"Love, which quickly arrests the gentle heart, seized him with my beautiful form, that was taken from me, in a manner which still grieves me." (Purgatorio, Canto XXXI)
Summary: You enjoy your last day with Henry before heading back to work.
Ship: Henry Creel|Peter Ballard|Vecna|One/Reader
Tags: Fluff, Hand-holding, Whipped Henry Creel, ST 5 Fix-it
WC: 3.6K
A/N: Hello it's me again, tension is ramping up!!! Just so you know, there most likely won't be a chapter released this upcoming week. I am going on a weekend trip, and I usually write on the weekends, whereas due to that, I won't have that time. But you never know, miracles can happen. Also thank you for all the love and comments, especially to those who comment every week, it seriously makes my day and I love waiting to see your guys reactions!!!
PART SIX
It's impossible, said pride. It's risky, said experience. It's pointless, said reason. Give it a try, whispered the heart. - Sonu Sood
The sun was barely up this morning, but it still cast long pale stripes across the hardwoods of your bedroom floor. Usually, you would hear Henry shuffling about downstairs, but you had been surprised before, so it really shouldn't have shocked you today that he did something else new.
When you padded downstairs into the kitchen, your eyes rubbed from sleep, he wasn't in his bedroom. Instead, you found him standing in the kitchen next to the sink, leaning all of his weight on his good leg. He had one hand on the counter to steady himself, and the other was awkwardly, but determinedly wiping down the counters with a damp cloth.
He was wearing the same dark gray t-shirt from yesterday, his blonde hair uncombed and sticking up in a few places. He looked focused—unusually so—as he wiped up the crumbs.
"Henry?" you asked as you walked into the kitchen. "Am I still asleep, or are you doing chores right now?"
He didn't startle as you spoke, but he slowed down his swiping. He didn't look at you, instead doubling down his focus on a stubborn smudge near a vase of fake flowers. "I found myself annoyed at the various maple syrup rings and graphite powder."
"Uh-huh. So this is purely selfish?"
"Entirely," he muttered.
You walked over and took the washcloth from him, your fingers brushing against his in the process. He didn't pull away or stiffen at the contact. He looked at you, without a single hint of irritation in his eyes.
"You've been able to walk around? All by yourself?" you noted as you nudged him toward a chair.
"Yes," he said as he allowed himself to be guided into a seat. He watched as you started the kettle, his eyes quietly following you. "I've decided I no longer want to be recovering. I no longer want to be a permanent fixture on your furniture."
"I'm not sure if that's a decision you get to make, but you can sure try," you teased as you set down two mugs. "You are actually being really pleasant this morning, no complaining, no lecturing me. You are losing your edge, Henry."
You poured the water over a teabag and handed it to him, steam curling around his features. He took a slow sip at first, his eyes drifting over to the window where the morning light hit the trees.
"Perhaps I am," he said softly. "I've been finding it difficult to be grumpy when I no longer feel like my body wants to explode."
He tapped his fingers along the length of the table before speaking again. "Are you making breakfast? I assume you haven't forgotten how to."
"Okay, Bossy," you say, looking in the fridge for some milk. "Cereal okay?"
"Yes, that's fine."
"I have to head back to work tomorrow," you said as you poured the cereal and milk into a bowl for him. "My emergency leave can only go on for so long."
Henry stilled at the thought. He knew deep down that he didn't want you to leave, but it was unavoidable. The air in the kitchen grew heavier with his discontent.
"Do you have to?" he asked rather sheepishly.
"Yes, but I'll be back in the evenings," you said as you leaned against the counter. "The fridge should be stocked, and the phone is right over here in the kitchen. You are moving well enough that I think you can reach it if needed."
He finally looked up at you. There was a spark of something behind his eyes—not anger, but it seemed to creep towards annoyance.
"I see," he said, voice regaining a bit of its formal, clipped edge. " You must get back to your engineering. I suppose you cannot play nurse forever."
"Henry. I am not a nurse. I'm just… A friend who has been helping her very stubborn roommate," you corrected, not letting him fall victim to his shell of bitterness. "And you are doing fine. Better than fine."
He let out a short, dry huff of hair and looked towards his sketchbook on the island. "I suppose I'll manage, I have endured years of silence in the lab; surely, a few hours of your absence will not result in my psychological collapse."
"Is that so? I was getting worried that you would miss me too much."
"Never. I will suffer through this with my dignity intact," he counted, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Though I suspect I will continue to have to listen to the annoyance of these birds in the morning."
"One of these days, Henry, I will get you to smile. One day," you said, watching him, realizing that as much as he complained about the noise and chaos of your life, the opposite, the emptiness, scared him as well.
"I will be back before dinner," you promised. "I saw you staring at the piano the other night," you gestured to the corner of your living room. "If you get bored, you can play. I'm not sure how in tune it is."
He looked over and then back at you. "Maybe," he murmured.
You set your mug down with a clunk and got out an empty notepad from your drawer. "If you are gonna be home alone, I need to set some ground rules. I do not need you getting injured in the short time I am gone."
He arched one of his eyebrows, "Rules? How delightful. It is as if I am eight years old again."
"Very funny. Rule number one: No Mountain Climbing." You pointed your finger at him. "I am very serious, Henry. Do not try to get things you can't reach. I know you like the fancy tea I have up in that cabinet."
He let out a grumble.
