"Fear and (Self)Loathing"
for the prompt: hurt/comfort
Oregon
May, year four
The sound of Conrad sucking in air was enough to make Worth turn around. It could mean one of two things: one, the vampire was making a point in a conversation (not fucking likely); two, something had snapped his instincts so hard that his body had forgotten it didn't need to breathe. Worth knew which of the two was more likely.
The two of them had been on a routine perimeter patrol, just like they had been doing off and on for the last week, stationed out here in the boonies. The perimeter ran maybe an acre around a massive warehouse, corrugated iron and a tin roof and rusty hinges, and inside there was something that a particular set of red-hat wearing bastards would give various and sundry limbs to own. What it was—well, apparently that wasn't something Doc Worth had needed to know. What he did know was this: that he old adage that something worth having was worth stealing held just as true these days as it had in the past.
In the last week, on their shifts alone, the two of them had sent multiple small gangs running and slaughtered one bloody minded fey who just didn't know when to quit. Even Worth, who had been pretty pleased to get the assignment, was starting to feel a little worn down around the edges. Conrad, never exactly excited about a fight, was growing decidedly sullen and more than a little vicious.
And then, tonight, this motherfucker had shown up.
It must have been the unseeligh equivalent of a damn Mission Impossible to come around here alone in its shitty cloak and boots, knowing what kinds of defenses they had set up. It had teeth like a buzzsaw when it smiled at them, silvery eyes quietly assessing. It had pulled down its hood, it had drawn a dirk that glittered bronze in the moonlight, and it had gone for the throat.
That was maybe five solid minutes of nasty brawling ago.
Now, Worth pivoted on his heel just in time to see Conrad going down, mouth open in a silent cry between the creature's claws. His eyes were prinprick pupils in panicked swollen irises. Worth dug his feet into the muddy grass and dove after them, pulling some damn stupid move he must have picked up from watching too much pro-wrestling back in the day—his elbow hit first and snapped something delicate sounding, and the creature let out an enraged, inhuman sound.
It let go of Conrad, fingers sparking, and lunged at Worth—but Worth was a newly minted monster himself, with a lifetime of nasty scrapes to make his punches as clever as they were powerful, and he wasn't planning on getting his ass handed to him by some toothy ninja motherfucker. He ducked the lunge.
A glittering claw swiped just the edge of his face, a nail nicking the corner of one brow on the way down. There was a flicker of pain, barely even enough to register, and then a chilling wave of something deep in the bones, like the weight of the heaviest ocean had buried him whole, and he heard an echo that bypassed his ear entirely, scraping right into his gray matter.
It was the sound of a lighter clicking underneath his thumb, and the distant roar of fire.
Worth swung himself upright again and spit out a gelatinous hunk of black, undead blood. "Tom Cruise's lawyer's gonna hear about this, you mark my words."
There was a scramble for the bronze knife that had landed in the grass not too far away, some unholy amalgamation of claws and fists, and then with an almost anticlimactic twist the hilt of the knife was sticking out of the creature's chest.
It shrieked, and it went still.
Worth dusted off his hands. "Well," he said, "nothin' like an asskickin' at three in th' morning ter really wake a bloke up. Not that ya were much help, eh princess—"
He stopped. He took a step back.
Conrad was on the ground, still, but his whole body was heaving with almost perfectly silent sobs, his arms pulled up over the length of his face like a shield.
"Connie?" the doctor said, mouth dry. "Conrad, what's the damage?"
Conrad didn't answer, didn't even seem to notice the question.
Worth swore and slid to his knees beside his partner's shaking body, hands pushing for a better look at the torso. No injuries. Of course not, he'd seen Conrad take a claw through the chest cavity and come out running. He'd seen the guy burnt and beaten to hell and back without so much as a goddamn tear.
There were no injuries on the torso. Nothing on the arms. Legs were clean. Skull was fine, the majority of it he could see with Conrad's arms pulled up like they were. That just left the face, then.
Worth pried the arms away, swallowing a thick trickle of anxiety when Conrad didn't even bother to take a swing at him for doing it. Best as he could, he held both arms down with one hand and took hold of the chin with the other. There were finger shaped bruises down both sides of Conrad's face, but no indication of puncture or fracture underneath. The doctor was at a loss.
"Connie," he hissed, "ya gotta tell me where the damage is, or I can't help ya."
