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chaobellI said I wasn't going to write this. I did. But I have to get, if nothing else, this shit OUT of my brain.
I'm sorry.
The wind whistles outside the window, hinting at the possibility of a storm later. That damned branch on that damned tree, the one that Bowman had never been motivated to trim and that Nineh had never been motivated to complain much about, knocks rhythmically on the back wall of the house. This sound wakes neither of them.
Another thump, this one on the front door, does.
Nineh can sleep through any noise. So can Bowman, usually. But something about this particular noise reaches him through the fog of sleep, jerking him awake and upright in the bed.
The noise does not wake Nineh, but the sudden movement beside her does, somewhat. By the time she is more or less alert, Bowman is up, into a pair of loose pants, and pulling on a pair of gloves. The ones with the spikes. "Stay in here and lock the door behind me," he warns. "Don't open it until I come back."
Bowman slips out the door, shutting it silently behind him; the soft "click" indicates that Nineh has done as he asked. He was never known for being the quiet type, but when he has to, he can be. Right now, he thinks he has to.
All of the windows are closed and intact. The front door is still locked and bolted. Aside from himself and Nineh, the house is empty.
Thump. Thump.
Again, the front door. But now, at this distance, something else is audible after the thumping.
"Bowman?" The voice is familiar, yes, but not quite right. Too flat. "Are you awake?" A pause. A few more thumps.
...Keith?
A few more thumps, softer, near the bottom of the door. "Bowman...if you're up, could you let me in?"
"Keith?" Aloud, this time.
"Yeah..." Another pause. "I think I need a little help."
The lock is opened, the deadbolt disengaged. The doorknob is cold even through the leather of Bowman's glove. The wind that invades the house through the opened door is even colder.
There. Sitting barely upright, back against the doorframe, left hand braced against the front step to keep him more or less upright. The sleeve of his usual neat white jacket dotted and streaked with red stains.
The gloves come off, and Bowman sinks to his knees inches from the hand splayed over the planks. From this angle, he sees that it isn't just the sleeve of Keith's jacket that's stained--the front is in even worse shape. Especially on the right side. And now, though Keith still stares straight ahead of him, Bowman can see that Keith's glasses have gone missing, and that his right hand covers his right eye.
A drop of blood falls from Keith's chin, landing on the front of his jacket. Keith does not seem to notice.
"...oh, shit." One of Bowman's hands curls gently around Keith's right wrist, the other rests on the back of his neck, his thumb stroking absently over the skin beneath it. "Okay," Bowman sighs, fighting to keep calm and silently vowing that if this was the result of foul play, he would find whoever was responsible and make them damned sorry. "Okay...look over here and lemme see what the hell happened to y--"
The doorknob and the wind are both warm in comparison to the chill that spreads from the pit of Bowman's stomach to the tips of his fingers as Keith turns to look at him and his hand falls away from his eye.
What's left of it.
Bowman's well-trained gag reflex does its damndest to trigger; only by sheer willpower and the determination to stay calm until he's out of Keith's sight (and God only knows how long that will be) does he fight it down. Keith himself seems not only perfectly lucid, but perfectly calm. As calm as someone who's hurt this badly can be, and more.
"Sorry if I woke you up..." Keith seems to take no notice as Bowman worries at the leg of his pants, tearing strips of fabric free with trembling fingers and growling the occasional curse when the cloth fails to give as readily as he'd like. A small, almost sheepish smile curves his lips. "I...sort of got into a fight with a tree."
"You--you can explain it to me later, huh?" Bowman holds a wad of former pant leg against the bloody mess where Keith's right eye should have been. "Just--oh god--just come in and lay down and let me take care of this--"
The little smile widens, just a bit, accompanied by a sound that's not quite a laugh. "You've always taken care of me...sticking up for me in college...coming around to make sure I eat and get out of the house once in a while..."
One of Bowman's arms slides under his knees, the other around his shoulders. It's a good thing Keith is so damned light. Very good indeed. Bowman wasn't sure his legs would support his own weight, let alone the combined weight of himself and Keith.
Somehow, they do.
Keith's good eye drifts shut, and he rests his head on Bowman's bare shoulder as he has so many times before in more pleasant circumstances. "I used to be jealous of you. Did I ever tell you that?"
"No." Bowman kicks the front door shut behind him. His forgotten gloves remain on the front step.
"I was. For a while." The good eye opens halfway, then closes again. "You were so much stronger than I was...everyone liked you...I was just that little geeky guy that hung out in the library all the time..."
The corner of Bowman's mouth twitches in a feeble attempt at a smile as he nudges the guest room door open. "And you're too cute to be geeky." He sets Keith down on one of the beds, carefully. "Now shut up and let me fix you." He starts out the door in search of bandages and blueberries, but Keith catches his wrist as he turns.
The strength of that grip would be unsettling even under normal circumstances. Now, it invokes that cold crawly sensation in the pit of Bowman's stomach once more.
"You won't have to take care of me anymore after this."
Against his better judgement, Bowman turns to look over his shoulder.
For a reason he can't put his finger on, the smile Keith offers him now chills him even more.