"Rule number two: The phone." You gestured to the mounted rotary phone in the kitchen, its coiled cord dangling. "If the phone rings, take your time getting to it. Do not—I repeat, do not—sprint for it. If it's so important, they will call back. And if you need to call me, the number for my office is sitting on a post-it note next to it."
He looks at the phone as if it were an alien artifact. "I have no intention of sprinting anywhere."
"Rule number three: Ice is going to be your friend," you gestured down to his foot. "I know that you are healing, but if it starts throbbing, I want you to prop it up and get some ice from the freezer."
"If you insist," he muttered, clearly annoyed by your sentiment.
"Good," you said, tearing off the list of rules and sticking it to the fridge with a small fruit-shaped magnet. "Now, since today is my last day off, I'm thinking we can go sit outside, it's too nice out on the porch not to."
"Shall I go fetch my cardigan?"
"Hurry up, let's go."
The screen door gave its signature creek at your opening, Henry following behind slowly. The dewy air was crisp, and it carried the scent of freshly cut grass and mulch.
"Careful getting through the door," you cautioned as you held it wide open.
He quickly maneuvered himself over the wooden lip with a focused grunt. "I am perfectly capable of getting outside myself, thank you. Though I suspect you haven't painted your porch since before even I was in the lab."
"Hey! It has character," you shot back, pulling a wicker armchair close to him so he didn't have to move too far.
He eased himself into the chair and propped his foot up on the nearby ottoman. He pulled his cardigan on, and his eyes narrowed to adjust to the brightness of the real world.
"Your backyard is very green," he remarked as his gaze took in its expanse.
"Yes, because we are outside, Henry. It tends to do that in the spring." You sat on the porch railing and let your legs sway back and forth. "Better than inside, right?"
He didn't answer immediately; instead, he watched some blue jays land in the birdbath, his head tilting at the birds' erratic movements. The tension that he seemed to always carry lessened at the breeze of the calm morning.
"It's nice out. I suppose I can manage sitting out here, granted the birds do not get too noisy."
"Don't count on it. They seem to be very opinionated this time of year."
You both sat in silence for a long time, just taking in the nature. It was a quiet, but a well-needed rest.
"You know," you started, leaning against a porch post. "If you keep that look on your face, I'm going to start thinking that you actually like sitting out here. You almost look—glowing. I think it would be quite damaging to your reputation."
He shifted in the wicker chair, slowly and deliberately. "I do not glow. You are making it sound like I am some sort of radioactive material."
"Well, whatever you want to call it, you look healthy," you said, voice softening. "The way you were standing in the kitchen this morning told me that you are getting your strength back. You aren't the same guy I found practically dead on the road. "
He looked down at his good hand and flexed it, then finally looked back into the yard. "This version of myself is far more demanding. He requires tea and clean sheets."
"And he helps with the dishes," you couldn't help but grin as you reminded him. "Don't forget that."
"I am not your maid. Do not expect it to happen again," he huffed, but there was no real bite to his words.
"I wouldn't dream of it. I would probably find everything meticulously arranged or something equally as exhausting."
He let out a short and dry chuckle—the sound much fuller than it had been a week ago. "I suppose I should be thankful that you didn't try to 'heal me' with something truly dreadful, like these awful neon headbands I see the neighbors wearing."
"Don't say that, Henry. You might give me ideas. If I come home and you're bored, I might have to find you some spandex."
"If you bring spandex into this house," he said, his blue eyes flashing with his sharp wit. " I will be forced to reconsider your 'no mountain climbing rule' just to find places to hide."
"See? That's the spirit." You stood up, brushing some dirt off your jeans. "You are doing great, Henry. Really."
He didn't look up, but he didn't look away when you placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "I feel… much better. I don't know about great," he muttered as he settled deeper into the chair. He looked more like he belonged on that porch than any of the untouched furniture.
You both stayed out there chatting and in silence for hours, until the sun hung low and painted the sky into messy streaks of oranges and violets. Out on the street, there was the distant sound of a lawn mower and a dog barking a few houses down.
You remained on the porch, resting your chin on your knees, as you sat on the top step.
"The colors are too… loud," Henry muttered, breaking the deep silence.
"Too loud?" you questioned, glancing back at him. "I don't know if that's what I would use to describe it, but the sun is setting. It's supposed to be the most beautiful time of the day."
"It's just.. a lot," he said, pointing up to the changing colors of the night sky. "It's been a long time since I last saw one. I was probably a boy. The lab did not exactly have windows to keep track of the sky's patterns."
"Well, I suppose nature isn't known for being subtle," you spoke softly. "But I think it's probably better than looking at the never-changing ceiling?"
Henry leaned forward, the orange catching the lines on his face. "Yes," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is better. It's just… it makes the world feel very big. I'm not used to that anymore."
"It will be here when I get home tomorrow," you said as the last of the sun dipped below the trees and plunged the evening into darkness. "The sky, the outdoors, none of this is going anywhere."
He shifted his gaze from the horizon to you.
"You are right. It will be here," he said, but this time it wasn't a snappy comeback; it felt genuine. "And while you are at work, I promise not to trip over the phone cord."
"Good. Because I was serious about the neon headband thing. If I catch you climbing on the counters, I'm going to bring one home and make you wear it."
He let out a real laugh this time. "I will stay on the floor," he promised as he steadied himself on the chair arms to push himself up. "For the sake of my dignity, if nothing else."
