Damian yawned tiredly, stretching out gracelessly in the pile of clothes accumulated on his bed. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement, but the alternative was getting up and actually being productive.
That wasn't happening.
Judging by the beard and the stink off his pits, he should also probably go and shower. Now that he was thinking about it, when was the last time he showered? He wasn't quite sure of the day, so it could have been anywhere from two days to a week. Humming to himself, he scratched at his beard contemplatively, trying to guesstimate the days based on how long the hair on his face was. He hadn't quite reached Dumbledore status but he was definitely edging towards "Castaway".
The thought that Sarah would have hated his beard sneaks up on him and stabs him in the ribs.
The ceiling projector flickers faintly, the sound of waves crashing against the shore echoing around the room and filling up his head. Seemingly against his will, Damian's eyes are drawn back to the woman dancing across the screen, feet kicking up sand while her hands fiddled with her hair, vainly trying to tame the long golden brown curls and keep them from flying into her face. He can tell when she catches sight of him and the camera in his hands when she suddenly looks up and waves, hands moving excitedly as she signs at him- "Damian come try the water!". She'd looked so beautiful that day (and every day), dark skin glowing like bronze in the sunlight, the very beginnings of freckles appearing on her cheeks and shoulders.
There had been flecks of green in her eyes- little pieces of jade hiding among the brown.
God he loved her…had loved her.
He couldn't remember what she smelled like.
It was stupid, really, that that was what he'd forgotten. He could remember almost every second he'd spent with her, from that first day in First Grade when she'd been marched into the classroom, her translator trailing behind her, small and shy and wearing bright yellow, (He'd gone home and made his mother sign him up for ASL classes- just so he could talk to her.). He could remember their first date (middle school- no one thought it would last and they were right but just not for the reasons they'd thought-), the dress she wore when he graduated Med school (yellow again- it was her favorite color), how she'd smiled when he got down on one knee at the beach (that lone dimple on her right cheek had appeared- it only did that when she was really happy- God they'd been happy-), the brand of detergent she used (Tide).
He remembered that her nails were yellow the day she died- canary yellow with little roses printed on the thumbs.
He could remember all of that….but he couldn't remember how she smelled.
All he could smell was ash- burnt hair and burnt skin and burnt everything.
He could remember the way she screamed when he caught fire. He could remember the look of panic on her face right before he exploded. He could remember coming to after his Ascension and trying to hold what was left of her body, only to watch it crumble to dust in his hands. He could remember scrabbling to find her wedding ring- anything to remember her by- and coming up empty, the ring melted and scorched by the searing heat of him.
He thinks she might have smelled sweet- like vanilla? No…it wasn't quite vanilla. Cake, maybe? Or cookies?
The Sarah on the flickering screen laughed, the sound somewhat pixelated and off- not as pure as he could remember it being in real life.
How strange was it that the only things he possessed of her were videos on the internet? Thirty second clips of her smile and her laugh and her soul, like little drips of water on a cracked and wasted heart.
The taste of ash coated his tongue again, the ever bleeding spot where his heart used to lie throbbing in time with his breaths. Desperate to get the taste out of his mouth he rolled over in his pile, scrabbling around for a beer can that wasn't empty. He'd almost given up hope of finding one when he snagged a half-full one at the very edge of his end table. He doesn't waste any time shooting it back, temporarily dulling the taste of ash lingering in his mouth. He usually preferred hard liquor (the burn worked better at covering the taste), but Stark had limited his access.
Apparently shooting back $10,000 dollar cognac like it was water was "tacky". (Admittedly not one of his finer moments, but still. Stark was lecturing him on his drinking habits- the sheer nerve-)
There was a thunderous knock on his door.
Unimpressed by the loud noise, Damian rolled his head lackadaisically towards the door, navy eyes squinting to make out the shape of it in the near bitch black of his room. Assuming it was his sister, he settled more firmly into the mattress, doing his very best impression of a trashed starfish as he called out.
"That you, Darcy-Lou? Come to investigate the smell again?" He popped his lips, chuckling drily to himself. "Don't get too excited- I'm still kickin'. You're not getting off that easy." There was a pause and then a voice that was decidedly not his sister spoke up.
"It's not Darcy. It's Rose." Damian perked up slightly, something like curiosity pushing past his overwhelming apathy and catching his attention. "I need your help."
The curiosity disappeared.
Help? She wanted help? Why in the world would he help her? Hell, why would he help anyone? What good had helping people ever done him?