"I'm not weak anymore." The good eye opens once more. "I'm going to take care of you from now on."
I'm sorry.
The wind whistles outside the window, hinting at the possibility of a storm later. That damned branch on that damned tree, the one that Bowman had never been motivated to trim and that Nineh had never been motivated to complain much about, knocks rhythmically on the back wall of the house. This sound wakes neither of them.
Another thump, this one on the front door, does.
Nineh can sleep through any noise. So can Bowman, usually. But something about this particular noise reaches him through the fog of sleep, jerking him awake and upright in the bed.
The noise does not wake Nineh, but the sudden movement beside her does, somewhat. By the time she is more or less alert, Bowman is up, into a pair of loose pants, and pulling on a pair of gloves. The ones with the spikes. "Stay in here and lock the door behind me," he warns. "Don't open it until I come back."
Bowman slips out the door, shutting it silently behind him; the soft "click" indicates that Nineh has done as he asked. He was never known for being the quiet type, but when he has to, he can be. Right now, he thinks he has to.
All of the windows are closed and intact. The front door is still locked and bolted. Aside from himself and Nineh, the house is empty.
Thump. Thump.
Again, the front door. But now, at this distance, something else is audible after the thumping.
"Bowman?" The voice is familiar, yes, but not quite right. Too flat. "Are you awake?" A pause. A few more thumps.
...Keith?
A few more thumps, softer, near the bottom of the door. "Bowman...if you're up, could you let me in?"
"Keith?" Aloud, this time.
"Yeah..." Another pause. "I think I need a little help."
The lock is opened, the deadbolt disengaged. The doorknob is cold even through the leather of Bowman's glove. The wind that invades the house through the opened door is even colder.
There. Sitting barely upright, back against the doorframe, left hand braced against the front step to keep him more or less upright. The sleeve of his usual neat white jacket dotted and streaked with red stains.
The gloves come off, and Bowman sinks to his knees inches from the hand splayed over the planks. From this angle, he sees that it isn't just the sleeve of Keith's jacket that's stained--the front is in even worse shape. Especially on the right side. And now, though Keith still stares straight ahead of him, Bowman can see that Keith's glasses have gone missing, and that his right hand covers his right eye.
A drop of blood falls from Keith's chin, landing on the front of his jacket. Keith does not seem to notice.
"...oh, shit." One of Bowman's hands curls gently around Keith's right wrist, the other rests on the back of his neck, his thumb stroking absently over the skin beneath it. "Okay," Bowman sighs, fighting to keep calm and silently vowing that if this was the result of foul play, he would find whoever was responsible and make them damned sorry. "Okay...look over here and lemme see what the hell happened to y--"
The doorknob and the wind are both warm in comparison to the chill that spreads from the pit of Bowman's stomach to the tips of his fingers as Keith turns to look at him and his hand falls away from his eye.
What's left of it.
Bowman's well-trained gag reflex does its damndest to trigger; only by sheer willpower and the determination to stay calm until he's out of Keith's sight (and God only knows how long that will be) does he fight it down. Keith himself seems not only perfectly lucid, but perfectly calm. As calm as someone who's hurt this badly can be, and more.
"Sorry if I woke you up..." Keith seems to take no notice as Bowman worries at the leg of his pants, tearing strips of fabric free with trembling fingers and growling the occasional curse when the cloth fails to give as readily as he'd like. A small, almost sheepish smile curves his lips. "I...sort of got into a fight with a tree."
"You--you can explain it to me later, huh?" Bowman holds a wad of former pant leg against the bloody mess where Keith's right eye should have been. "Just--oh god--just come in and lay down and let me take care of this--"
The little smile widens, just a bit, accompanied by a sound that's not quite a laugh. "You've always taken care of me...sticking up for me in college...coming around to make sure I eat and get out of the house once in a while..."
One of Bowman's arms slides under his knees, the other around his shoulders. It's a good thing Keith is so damned light. Very good indeed. Bowman wasn't sure his legs would support his own weight, let alone the combined weight of himself and Keith.
Somehow, they do.
Keith's good eye drifts shut, and he rests his head on Bowman's bare shoulder as he has so many times before in more pleasant circumstances. "I used to be jealous of you. Did I ever tell you that?"
"No." Bowman kicks the front door shut behind him. His forgotten gloves remain on the front step.
"I was. For a while." The good eye opens halfway, then closes again. "You were so much stronger than I was...everyone liked you...I was just that little geeky guy that hung out in the library all the time..."
The corner of Bowman's mouth twitches in a feeble attempt at a smile as he nudges the guest room door open. "And you're too cute to be geeky." He sets Keith down on one of the beds, carefully. "Now shut up and let me fix you." He starts out the door in search of bandages and blueberries, but Keith catches his wrist as he turns.
The strength of that grip would be unsettling even under normal circumstances. Now, it invokes that cold crawly sensation in the pit of Bowman's stomach once more.
"You won't have to take care of me anymore after this."
Against his better judgement, Bowman turns to look over his shoulder.
For a reason he can't put his finger on, the smile Keith offers him now chills him even more.
"I'm not weak anymore." The good eye opens once more. "I'm going to take care of you from now on."