You stood up and walked over to help him, and as you both headed inside to the warmth of the kitchen, the house felt like it was truly full.
"I'm not quite ready to call it a night yet, what do you think?" you said, nodding towards the TV set. "We could see if there is a movie on or at least see what the weather is supposed to be like for my day back tomorrow."
"I will watch with you," he said, turning towards the TV.
"Perfect!" You helped him settle into the sofa, which involved engineering in itself to maneuver his legs up. Once he was successfully propped up, you grabbed the remote and the screen hummed to life, first setting a blanket across the back edge.
The evening was starting to settle in, the floorboards creaking as the house settled. Instead of going to sit in the adjacent armchair, you plopped down right next to him on the sofa.
"Make some room, leg-man," you muttered, scooting over until your shoulders brushed each other.
Before he was able to protest, you grabbed the blanket and draped it over both of you, tucking it under his legs and over your lap. The weight of it trapped the two of you together.
"Is this supposed to be a part of my healing protocol?" he asked, voice rough.
"Hush, Henry. The movie is starting," you countered, leaning back.
The tension in his shoulders bled away. He didn't move away, but instead sank further into the couch, his attention fully focused on the screen. For someone who had been so touch-starved, he didn't seem to mind it.
You smile to yourself, it's a small victory. On the screen, there was a beautiful party with dancing and gowns, where the lead was making some grand romantic speech, but you weren't really listening.
All you could feel was the weight of him against you.
Underneath the heavy wool of the blanket, the heat radiating from him was as if you were in a furnace together. He was tall, and taking up more space than you were used to sharing, and the proximity was doing something funny to your heart rate. But sitting here, together, he felt much more like a man than you were willing to admit.
Get it together, you told yourself during a commercial break. He's just a roommate, one who is very tired and very grumpy. This is just… friendly.
Then Henry shifted; it wasn't much, but his head tilted, and his breath ruffled the stray hairs on your temple.
"You smell a lot like your lavender shampoo. It is… distracting me," he murmured, the weight of his voice settling deep in your chest.
"Are you complaining?" you asked, your voice coming out a little more breathy than you had intended. "I thought you said that you had liked it?"
He turned his head towards you, but because you were so close, he didn't have to move far. His face was just inches from yours.
"Yes, I did. I am not complaining," he said softly.
You found yourself looking at the line of his jaw and the way his lips were slightly parted. You are not staring at his lips right now, you told yourself, though it was undeniable. The only thing that mattered now was the space between you; the TV was just background noise.
You wondered if he could hear your heart thumping. You wondered if he knew that your hand was just inches away from his under the blanket.
Here I am. Making things complicated.
As you drifted through your thoughts, Henry did something unexpected. His good hand, which had been resting on his lap, moved towards you. He didn't lace your fingers together—not all of the anyways. But he let his pinky hook tentatively over yours. It felt like you had just been struck by lightning.
He didn't look away from you. "You leave in the morning," he stated, voice deep.
"It's only a few hours, I promise," you whispered.
"And those hours will be the longest I have ever felt," he said. He didn't pull his finger away. If anything, it was now gripping yours tighter.
The tension was so thick that it was choking the room. You suddenly felt the urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to see if he was as warm as he felt through the sweater. But before you had the opportunity to collect your thoughts and decide if this was the best— or worst idea you've ever had, a car backfired on the street outside, breaking your trance.
Despite that, he didn't move his hand, keeping you both tethered together.
"I think I should let you finish the show in peace. Since you have a big day at work tomorrow."
"Nothing too important, Henry," you laughed. "For the tenth time, I'll be back before you know it."
"I'll be counting down the seconds," he said, though it didn't sound like he was joking.
The movie on the screen developed into a chase. But despite the enthralling picture, you still couldn't pay a lick of attention.
Stop overthinking this. He is just tired, and you are reading into things that aren't there.
But the way he was looking at the television suggested that he wasn't paying attention either,
"You are very quiet," he observed, but he wasn't trying to jab at you.
"I'm just thinking about what I am going to have to do when I get back to work," you lied.
"Liar," he muttered. He didn't say it in a mean tone, but you had no clue how he saw through your facade. He turned his head back towards you and leaned it onto the cushion. "You think this is a mistake."
You let out a small, shaky breath. "Is that what you think you are? A mistake?"
"I am disrupting… this. Everything you have here," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up to your eyes. "And even now, I am taking up your evening."
"I'm not exactly complaining, Henry," you said, voice barely above a whisper. You decided to be brave for once—to take a risk, and you slid your hand over his until they fully met each other.
His sharp intake of breath startled you. For a second, you anticipated he might pull away, but instead, he relaxed and curled his fingers around yours. It was the grip of a drowning man, who finally found his raft to hold on to.
Oh, you thought. Maybe this isn't just… friendship.
"Tomorrow," he started, voice dropping to that deep register that always seemed to settle within you. "When you are at your desk, obsessing over lines and rectangles on your drawings… will you forget this?"
"No," you said, and you meant it. "I don't think I could forget this if I tried."
He looked like he wanted to say—or do —something else, something heavy that had been bottled up for three decades. He traced his thumb in circles over your hand.
Then, the TV cut to a loud and bright commercial, startling you both, making the reality of the hour set in.
"You should sleep, it's getting late," Henry said, hands still together.
"Probably, but the blanket is warm," you admitted, though it was not only the blanket.