Chuckling humorlessly he rolled over and smooshed his face into a pillow, flapping his hand dismissively in the general direction of the door.
"Sorry, blondie- not interested. Helping people isn't really my thing anymore." There was another pause as the woman processed his answer. Satisfied that his point had been made, the dark haired man settled into the sheets, closing his eyes and hoping to catch a quick nap.
There was another (surprisingly louder) knock on the door.
"Damian, please." He groaned in irritation, angrily smashing the pillow over his head before flopping back on his back. Ignoring his irritated noise, Rose continued, voice blatantly begging. "I know there's no reason for you to help me-" He cut her off with a scoff, throwing a pillow at the door with a weak thud.
"Damn skippy, Rosie. There is no reason for me to help you. Hell, the last time I tried to 'help' you I ended up fucking grounded." Throwing an arm over his face, Damian sneered in her direction. "So, in case my earlier words weren't clue enough- Fuck. Off." There was another pause, this one significantly longer than the last two- enough so that Damian had convinced himself that the tiny blonde had finally caught the hint and left him to wallow.
He knew he was wrong when his door blew off its hinges.
Shocked by the explosion, he finally sat up in the bed, the hand over his eyes now shielding him from the sudden influx of light from the hall. Once he was finally able to clear the spots from his eyes, he was able to make out the woman lurking in his doorway. When he did, he immediately realized two things.
The first thing, was "hot damn". Just….damn. He'd vaguely heard Darcy talking about Rose's "makeover", but he'd promptly tuned the woman out, uninterested in any aspect of his sister's life. He'd thought she was a cute little thing when he'd first met her, but it had been in the way that pugs were adorable- sort of so ugly it had to be cute. Now though? Oof. If he wasn't a happily married man (and he'd always be a married man- even if his ring was nothing but ash) he probably would have been tempted.
The second, was that the light that had blinded him wasn't coming from the hallway.
It was coming from her.
It was almost like rose colored fire, flickering and extinguishing under her skin like an aurora borealis. He could feel the impression of heat coming from it, like he was standing in the same room as a roaring fire- not close enough to feel the heat, but close enough that he just knew it was warm. Despite this, her clothes were completely intact, the only real sign that she was "hot" being the scorch marks on what was left of his door.
The thought that Darcy was going to be pissed about his door just barely crosses his mind before the blonde is on him.
She crosses the room like some sort of avenging angel, hair moving around her head in an invisible breeze, her otherwise beautiful face twisted into an expression of pure wrath- a look only softened by the tears streaming out of her eyes and dissolving on her cheeks. She kicks past the debris from his door and latches on to the front of his shirt, hauling him up and out of the bed like an unruly puppy. He has half a mind to struggle, but instead allows the manhandling, shock and curiosity leaving him more pliable than he usually is. Hands curled into tight fists, she pulls him down until he's nearly eye level with her, lips pulled back in an angry snarl as she hisses at him.
"In case my earlier words weren't clue enough- I. Need. Your. Help." She gave him a rattling shake, eyes flickering between periwinkle blue and rose gold as she continued. "And I'm not going to ask you again."
If he was capable of feeling anything, he might have been afraid.
Annoyed by the rough treatment, but still a little curious about what could possibly piss off the new goddess so much, Damian slowly peels her fingers from his shirt, pulling himself back to his full height as he regards her. Glancing derisively at the ruined remnants of his door and the new holes in his shirt he clucks down at her, absently straightening his clothes as he responds to her demand.
"Well, that was rude. Am I supposed to be impressed by your little 'light show'? Because, let me tell you," He stepped back and let a minute amount of his own power show, temporarily filling the room with overwhelming sunlight before dimming back down. "You're not the only one who's fun at parties." Before the petite blonde could respond he thundered on. "But- before you get your panties in even more of a twist- I'll hear you out." He crossed his arms over his chest before waving a hand in her direction, mouth twisted in a dry smirk. "Go ahead. Shoot. Tell me what I have to 'help' you with- what's so important that you felt the need to blow up my room and burn holes in my only good shirt." Calming enough that the lights under her skin finally dimmed, Rose tilted her chin, unashamed by the carnage she'd caused as she told the healer who exactly she needed saved.
To her dismay, Damien is less than moved.
