A fic I have written for @sobluedoll ! Lighthearted and soft <333 I had a wonderful time writing it, I really love Corentin and Aurora!!! They are so precious!
His Hands, Her Wounds
The cell smelled of iron and salt, a mingling of antiseptic and something darker, old stone, rusting metal, and the faintest trace of carbonized flesh that lingered like an unspoken accusation in the air. Fluorescent lights hummed above, pale and pitiless, casting their glow across the concrete walls. Beyond the glass of the observation window, silhouettes of Foundation personnel shifted like carrion birds circling, their murmurs clipped, clinical, devoid of anything resembling humanity. And in the center of it all, upon the camp bed they had chained her to, sat Aurora. Her long hair, once a river of moonlight, hung dull and tangled around her shoulders. Beneath the linen that bound her arms and throat, patches of skin still smoldered with half-healed burns, remnants of a recent encounter with the Old Man, the walking rot they called SCP-106. Her body, resilient in ways that defied natural law, was even now regenerating itself back together. Where his corrosive touch had eaten through her flesh, fresh skin bloomed pale and raw, tender as the inside of a wound. SCP-049,no, Corentin beneath the mask, stood frozen at the sight of her. For a moment, he could scarcely breathe, his gloved hands curled into fists, the leather creaking. He had always known the Foundation to be ruthless, to grind life into dust in the name of study and control, but to see her like this, reduced to an experiment, her immortal flesh treated as nothing more than a canvas for cruelty, his gut twisted, and something inside him broke. He crossed the cell in slow, deliberate trails, the echo of his boots against the concrete ringing like the tolling of a funeral bell. When he reached her, he did not speak at once. His gaze, those pale, cold eyes that rarely betrayed feeling, was ablaze with fury, sorrow, and a pain so heavy it clawed at his chest. Her head lifted at last, veil half-draped across her scarred cheek, and her lips curved into a ghost of a smile, as though she wished to shield him from the weight of her pain.
âYouâŠâ his voice cracked against the stillness, the deep timbre shaken in a way the Foundation staff had never heard before, âyou have been subjected to this? To him ?â He did not need to name the Old Man, the stench of corrosion still clung faintly to her bandages, a memory of that encounter. âAurora⊠mon DieuâŠâ (my God)
She turned her face away, voice quiet but steady, as though resigned.
âIt doesnât matter Corentin.â
Those four words cut him more deeply than any blade could.
âDoesnât matter?â His tone sharpened, cracking into something cold and furious, though the anger was not for her. He leaned closer, his mask inches from her pale skin. âYour flesh torn, your body consumed by that abomination, your suffering recorded and dissected by jackals behind glass, and you tell me it does not matter?â
Her fingers trembled where they lay against her lap. She drew in a breath that shivered at the edges, and when she spoke again, her words were soft, resigned, as though shaped by centuries of despair:
âI am not alive. Not truly. I am⊠a corpse that refuses to rest. I mend and I move, but it is not life, Corentin. It never was. I am an oddity, an experiment. Something less than human.â
The words hollowed the air between them. For an instant, silence fell, broken only by the distant hum of the lights. Then, as if pierced by something sharp and unseen, 049 drew back, a low sound reverberating in his throat, half growl, half groan of anguish. His gloved hand slammed against the camp bedâs iron railing, the sound reverberating like thunder.
âDo not dareâŠâ His voice dropped into a rasp, low and dangerous, his entire frame trembling with barely restrained emotion. âDo not ever speak of yourself in such a way. You are not âless.â You are not some carcass animated by chance. You are Aurora. You are the one whoâŠâ His voice vacillated, caught between confession and restraint, and he turned his face briefly away, shoulders rising and falling in the weight of his agitation.