"It is," he agreed.
He leaned in, just a fraction, so close that your foreheads were almost touching. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually bridge the gap. You could feel the warmth of his breath and the faint smell of your soap on his skin.
Then, with the squeeze of your hand, he pulled back.
"Go," he prodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Before I insist you stay up and watch the sunrise with me."
"Don't tempt me," you teased, feeling the rush of cold air as the blanket slid off you. "Though I thought you didn't like the colorful sky."
"I never said that," he countered with a smirk.
You felt a little lightheaded from his lingering touch. "I'll see you in the kitchen for tea before I leave. Don't break any rules."
"I do not know if I can promise that," he called after you as you retreated to the stairs.
The “draw” of AI doesn’t work on me for the same reason that the Ring couldn’t tempt Samwise. Because I LIKE to write. I like to make things, I like the process of making things, instead of just the end result.
Summary: Henry does not want to wake up, nor take a bath.
Ship: Henry Creel|Peter Ballard|Vecna|One/Reader
Tags: Fluff, Awkward Situations, Non-Sexual Intimacy, ST5 fix-it, Shared Hobbies, Henry has given up at this point
WC: 7.0k
A/N: Happy Saturday guys! This has been one i've been waiting for (smirks). We are finally out of the grumpy trenches.
PART FIVE
PART SEVEN
"At the end of my suffering, there was a door" - Louise Glück, The Wild Iris
This morning was different. You could tell by the way the sun was so hot and high that it baked the dew off the shingles before you even awoke. For the first time since you had brought Henry to your house, the morning was eerily quiet. There was not a single sound coming from downstairs, not the shuffling of feet, nor even the slow turn of pages that you normally heard in the morning.
You pushed the door open, expecting to see Henry sitting up. You had assumed he would be staring out the window, at least that's what he was normally doing when there was minimal noise, since you hadn't heard anything. But no, the curtains were still drawn tight and Henry… He was still in bed?
Henry was buried deep under the duvet, his long frame taking up the entirety of the bed, and his knees curled inward just a little so that all of him would fit. His features were soft, and he seemed finally relaxed. His mouth was slightly open, and you could see the way his chest rose and fell in time with his breathing. At long last, he was getting some rest. Good. He needed it.
"Henry?" you called as you stepped into the room. "Wakey wakey, sleepyhead."
He didn't move, and he acted as if he didn't even hear you. So, you decided to walk over to the curtains and rip them back, letting violent, bright waves of light bathe every aspect of the room.
Henry let out a sound that was half-hiss, half-groan, burying his face in the pillow to escape from the rays. "Stop—" he rasped out, his voice uncharacteristically lethargic. "The sun. It's too bright."
"The sun is fine. You are just a vampire," you teased as you leaned against the bedpost. "I was starting to think you ran away, but I guess you really just like the smell of these old linens."
He rolled off his stomach onto his back, stretching out like a dog, his joints popping. He blinked up at you, his bright blue eyes clouded as he squinted. His blonde hair was chaotic as it splayed against the pillow, strands going in every direction.
"What is the meaning of this?" he muttered. It was obvious that he was not a morning person.
"Meaning of what? Me waking you up? Henry, it's nearly noon," you said as you reached down to pull the blanket off of him. "Plus, I've been up for a couple of hours. And it's getting boring. And you are the only entertainment around here."
"I am not a circus animal," he said, pushing himself up on his elbows. He looked around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time."I slept through the night."
"Yup. You did. No screaming, and you didn't break any cups. I'd say it was a success."
He sat up fully, the duvet sliding down his waist so that you didn't have to pull it back. He looked at it and then over at you. "It was… nice."
"Exactly. That's what happens when you listen to me, and you eat, and you're actually safe," you said as you offered him your hand. "Now come on, get up, before I go get a camera and take a picture of your crazy bed head."
"You wouldn't dare," he said, letting out a long sigh. He looked over to your stretched-out hand. "You are relentless, you know? Very well. Help me up."
With a firm grip, he took your hand.
"I need to check your stitches, okay?" you said as your tone became more serious. "Come on, sweater off."
For once, Henry didn't argue; he lifted off his sweater and folded it, setting it down neatly on the bed beside him. The morning light was unforgiving against his body, the light highlighting the bruises and stitches.
You went to the kitchen and came back with a pair of latex gloves and the medical kit. You leaned in close to his body to examine the stitches on his stomach first.
"The bruising is almost gone," you say, surprised as you probed around his stomach. "Your body is… remarkable, your skin is knitting together perfectly. But it really hasn't been that long since—"
"My biology has always been efficient," he says, interrupting you as if trying to avoid questioning.
He sat perfectly still, the only movement his focused eyes, tracking your hands as they touched him. You reached for the scissors in the medical kit to cut the tapes, but instead of grabbing more gauze, you took the kit and set it down on the nightstand.
"What are you doing?" he asked with a puzzling look on his face. "You aren't putting on the bandages."
"I'm leaving them off."
He turned his head, brow furrowing in even deeper confusion, and he looked down at his bare torso and then back at you. "And your reasoning for that? You have spent the past week and a half obsessing over me. For you to suddenly stop seems… very inconsistent with your liking."
"You've been bedridden for days, Henry. To put it quite bluntly, you stink."
Henry froze. The silence following your statement, or rather fact, was absolute. His mouth snapped shut, and his eyes widened.