"Sounds to me like you should take up gardening- you've already got a pretty patriotic vegetable growing." Rose sucked in a shocked breath, surprised by the sheer callousness of the statement. The brunet just snickered at her expression, halfheartedly scratching at his beard as he regarded her. "Why so shocked, Rosie? I told you I'd hear you out. I never said I'd help you." He flapped a dismissive hand, turning his back on her as he prepared to get back in bed. "Like I said. I'm done helping people."
He's stopped by a much smaller hand latching on to his own.
Annoyed by the blonde's persistence, Damian grits his teeth, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck he whips around to face the much smaller woman. He's not sure what exactly he plans on saying (he doesn't really make plans anymore), but he's pretty sure most of it is four letters long and involves fornicating with any available livestock.
He only stops when he catches sight of her eyes.
The rage is gone. In its place is something terribly familiar- a sort of bleakness that smacks up against his own and resonates with it. It's like the entirety of her soul is laid out before him, and he's shocked by the darkness in it. It's not the kind of darkness one finds out in space- darkness that belongs to the complete absence of light, or rather a space that has never and will never be touched by it. No- its darkness in a place that used to be bathed in light. It's the light being turned off in a vacant nursery, or in a bedroom that used to hold two but now only held one. It was the sunlight fading off a tombstone as he watched from a distance, wondering how he was still walking around when it felt like his heart had been buried (and weren't you supposed to die without your heart?).
It was the death of hope.
It was the death of love- only you weren't lucky enough to die with it.
"Please- please help him." She let out a breathless sob, squeezing his hand tightly. "I love him and I can't- I don't want to-" She shuddered, eyes shutting against her will as she begged him. "Please. Don't let him go someplace I can't follow."
The taste of ashes fill his mouth.
"Please- Sarah- Don't go- I can't- Don't go where I can't follow-"
The burnt edges of his heart throb angrily as he pulls his hand from hers. Bitterness bleeds out from it, temporarily numbing the pain but poisoning the rest of him. He can feel himself closing off and welcomes the cold numbness, suddenly exhausted by the fifteen minute conversation.
"Sorry, kid. Like I said. I'm done helping people." He turns and settles on the edge his bed, shooting the blonde a sharp edged smirk. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Captain Righteous. When he wasn't trying to take my head off with that shield of his, he was a hell of a guy." The noise she makes at his refusal is almost enough to change his mind, but his bitterness and his heartache are too powerful for him to ignore. Instead, he grits his teeth and gestures for his doorway, steeling himself against the blonde's tears. "I'd say the door was that way, but you kind of blew it up."
He fully expects her to storm out of the room- either in tears or throwing things, he wasn't quite sure which.
He doesn't expect her to latch onto his face.
Desperation flits onto her expression and then her eyes are lighting up an almost searing rose-gold, her hands coming up to cup his face in the pantomime of a lover's embrace. The same light from before appears in her hands, only this time it's infinitely more concentrated, like the hands on his head are actually on fire. There's a moment of extreme pressure as her power courses through his head, lighting up the synapses and flooding his senses with a near unbearable heat, before the light suddenly descends and makes a beeline for his heart. It courses over the wounded organ like molten fingers, teasing along the cracks before latching onto what feels like a knot and pulling.
The smell of ash disappears from his nose.
In its stead, something sweet and cake-like fills his senses, the beautiful familiarity of it stealing the very breath from his lungs.
"Cocoa butter- she smelled like coco butter." He blinks up at the blonde, shocked into stillness as she continues to probe at him. "She had a bottle of it on the bedside dresser. She'd put it on every morning, right before she'd go to work. 'Don't want to look ashy, Sunshine.'"
The old nickname draws the first tear from his eyes.
He can feel her moving through his head, little golden fingers searching out pain and tugging at the knot of it until it releases, memories he'd long suppressed or forgotten about the great love of his life surging to the forefront of his brain. It's a sort of beautiful, decadent torture- one he desperately wants to continue- as she tugs and soothes at him, healing wounds he hadn't even realized existed with the golden light of her gift. She pushes and pushes and then finally reaches the darkest part of him, visible strain appearing on her face as she tugs at the rotten core of him. Then, with a resounding crack, the knot breaks, and he finds himself back in his first year of residency.
It had been one of his hardest days since he'd first made the commitment to become a doctor. It had been his first patient death, and, despite being awake for close to 48 hours, he'd been unable to fall asleep, tormented by the thought of "why did I decide to do this?"
Why become a doctor? What was the point? Everyone died. Who was he to play God?