Beyond the glass, the Foundation staff whispered to one another, taking notes furiously as though cataloguing an anomaly of behavior. One guardâs hand twitched toward his weapon, uncertain. But when 049 turned his gaze on them, it was enough to freeze them in place. His eyes, icy and burning at once, fixed on the silhouettes like he was throwing a curse at them. If a glare could pierce stone, their bodies would have already been spread lifeless across the floor. He turned back to her, his voice quieter now, but heavy with aching conviction:
âDo you not see? They will never grant you the dignity you deserve. To them, you are an object, a tool. But to meâŠâ He stopped, inhaling slowly, as though the words themselves scraped his throat. âTo me, you are the only fragment of light left in this damned existence. Do not let them take that from you. Do not let yourself take that from you.â
Her eyes, those soft, warm brown eyes, dulled by exhaustion but still carrying the glow of who she once was, lifted to him then. For a heartbeat, her mask of resignation swayed, and something fragile flickered across her face. She wanted to argue, to insist on her unworthiness, but his words clung to her like chains, binding her to silence. 049 sank to one knee beside the camp bed, the long black folds of his cloak spilling across the concrete like shadow. His hands hovered near hers, trembling faintly, but he did not yet touch her, as if to do so would shatter her completely, or worse, prove she was truly no more than what she claimed. Instead, his voice lowered, filled with the tenderness he could no longer hide:
âYou have endured enough torment to blacken a hundred lifetimes. And yet you still draw breath, still raise your eyes to me, even in such ruin. If that is not life, Aurora, then I know not what is.â
Her lips parted, words balanced upon them, but none came. She only looked at him, and in that gaze was both agony and something softer, something he had not dared to hope for in centuries. And for the first time in so long, the Plague Doctor, bane, savior, monster, felt his composure unravel. His hands finally moved, slow as though breaking some sacred vow. The leather of his gloves brushed lightly against her wrist, guiding her trembling hand away from her lap. He drew it into his own, maintaining it, holding her with a gentleness that seemed impossible for fingers so long familiarized with death. The bandages around her forearm were darkened with the stain of blood and the faint greenish tint of corrosion. Without asking, without ceremony, he began to undo them. The linen fell away, strip by strip, revealing the half-healed skin beneath, pink and tender where her body had battled to restore itself. He did not retreat, he did not flinch, he only worked with a precision that bordered on reverence, tearing clean cloth from the leather satchel always at his side, soaking it in the small vial of antiseptic they had allowed him. The scent of herbs rose sharply in the heavy air of the cell. When the cool damp fabric touched her skin, she exhaled softly, the smallest sound of relief. He continued, cleansing every inch of her ruined flesh with meticulous care, as though the act alone could erase what had been done to her. His hands lingered longer than needed, pressing just firmly enough to anchor her back into her body, as if reminding her she was still here, still whole. At last he wrapped her arm anew, binding it with fresh linen. His movements were steady, practiced, but beneath them ran an underflow of fury, a silent vow threaded into every knot and fold. He would not allow them to break her again. When her wounds were treated, he reached for her hair. Strands of white hung tangled across her cheeks, stuck damp to her skin with sweat. With gloved fingers, he brushed them back, smoothing them away from her face. He lingered at her temple, thumb tracing a line that hovered but did not press, as though memorizing the fragile outline of her beneath the veil.
âHold still,â he murmured, his voice low, more command than plea. He took a cloth and dabbed carefully at the corners of her mouth, where dried blood clung like rust. The small, intimate act was almost unbearable in its tenderness. To those behind the glass, it might have looked clinical. To him, it was closer to worship.
He adjusted the blanket draped across her lap, pulling it higher over her chest, ensuring no chill could creep through the thin fabric of her gown. The action, small and unremarkable, carried the weight of centuries, of every patient he could not save, of every life he had watched slip away. She was not just another body. She was his Aurora. When all was done, he sat back slightly, though still close enough that the shadow of his mask fell over her face. His hands rested on his knees, tense, coiled, but his gaze softened, the pale light of his eyes fixed on her.
âYou will not call yourself a corpse again,â he said, his voice iron, leaving no space for refusal. âNot while I draw breath. You are flesh, blood, soul, scarred, yes, but alive. And I will not see you diminished.â
The lights above hummed. Here, in the heavy air of this cell, Corentin cradled her humanity with the only weapons he had left: his hands, his anger, and the relentless devotion of a man who could not let her fallâŠ