"I do not… stink," he said, the word offensive on his tongue. He pulled his shoulders back, finally sitting up ramrod straight. He was trying to reclaim the little dignity he had while sitting half-naked in a bed with a rumpled duvet draped across him. "My body has been focused on healing, not on the triviality of—"
"It's not a triviality when I can practically smell you from the hallway," you interrupted, unable to hide a smirk. "Look, I get it, it's been a lot, you've been recovering. But the bandages stay off because you will be getting in the shower. Today. Preferably now."
He looked over towards the attached bathroom door, his expression shifting to the scowl you know all too well. He had the look of a cat right before it was going to be sprayed by a spray bottle.
"The steam of your shower is suffocating. I find the entire process to be a waste of time."
"Boo-hoo, you seriously need it," you said, reaching into the closet to grab some fresh towels. You tossed them to him, and he caught them with his good hand, the fluffy fabric soft to the touch. " I left some more of my clean clothes on the counter. There's soap in there. Please don't fall, or I'll have to come in there and scoop you up. And we both know you'd rather die."
Henry let out a long huff of air. He stood up, his movements still a bit shaky, but more sure than the past days, though he still kept his hand on the bedpost for stability.
"You are very blunt today," he grumbled, making his way towards the adjoining bathroom.
"Always when it comes to you," you retorted.
"Insufferable," he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching as he said it. He made it in and closed the door."
"Wait!" you said, catching the door right before it shut. "Would a bath be better? Because let's be real here— in your condition, there is absolutely no way you can stand up long enough to shower. Your knees will most definitely give out."
He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. He conceded and gave a stiff nod of approval. "Sure, if that will satisfy your obsession with how 'fragile' I am."
You slipped past him further into the bathroom. The bathroom was set up as a combination unit: a tub with a shower head attached. It would be perfect. You reached in and twisted the knob to hot. When the tub filled up, you reached for a small bottle on the ledge and poured a generous amount into the water.
"What is that?" Henry asked, appearing beside you. He looked down and saw a rising pile of what appeared to be foam. "Why is the water… growing?"
"Aren't they so fun! Bubbles! It'll help you relax. Plus, they smell good."
"Bubbles?" The word sounded ridiculous and childlike on his tongue. He looked at the suds in the water as if they were some type of trap. "This is absurd. It is childish and a waste. I do not need them."
"Deal with it," you said. You reached into the water to test the temperature. "Do you need help? I can stay and—"
"No," he shot back. "I am perfectly capable of doing this alone. You have done enough already. You can leave."
"Fine, fine. I'll be right outside, though, in case you do need any help."
You stepped out of the room, shutting the door, but not all the way. You kept the door slightly cracked and went and sat down on his bed. For a minute, there was no noise, then you heard a very frustrated sigh. Finally, the sound of a zipper being struggled with, followed by a string of curses that sounded very old and very formal.
After that, there was silence for a long time, too long. You could hear the continuous rustling on his trousers, and then the sound of him losing his balance and hitting the side of the wall with a dull thud.
"Henry?" you called out. "How are you holding up?"
"The… the button," he rasped out in a tone laced with a hint of fury. "It's not working, my hand refuses to cooperate with it."
You bit your lip, trying to suppress the urge to laugh at him being caught up with a pair of jeans. "Do you want me to come in, or are you going to fight your pants for twenty more years?"
There was an agonizingly long pause before he spoke.
"I find…" his voice dropping to a defeated murmur, "That I would like your help. Just this once."
"Okay, I'm coming in," you say as you push the door open.
He was sitting on the edge of the tub, with his face flushed in a deep, humiliated red. His shirt was off, but his pants were hopelessly stuck on his hips. His hand was shaking a bit with the effort of trying, and failing, to undo the button. He looked at you as he came in, head cowering with a great deal of shame.
"So this is what you are struggling with?" you asked softly, kneeling in front of him.
"Yes," he muttered, closing his eyes as you reached for the button. "I hate this world. I hate these bubbles. And I especially hate these pants."
You undid the clasp, your fingers working fast and efficiently, hoping to keep the moment less awkward than it already was. Thankfully, it gave way easily, and you started to guide the denim down his hips.
As you pulled them down, Henry's breath hitched, his head turning away to hide the flush of his face. It was to no avail as it extended up his neck. For all his talk of the past week, he was now reduced to something painfully human, just like you.
"Stay still, you murmured as you helped him finally step out of the fabric, your hands brushing against the skin of his legs as you worked.
"This is humiliating," he spoke, still not looking at you. "The scientists poked me with needles and did many things that would be considered horrific… But this? This is the worst."
"Henry, it's just a bath," you said as you threw his pants into the hamper. You would have to do the laundry later this evening, as you didn't have many clean clothes that would fit him left. You tried to keep your voice light, but you gulped as you saw the scars that littered his body. He was so clearly mortified, and it made your heart ache with empathy.
He let out a short and shaky breath. "You saw me scream. You have seen me fail. And now you see this," he gestures to his own frame. "You're turning me into a joke."
You stayed where you were, the tiles biting into your knees. You looked over at him; he only had one functioning arm and one functioning leg that could barely take any of his weight. There was practically no way that he could make it into the tub alone, especially not without him cracking his head on the porcelain.
"Henry," you said, your voice with an uneasy tone. "We might as well… finish the job. You're not going to be able to balance on one leg and pull the rest off without toppling over."