Sarah, despite her inability to actually hear, seemed to always hear what he was thinking. She'd rolled over in bed and then promptly perched herself on top of him, turning on the bedside lamp so that he could clearly see her hands, eyes dark and tender as they traced his exhausted face.
"Sunshine- have I ever told you why I call you that?" He'd shook his head, too tired to play games with the dark skinned woman. "It's because you light up my world." She'd grabbed his hands and placed them against his heart, the beginnings of a smile curling her full lips. "You saw a lonely girl, lost in a place where no one understood her, and made her your friend. You took these hands, and you helped her- one clumsy adjective at a time." She squeezed his hands again. "You've always helped people. It's who you are." She'd pressed a kiss into the corner of his mouth, the green in her eyes lit up by the lamp light. "There's not a doubt in my mind that you were meant for this. Don't give up, Sunshine- not now. Not ever."
Only he had- hadn't he?
Sure, he'd still kept healing people, but not because he wanted to- not to help. He'd done it as a means to an end.
God, if she could see him now? Sarah would have kicked his ass.
The thought doesn't hurt as much as it had used to.
Instead, it draws an unwilling laugh from him, one hand coming up to wipe at the tears leaking freely from his eyes. He gives Rose a beatific smile, the tattered edges of his heart still aching, but not so terribly that he was unable to function anymore. Feeling lighter than he has in years, the brunet lumbers to his feet, pressing an encouraging hand into the blonde's shoulder.
"Thank you." Unsure as to what exactly she'd just fucking done, Rose gives him a bobble-headed nod, blinking back the familiar sensation of lightheadedness. Tired, but renewed in purpose, he pushes past her, leaving the apartment for the first time in weeks.
"Let's go see about saving your boy-toy, shall we?"
-_-_-_-Page-Break-_-_-_-
Damian stared down at the comatose body in the hospital bed, eyes glancing over the numerous wires and tubes connected to various parts of Steve's body. Rose hovered anxiously behind him, hands tightly intertwined with Bucky's metal one as they both observed the other man.
She wasn't sure exactly what she'd done, but she was grateful that her "enhancements" had somehow managed to convince the stubborn man to help them.
She just hoped that he was more successful at helping Steve than he was when he helped her.
The brunet finally let out a gusty sigh, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave the anxious lovers an almost as equally anxious look.
"I should be able to heal him." Before the two could start to thank/question him, he continued "But, you're going to have to unhook him from everything- and I do mean everything." Bucky scowled at him, absently squeezing Rose's hands as he hissed his reply.
"You heard Cho- if we unhook him, he dies. You can't heal him if he's dead." The brunet rolled his eyes, gesturing down at their comatose love.
"You see those tubes? If I heal him with them in, they stay in him. As in, permanently." Tone softening just slightly he continued. "Besides that, he'll have a couple of minutes before he's clinically dead. That should be just enough time for me to heal him." Hope and anxiety warring for dominance, Rose voiced the doubt she'd been so carefully trying to smother.
"Should? And if you can't?" Damian sighed again, running a tired hand down his beard (he really needed to shave).
"If I can't then you already know what that means." There was a poignant pause as the couple processed his words, sharing a glance as they silently communicated with one another. After a tense moment, Bucky turned and nodded at him, giving the Sun God the okay to begin.
After all, what did they have to lose?
The little voice in Rose's head whispered everything, but she pushed it aside, her determination for Steve to just be okay pushing all of the other noise away.
Despite the amount of time to hook Steve up to the machines, it only takes a couple of moments to unhook him from them. Soon enough, he's lying bare and terribly, terribly still against the starched hospital sheets, skin pallid and eyes shut, looking for all the world like he had already passed on.
Damian doesn't waste any time.
Before his heart can finish its last beat, he places his hands on the other man's chest and pushes his power into him. Like with Rose, his hands begin to glow with golden light, slowly making its way down his fingers and spreading outwards.
Unlike with Rose, the light spreads.
It pulses and accelerates outwards, creeping and then racing along until every inch of Steve's skin is bathed in light. Despite her desire to watch, Rose finds herself reflexively turning away and shielding her eyes, the brightness so intense that it was almost like trying to stare into the sun itself. There's a moment where she fears she and Bucky might actually go blind, despite having their eyes closed, but then the light abruptly goes out, leaving them blinking back spots.
Across from them, Steve takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.
`~`~A/N`~`~`
Merry Christmas! Told you I'd update twice! Ya girl has been busy. Thoughts? Comments? Cursing the never ending cliff hangers? Love you guys!
