Every bone of Lucian Worth's ached, propped to life by the uppers he'd taken both magical and non, but no pain or exhaustion could stave the low-buzz panic that had rammed its fist square between his lungs as he watched the stiff line of Conrad's shoulders haul ahead of them down the path.
Worth had dropped his gear once he'd felt the sticky theater floor under his bootheels, longer legs overtaking Conrad's drift toward the doors, barking out an order to stop that fell on ears deafened by introspection. He flapped his coat front out just as Conrad had jerked back away from the sunlight, and pulled him aside as the doors swung shut with a rusted bang, heartbeat in his throat because the Bogey had said something about suicide and awr christ if this guy didn't look ready to jump off a bridge pretty much all the time.
And Worth knew that he was sweaty and dirty and probably smelled horrid, and he knew that he was perhaps the least qualified to be any sort of arm, consoling or saving or affectionate, but an arm he was for the moment, cramming fingers through Conrad's hair in a ruffle as if to make the excuse for his hovering. He'd rather be seen as a pest, than force Conrad to face anymore bullshit involving manifestations of desire that directly contradict both his claiming to be not-at-all-gay (pfah) and his claiming to not care whether Worth was gay (double pfah, he talked 'nough about it, did Conrad).
Worth, see. Worth knew a mental breakdown when he saw one. He'd been through medical school, fuck's sake, he knew what ta look fer. Conrad had changed colors and lost the ability to speak and fell into that thousand-yard stare and everything. He was in la-la-land, first from the Boggart and then from the bite and then triple-bad over Noah's little announcement - a thing which Worth was the only witness to, aside from Noah herself who seemed more willing to let people make what they would of her without pointing any fingers.
But the thing was, see, was that Conrad had apologized back at the bog road, and Worth still couldn't figure out what for, unless Conrad meant for all the sniping they'd done over cocksucking this and masculinity that; or sorry for mistaking Worth's professional concern and (sort of) friendship for any kind of flirtation; or maybe Conrad had meant sorry because Worth now had to suffer hope.
Hope, that Worth had squashed rather effortlessly under the mantle of 'not even the same ballpark, much less team'. Now they were still in different ballparks, he and Conrad, but more than likely, and at least, shared a team. Somewhat. Sort of. Definitely. Even if Conrad didn't play the game, there was now hope. They now shared a team.
Or, 'sorry' because Conrad now thought that Worth didn't share that team. That all their sniping had just been one long prank on Conrad's loudly voiced assumptions (that he garnered from Jack knows where, because Worth was anything if not a staggering pile of equal-opportunity sexual innuendo). Worth could only guess, and puzzle, and overwork the problem he now had, that hope, because talk was not a thing they could afford just then and he honestly didn't know what he'd say to Conrad except 'sorry' back.
Conrad had proper bitten him, hadn't he? After hearing everything? And sure, it made Worth mad - mad that he was the only one what couldn't say it, couldn't say that it was fine, what they did in the small hours of the morning, what Worth offered and Conrad took so reluctantly.
That reluctance also made Worth mad, that Worth had to beat it out of the guy to do what should have come natural. He didn't want to have to beat anything else natural out of him. Well, maybe. Probably. No he wouldn't mind. Actually. Definitely. Maybe wouldn't mind. That. Conradneversaidno, anyway. Neither one of them ever said no, or yes, just 'oi faggot getchu some vittles' and 'only if we never speak of this again you gigantic freak'. (And to the question, yes, Worth did blister Conrad's ears with homophobic epithets - it was the only thing that really so quickly could get under Conrad's skin, as if that hadn't been telling.)
And Noah all the while flashing her eyes Conrad's way, and Conrad looking at her, at his version of what he saw, like a pile of rotten pumpkins. That, too, sort of gave Worth hope, because Conrad looked at him that way. Often. And if that was the face Conrad made toward his most desired manifestation, well.
Worth could have hope.
And that hope, dangerously enough, started to tell Lucian Worth that the Bogey maybe hadn't been all that confused. His greatest fear, if he really listened to the doomsayer from the end of that pier, was Conrad's entirely logical rejection - not on merits of who was attracted to what, or how inconvenient a cupid's arrow could be, but because he, Doc Worth, was repugnant in action and thought.
And though the opinions of others never at all stopped Worth from being who he needed to be (acing that purity test on his journey, because honesty trumped the stuft-collar high-handed morality, erry gatdamn time); now Worth felt that lung-punch of low buzz panic, because he was sweaty and dirty and even to himself smelled a little horrid and never hardly had anything good to say to Conrad because saying good things to Conrad never got either of them what they mighta wanted, or needed, one from the other. And Conrad could think awfully of him, and that now mattered in a way Worth was once convinced it didn't, or shouldn't, or couldn't have mattered.
Doc Worth had even sort of, maybe, for him, been rather kinda decent to Conbatty bits; especially after the Boggart and especially after the revelation involving Noah. And he intended to be a little more decent further still, until he either embarrassed himself to an early grave or Conrad gave in and started acting decent back. The anticipation of this was bone-deep, a second pain alongside the first.
Like Dominoes clicking one against the other, Worth capitulated to the Boggart's scares ('you aren't even kind to those you love'), then to Hanna's warnings ('dude aaaarrrrre yougonnatalktoConradyet about that warehouse accident'), then to Monty's encouragement ('awful generous, for a vampire'), and back further still to the arrow itself and the thoughts that had come with it ('you care about this skinny loser now, because fate or whatever. suck it'); then on to the thoughts Worth had before the arrow - he capitulated to those too, finally, after storing them all neatly away in the fortification against cherub fuckery.
Those thoughts had been, in order; that Hanna had killed two people and one of them wasn't ready to face that fact; that the person in denial was male, adorably caustic, and dressed like a queerbait; that the adorable queerbait in denial did not possess a beating heart but did smell pretty great for a dead guy; that the adorable dead queerbait in denial who smelled great did possess a temper, awesome to behold; that he was stubborn and neurotic and putting up a good argument but / and then that the adorable little twat could actually swing.
And Worth capitulated that he might have already been in love with Conrad before he even knew him. That he might have already wanted to treat the man decently, even or especially when he could cover this decency with insults and provocations because Conrad could swing without that messy thing called guilt and Worth could get struck without that messy thing called pride and that was just, just fucking perfect, just the most perfect fucking thing. Worth had used the arrow as an excuse to shut that breathless hope away for a while, because it was pointless and horrible and lonely, because some random stranger Hanna Faulk Cross killed wasn't going to give Worth anything but a cheque for his decency and wasn't going to stick around to fight over anything he didn't actually want - like wanting Worth's change of opinion maybe or else wanting a mouthful of blood when that opinion only worsened.
And Worth considered this, standing there in the theater while Toni and Mel introduced themselves to Noah (Veser too gobsmacked to do so, himself). He considered how decently he had tried to act, after the arrow, having the excuse to do so, and how quickly that excuse had turned on its head to protect him from the viciously point-blank rejection. He considered Conrad, the rumpled but hale whole of him, the smear of blood just under his jaw. The way his hair had smelled when it was briefly tucked just under Worth's chin, first at the pier with Conrad's quaking back pressed against his chest and then in the dangerous blare of daylight with Conrad's quaking back pressing nowhere near his chest. And everything just. Hurt.
Dominoes toppled, one by one. Bruising Lucian's ribs on the way down.