He went deathly still. The flush on his neck grew even more upwards, to the point where it seemed to pulse under his skin. He looked at you, his eyes widening with unadulterated horror.
"You cannot be serious," he said, barely able to get the words out. "You have already taken away my dignity, my privacy, and now my pants. Do you truly intend to—to—" He couldn't even finish the sentence.
"I want to make sure you don't nearly die on my watch again," you reached out, hands to his waist to steady him. "It's nothing I haven't seen before. Believe it or not, I have a body too."
"It's not about that!" he said, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the edge of the tub. he looked like he wanted to vanish. "This is an invasion! It is a… a removal of every boundary that we have. I am a man of—of—"
"Of very little balance right now," you finished for him. "Look at me, Henry. I'm not laughing at you, and I'm certainly not judging. I'm just trying to help."
His eyes squeezed shut once more, his chest heaving with jagged breaths. He looked utterly defenseless and mortified.
"Turn… turn your head away," he commanded, but his voice was weak. "I don't want you to look, please."
"Head turned," you promised, your head facing the wall.
With your eyes fixated on a small imperfection on the wall, you reached out. The process was quick and easy, but full of deafening silence. You could feel the heat radiating off of him and the way his muscles tensed under your touch.
You kept your eyes closed and let him get into the tub himself, a splash, and the sound of a few bubbles popping.
You finally looked into the bath, and Henry was submerged up to his chin in water, his blonde hair wet, sticking to his forehead. The suds covered his body, but his face was bright red and angry.
"There you go," you said, exhaling out a breath that you didn't even realize you were holding. "You're in. No bones broken. No dignity… Well, mostly no bones broken. No new bones broken."
"I hate you," he said, though there was no real bite to it.
"I know," you said, closing the toilet lid and sitting down to keep him company. "But I think you will feel better after this."
Henry leaned his head back against the rim of the tub. He let out a groan as the warmth seeped into his bones. He didn't look like a threat; he hadn't all morning despite his dislike of his current condition. He had hoisted his injured leg up, resting it against the porcelain to keep the cast away from the water. The position made him look disjointed and awkward.
For a few minutes, you just sat there, the only noise the occasional popping of bubbles and your combined breathing. He stared over at the bottle of shampoo with frustration. He tried to move to pick it up, but with the awkward angle his body was in, it made it impossible. His moments to try to grab the bottle made him wince in pain from his ribs.
He let out a frustrated noise and sank back into the tub.
"This is impossible," he muttered. He sounded utterly exhausted as he spoke." I only have one hand and a mountain of foam obscuring me. " He gestured to his body once more with his free hand.
"I cannot reach anything," he admitted. "And I am trapped in here. I am a failure, I can't even complete the simple task of bathing."
"Henry, you're not a failure; you are incapacitated." You reached for a washcloth and dipped it in the warm water. You shifted off the toilet seat and moved closer to the tub. As you got closer, the steam curled around you both. "Do you want me to..?"
He stared at the newly wet washcloth in your hand. "It's Fine. I have clearly lost my privileges to object."
You quickly moved the bath mat over from under the sink to the tub and pressed your knees to it, eventually leaning over the edge. The water was still scalding hot, but you would bet money that Henry liked it that way.
"Tilt your head back," you instructed him.
You set the washcloth aside and cupped your hands together. You then dipped them into the bathwater, filling them, and poured the water over his head. His hair darkened further as the warm water seeped into his scalp. The water continued to roll down his temples and down over the tips of his ears, one droplet in particular tracing his jawline.
You reached for the bottle of shampoo hidden away in the niche of the wall—the one that smelled of lavender, that filled almost every other smell in your house. You squeezed the bottle until a sizeable amount littered your palm.
You worked the shampoo into his hair, and he let out a sharp gasp as you made contact for the first time. Most touch he had felt in his life had been cold, but your hands were different. They were warm and soft, and gentle, more gentle than anything he had ever felt in his life. The way you moved your hands was different—rhythmic and grounding. It was like a drug—your touch— and he was getting addicted.
"It smells like you," he remarked, voice sounding hollow. His body didn't move, but you could feel the tension melting away under your thumbs.
"Same one I use," you said, your voice softer than usual. "It's nice, expensive, it'll be good for your hair."
"I do not require expensive things."
"It's just shampoo, don't think too hard about it." You continue lathering the shampoo into his hair, your fingers dancing over his skull. As the foam built up, it brought the lavender out further, intensifying the smell.
"I do not know if I like it. It's… aggressive," he murmured, but his eyes remained closed. "When I was in the lab, there were no scents. Everything was mundane."
"Is it such a bad thing?" you said as you rinsed your hands, cupping them again to pour water over his hair to rinse out the shampoo. "It takes away from the lab, no?"
He didn't answer your question; he probably didn't want to. Answering your question would require evaluating his time at the lab, and that was far from what he wanted to do at the moment.
You opted to condition his hair as well. You didn't know any guys growing up—at least ones with short hair— that used conditioner, but you thought it would be a nice touch. You reached over him once more to grab the conditioner and poured a dollop of the milky white liquid into your palm. You slid it between your palms before making contact with his hair again.
"You are very thorough, you know. With your hands," he said, voice thick, almost sounding drugged.
"I told you I am not leaving until this job is done," you said, massaging it in where the tension at the base of his skull was wound tightest.
