To Hell and Back | C&E
themoralthief
He had no idea how long he’d been out, not completely. It’d been a few days at least, a week? Who cared. He vaguely remembered being roused awake by Moody, remembered the clear liquid that hit his cracked lips before the questioning started. It was standard issue, nothing he hadn’t done himself before.
It was veritaserum, flavourless, odorless, utterly unremarkable. It was as if the drops that hit him were water- only, they had the power to see the truth in anything. It was the only way he’d get clearance back into the Order, the only way that Moody would know he could still be trusted. It didn’t matter what Fenrir had done to him; Caradoc Dearborn remained unbroken.
When his mind finally registered his surroundings, the dim silhouette of a figure parked in a chair beside him had the newfound wizard fighting to raise his consciousness to the surface. He knew who it was before the lens of his vision had even zoomed into focus.
His mind wondered over his body, taking current stock of the damages. He didn’t quite feel like death any more but he wasn’t exactly warmed up. What was warm… was the guy who had perched himself beside his head. He attempted to crack a lid, but his eyes felt like they’d been covered in lead.
It was a good minute or two more before he was able to pry them open, marginally so. A quick glance up told him where he was… he recognised the stark unfamiliarity of St Mungo’s. Lord knows he’d visited here enough.
Lips parted in an attempt to say hello to an old friend but all he managed to do was cough, the act causing a fresh, shooting pain to run up his chest. “Starsky & Hutch, back at it again.” There was success in his speech but it was marginal, the words slurred and drawn out. “What’re you doin’ here?”
He groaned as the feel of lead on his chest intensified. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, couldn’t imagine waking up to anyone else by his side. If only he could just move his god damn hand, reach out and grab him… anything to reassure him of the other’s presence.
After the last two months, it was exactly this moment that had kept him going. The knowledge that he’d find his way back to Edgar eventually… and the Order. Whether it was by his escaping, or finding them all in Heaven when it was time, they’d be re-united again. Fate was just a benevolent spirit that had granted him his one wish, sooner than planned.
“You good?”
Maybe horror literature had been a bad choice. Some parts read like a comedy, but the novel’s overall tone was… dark. Edgar grimaced as he leafed to the next page of William Blatty’s “The Exorcist.” He’d borrowed it from one of the nurses, a transplant from America who’d come to get to know her English relatives or some shit. He hadn’t been listening. Not enough to be quizzed on it. Edgar had just seen the book at the nurse’s station and made small talk until she lent it to him.
He sat where he always did when he watched over Doc, guarded him and prayed on every passing turn of the second arm that today would be the day he finally woke up. Slouched in the chair near the head of Dearborn’s hospital bed, Edgar’s feet were kicked up onto the mattress, one ankle crossed over the other as he read the book propped up on his sternum.
This was where he’d been for the last five days, not moving unless Moody told him to clear out and sleep in an actual bed. He’d have told Moody to sod off, but the threat of him summoning his sister --the cavalry-- had been enough to make him sigh in distaste and grumble the promise to be back in a few hours. Knowing that he’d call him if there were any changes had also helped get him out the door.
There hadn’t been, though. Not in days and days. Caradoc was still sleeping like a fucking princess and Edgar had read every goddamn magazinge, tabloid, old news paper the hospital had to offer. He’d even read Rita’s articles, Merlin help him. So, while “The Exorcist” was a bad choice, he was starved for an alternative.
The scratchy sound of Doc’s raspy voice ripped Edgar’s focus from the page onto the man beside him. His every instinct was to jump out of his seat, grab Doc by the face, and stare into those blood ringed blue eyes, undecided between laughing or cursing, or some other inarticulate sound. Instead, surprise, incredulity, complete and utter shock had frozen him to the spot and all Edgar could do was gape.
A second turned into ten, a minute, before he blinked, shook his head, and drawled out, “With better hair, I hope.”
He snapped the book shut, moved his boots from the edge of Doc’s bed to plant them on the floor, and turned his body to face his not-as-dead-as-he-looked best friend. “What am I doing here,” he repeated, choking on a laugh that was either wary or insulted, or the most crushing kind of relieved.
Edgar shrugged, half cocked grin finding its way onto his face. He rested his elbows on his knees, the book dangling from his hand as he held Doc’s gaze, muttering, “You know, I actually got turned around trying to find the cantine. Decided to hole up in here because, hey, odds are they gotta feed you eventually, right? Just been biding my time until then. Can I have your pudding cup?”
He lifted the book and lightly thwacked it on the only spot of Doc’s arm that wasn’t bandaged. “I’ve been keeping your comatose ass company, you fucking tosser.” Edgar stood up from his chair, tossed the book onto the table beside his hospital bed, and strode over to the jug of water the nurses kept fresh for visitors. As he filled the cup, he said, “Not that all that beauty sleep’s done you any favors,” and walked it over to Doc.
Licking his lips as he regarded the blond, Edgar remembered the handsome face, the sparkling blue eyes and the way they crinkled at the edges when he laughed and smiled. Clenching his jaw, he carefully slipped a hand under Doc’s nap and helped lift his head with a muttered, “Here,” and watered him like an oversized houseplant.
“Easy,” he said, mindful of how much water he was drinking, of how fast and when to stop so he didn’t cough it out before he could actually swallow it down. Their eyes met and his brows bent in question. ‘more?’ When Doc was done the cup went to the table and Edgar moved the chair closer to the bed before reclaiming it.
As he got comfortable in the chair that made every effort to make it impossible, Edgar barked a laugh at Caradoc’s question. “Am I good,” he said, shaking his head, grinning a mirthless smile as he stared quizzically at him. “Yeah, Doc. Couldn’t be better. How about you?” Beaten to shit, violated and tortured, he suspected he knew the answer to that question, but if either of them should have been asking it it was him. The one who hadn’t been abducted by Death Eaters and tortured for months. Months. Was he good? Peachy keen, thanks for asking.



