Conrad's eyes clenched tighter, and then Worth realized that he hadn't yet seen what was behind the lids. Could that be the problem? Worth ran a quick calculation of everything he knew about ocular injuries compounded with his still-tenuous understanding of vampire anatomy. It didn't sound good.
"Conrad I need ter see yer eyes," he said, fumbling to get his hand in place to open one up. "Can ya open 'em for me?"
No response. Worth sucked in a long, pointless breath, and peeled the left eye open.
It was whole, uninjured, and terribly unfocused. A shot of something blue raced across the cornea, like electricity curling over the wet surface. Worth snatched his hand back, startled.
"I'm sorry," Conrad moaned, "Sorry, I'm sorry."
The doctor's first instinct was to check his hand for some kind of blue creepy infection, but there was nothing there. What was the apology for, then?
"Ey," he said, "'s fine, I got the bastard. Ya couldn' see it on account'a bein'… whatever ya are, but no worries."
"I'm sorry," Conrad repeated, a pleading note in it now. Quite possibly he hadn't heard a damn word of that.
"Shit," Worth said. He let go of Conrad's hands, planning to go in for a better look at the eyes, but the hands caught him around the wrists in a death grip, and the eyes flew open on their own.
"I'm so sorry," Conrad almost whimpered, "I got you killed and I never even asked you if you wanted to change and—"
"Whoa there, Connie," Worth said, "that was months ago. I'm doin' fine, calm the hell down."
Conrad shook his head, wild eyed. "I didn't even think you had feelings for ages and I, I, I'm not nearly—I'm so sorry—"
Bewildered, Worth tried to get his hands free. "Christ," he muttered, "I ain't the right kinda doctor fer this."
"—And I left my mother in England," Conrad carried on, "I just ran, I couldn't even talk to her, I—"
The words poured out of Conrad's mouth, almost unintelligible in places, a muddled sobbing mess of apologies to every damn person under the sun by the sound of it, from the poor son of a bitch's crazy mother right down to some tool he'd accidentally embarrassed in third grade. And then, just when Worth thought he had sort of got a handle on what was going on, Conrad started in on the people he'd killed.
It all came out so quickly, like someone had blown up the hoover dam and left Worth right underneath the onslaught. Regret, he thought faintly, something about regret. Whatever that creature had done to Conrad, that was where the damage was centered.
"Connie," Worth said, grabbing a shoulder, "ya gotta snap out of it. It's just magic, yer just havin' a reaction, ya pro'lly absorbed too much—"
Conrad heaved a heavy, gut wrenching sob and curled into himself.
"Fuck," Worth swore.
Well what now? Poor sod wasn't coming down any time soon, at least not for Worth's admittedly subpar bedside manner. For the first time in ten years, Worth started to regret never having practiced pleasantry under fire. He could try to drag Conrad inside the warehouse, but getting all the locks undone while toting around the princess's substantial ass wasn't going to be easy. He could call for Hanna, but although Hanna would probably know better than him what to do with a full grown sobbing man, ultimately Worth decided against it. Some part of him rebelled at the thought of letting anyone else see this—hell, he didn't even want to see it.
Worth looked down at the vampire sobbing next to his knees, one side of his face streaked with mud and grass stains. He clenched and unclenched his fists, thinking. Hopefully this would wear off in a few minutes. Hopefully, if the unfocused look was anything to go by, Conrad would come up out of this in the forgiving haze of dreamy amnesia.
Worth swore again, for longer this time, and got an arm underneath Conrad's chest. He pulled the damp, shuddering mass into his lap, rearranged his legs, and hooked his arms under Conrad's.
"I'm terrible," Conrad hiccupped, tone vague and factual all at once.
"Tha's just the magic talkin'," Worth said.
"Useless," Conrad muttered, undeterred. "Big fuck—fuckup."
Worth frowned deeper than ever, staring down at the black top of his partner's head. He had this feeling, a faint sense that he should be making shooshing noises and whispering meaningless reassurances, but this wasn't exactly a panic attack and besides, he was pretty sure he'd fuck up any attempt at basic human kindness he tried. He usually did.
So instead, he pulled his arms tighter around Conrad's chest, and he said, "ey, now. Remember the time ya got that skinwalker right in the forehead?"
Conrad made a faint noise of misery, but his nod was the first real sign he'd given that anything was registering with him at all. So Worth kept going. He kept going until his throat was tired and his jeans were soaked, and Conrad was limp and nearly silent against him. He started with the skinwalker and carried on into the Djin, and on and on.
It was much, much later when Worth finally ran out of memories to recount to the shivering man in his arms.