He wasn't going to argue with that. You were actually coaxing him to relax, something that he didn't think was even possible anymore. The last time he had felt so alleviated had to have been back at the lab. The doctors used meditation to bring out psychic powers, and he also would do it occasionally in his pastime. But it was always for something. This. This was simply relaxing for the sake of relaxation.
"It feels nice," he said quietly as if it hurt to say the words.
"I'm glad. But it's just someone taking care of you, you don't need to overcomplicate it."
He drifted off in the bath for a moment.
"I do not suspect I will ever be able to rid the smell of lavender," he said, though he didn't sound too displeased.
"Probably not. Just like you are stuck with me," you tease as you go to rinse his hair for the final time.
He didn't snap back with some sort of insult or sound of annoyance. If you hadn't known better, you would think that he liked having your own scent coating him.
"There you are, clean now," you said as you grabbed onto the side of the tub to pull yourself up.
He blinked and opened his eyes back up fully, the blue a sharp contrast to the flush of his warm skin.
"I feel like I have been marinated," he remarked, but in a more playful tone than normal. "Does that happen to all your guests? Do you subject them all to this?"
"Only the ones who stink," you giggle.
He rolled his eyes. Before he could speak, you interrupted him.
"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" You looked at him, astonished.
"I did no such thing," he retorted, looking down at his hands.
"You totally did!" You let out a big grin. "Seems like you are settling in just fine."
He stared down at the bubbles and then back at you. "You have no proof."
"Okay," you said. "I'll believe you for now. Your hair is done. Now for the rest of the situation." You gestured along his body.
His wary eyes flicked towards you. "The 'situation'?"
"Your body," you picked up a loofah from the side of the tub. "Do you think you will be fine to do it yourself, or do I need to stay and help you?"
The flush that had finally faded came back. He looked down at the loofah and then the foam covering him.
"I think I can manage by myself. I have a hand. And the loofah. Do you really think I am that incapable?"
"No, I'm not questioning your capabilities," you pointed out with a teasing glint in your eyes. "I am just taking in your current state. You have one broken leg propped up on the tub and an arm that doesn't work. You are definitely going to miss some spots."
He let out a long sigh. "Your dedication to this is bordering on sadistic. I promise you, I will be clean."
"Sadistic, huh?" you said, fully standing up at this point. "You know I've been told—"
You stopped talking after the death glare he started giving you.
"Fine. Fine. I'll step out. But if I hear a bunch of splashing or yelps? I will be coming right back in. You understand?" You handed him the loofah as you spoke.
"Yes, I understand. But you seem to have an egregious lack of faith in me," he grumbled as he looked at the loofah.
"Don't take too long," you said, heading to the door.
"Heaven forbid," he muttered to the bubbles. "A man must have some boundaries left."
You looked at the fogged-up mirror and finally pushed the door open to leave the restroom. In the time you let him wash himself, you ran out to grab some more towels and an extra razor you had from your bathroom upstairs.
You returned to the bathroom, and he was exactly where you had left him, though there were fewer bubbles left in the bath. He was more exposed now, trying to rinse his good arm, but struggling with the caution that his broken arm brought with it.
"I see that you are still afloat," you said as you stepped back over to where you were previously kneeling by the tub.
His head snapped towards you, his eyes narrowing as he took in the items in your hands. "I did it. By myself. I am sufficiently clean."
"Except for the face," you countered, holding up the razor. "You have about a week's worth of stubble going on. It's gonna get itchy once you step out of the bath. I also don't want you looking like you crawled out of a shipwreck when I just got you all clean."
He reached up and touched his fingers to the stubble forming along his jaw. His expression shifted; it wasn't often he didn't have a clean face, and as much as he liked to disagree with you, he preferred his own face clean-shaven.
"Fine," he said, eyeing the blade with suspicion. "Are you finally giving me the autonomy to slit my own throat?"
"No. Given the fact that you could barely wash yourself, I think I'm gonna take the lead this time."
He didn't argue with you; he knew if he tried himself, he'd end up looking like a patchwork quilt. "Go ahead. But I swear, if you nick me—"
"Carefully what you say, Henry," you tease. "I'm the one with the blade in my hand."
"How terrifying," he whispered while closing his eyes as he felt your hand cradling his jaw. "Truly."
"You are being very dramatic this morning," you said as you attached a fresh blade to the razor, clicking it in place.
"I am worried. Worried you will cut me. I do not always think you have the best intentions."
"You know that women shave, right? I shave," you said as you squirted shaving cream on your palms, then rubbed them together until you had a thick lather.
His eyes snapped open in confusion, "What..?"
"Obviously I'm not shaving my face, but I've been shaving my body since I was like thirteen. I'm not going to nick you, Henry. I promise."
He let out a skeptical hum, "How reassuring."
"Shut up and hold still," you muttered as you leaned in closer to his face.
His notions died down as your hand cupped his jawline, steadying him. You could feel the warmth of the bathwater and the heat radiating off of him between his shoulders. You started to move the razor in short, precise strokes, clearing away the blonde stubble. Henry stayed even more still than when you bandaged him up, his breathing long and thorough.
"See?" you say as you finish up a section, wiping off the blade to get all the hairs off. "I didn't cut you."
"Yet," he rasped out.
You finished the last swipe of his jaw and reached for the washcloth to wipe off the remaining shaving cream. You set the razor on the side of the tub and sat up further on your knees, but as your weight shifted, so did you. The combination of water, steam, and foam made the ground so slippery that your knees gave out.
