the morning already. "What's wrong?"
Sting shakes his head. The words are stuck in his throat, and when he tries to push through, a sob breaks out instead. Rogue's up immediately, arms wrapped around Sting as he holds him close and kisses his temple.
"It's… it was…" Sting swallows, wiping at the tears on his cheeks. He's so, so tired, and everything is blurry and sort of not real. "I was at the hospital. With Gray."
Rogue's fingers tighten on Sting's arm and he pulls back, brow furrowed in concern.
"He's on the couch," Sting says softly, reaching out and rubbing the fabric of Rogue's sleep shirt between his fingers. "I couldn't—he didn't have anywhere to go. I wanted to call Natsu, but I can't, and Gray was hurt, and—"
"Hey," Rogue interrupts, running his thumb across Sting's cheekbone. "You don't have to explain. It's okay. Are you okay?"
Sting shakes his head, letting the mixed-up feelings he's been holding inside all night spill out as tears. "No," he whispers. "I'm so—I feel like shit. I'm so... I'm sad, and a-angry, and I can't stop thinking about my dad."
Rogue pulls gently on Sting's shoulder until they're lying on the bed together and Sting's head is resting on his chest. Sting wraps an arm around Rogue, holding him tight as Rogue combs his fingers through Sting's hair.
"I want to help him so badly." Sting sniffles, pressing his face into Rogue's chest. "I just wanna kill that asshole, and I know that's not—it wouldn't help, a-and I know Gray's not ready. I just feel so useless."
Rogue makes a sad sound and holds Sting closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "You're the farthest thing from useless, love," he says. "You're doing everything you can."
"It's not enough," Sting insists. "I wish we could just keep him here, or call Natsu, or—something. I'm so scared for him."
"I know." Rogue sounds like he's on the edge of tears, too. "I am, too."
They lie together for a long time, listening to the rain patter against the window until Sting stops crying and his breathing comes back to normal. Lector, who had been sleeping on the foot of the bed, wakes up and stretches with a quiet mrowl, then saunters up and curls up between them, purring happily when Sting pets his head.
When Sting finally falls asleep, he's warm and safe in Rogue's arms, wishing desperately that Gray could feel the same way.