"Whoa—"
Your arms flailed trying to catch onto the side of the tub, but it was to no avail. Your chest hit the edge of the porcelain. You yelped out, and your arms plunged into the water, elbow-deep.
Henry let out a choked noise as you face planted into his personal space, landing inches from his chest.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the slosh of water from your fall and the smell of lavender on Henry's skin. You were pinned between the tub and Henry's, very wet, very shiny torso, heart hammering fast against your ribs.
He froze, his arm coming up to catch your shoulder, fingers digging into your now-wet shirt. He stared down at you in shock, his face still half covered in shaving cream and only inches from yours.
"Lost your footing?" he asked, voice trembling ever so slightly.
"Shut up," you snapped, though it lacked any real heat. Your face was flushed bright red, probably even more red than you had ever seen his, and you were still leaning against his bare chest.
You scrambled back, struggling to catch your footing, palms sliding over the tub. You managed to haul yourself over to the bath mat, further towards the sink. He was giving you the most "told you so" look you had ever seen from him.
"I thought you were an engineer, no?" he began, voice crackling with amusement. "It seems you forgot how to calculate friction."
"One more word, Henry—"you said, pointing at him while you tried to wring out your shirt. "If you keep up that attitude, then I'm not giving you any breakfast."
He actually chuckled for once, maybe even laughed? The sound itself even seemed to startle him. "Earlier, you were worried about me breaking bones. I would be more worried about yourself."
"You are lucky that you are still in that tub right now," you said, grabbing one of the towels that you had reserved for him. "I am going to go change. Are you able to get out, you think?"
He reached for the edge of the tub, his gaze lingering on your—now soaked—body. His gaze wasn't as severe as you had expected it to be, considering you quite literally fell in the tub where he was sitting. Naked. Instead, he looked at you with an almost playful look. "I think I can manage. Not falling like you is a very powerful motivator."
"You are unbelievable," you said, heading for the door. "I'll make some pancakes in the meantime. They'll be ready in ten-ish minutes."
"Hopefully I'll be dry by that point," he called out behind you, the only sound the one of splashing water as you entered the hallway.
True to your word, ten minutes later, the griddle was screeching, and the kitchen was filled with the smell of pancakes. You had changed into a clean sweatshirt and a matching pair of pants. Your hair was still a little damp around the edges from the whole debacle.
You heard the sound of his limping and turned your head. Henry appeared in the kitchen, as stubborn as ever, refusing to let his injuries define him.
Surprisingly, he had managed to change into a clean pair of clothing, not dissimilar from your own, a grey pair of sweatpants, and a charcoal t-shirt. He had also draped his—or rather your—sweater over his shoulders, not too dissimilar from a cape to accommodate his arm. His hair was still wet, but it had been combed back, his face was smooth, and still slightly pink from the heat of the bath.
He stayed leading his weight against the doorway, watching you flip the pancakes on the griddle. He stayed silent but watched you with intense focus.
You turned your head to look at him, "I can't say I'm not impressed, I thought I was going to have to help you again."
"It was a battle of attrition, I assure you," he replied with his raspy voice. He hobbled his way over to the table and sat down in the chair, a low grunt escaping his voice as he landed. "The clothing is not particularly made with immobilized limbs in mind. But I was able to figure something out."
"I see you kept the cardigan."
"It protects me," he replied with a hint of lightness in his tone that wasn't there before.
"From what?" you asked.
"From you." You shot him an annoyed look. In another life, he would have been smiling back at you. You finally came over with two stacks of pancakes and set one plate down in front of you. He didn't immediately go for the pancakes, though; instead, he looked out the kitchen window, looking at the birds chirping in the morning.
"You are still wet," he observed, looking over your hair.
"Just my hair. Maybe next time I'll have to wear a wetsuit." You poured yourself a cup of tea and sat down across from him.
He looked down at his plate, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. " I believe I owe you an apology for it. I had gotten a bunch of water on the floor in my… attempts at bathing."
"Apology accepted. Now eat before your pancakes get cold."
He took a bite, the sweetness of the syrup overwhelming his senses. As he ate, his eyes wandered from the griddle, which you had left on in case he wanted any more, over to the counter before landing on a worn sketchbook. It was open, landing on a couple of drawings, but it was hard to make anything out from your seats at the table.
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "I didn't know you drew," he mentioned, nodding towards the book. "I thought I entirely occupied your time."
"You wish. It's just a hobby, though," you got up from the table and walked over to the counter and grabbed it. "You can take a look, if you want to."
He set his fork down and pushed the plates away, not wanting to get syrup anywhere near your book. It was precious to him in a way. Based on your occupation, he had expected to find maybe blueprints or something technical, but that was far from the case. Most of them were of people or animals, mostly made from graphite.
His long, elegant fingers trace the length of the pages as he flips through them. "You capture things remarkably well. It's like you can feel their expressions through your art."
"Thank you. I just try to capture what I see in everyday life," you said, taking a sip of your tea.
He turned another page, stopping on a drawing of your backyard. He stayed on that page for a long time, just absorbing its contents.
"When I was in the lab, I used to try to remember what people looked like, other than the doctors," he said softly. He didn't look at you, still focusing on the graphite lines. "But after a while, the people I remembered, their features started to blur. I wasn't able to hold on to their details. "
"Well, hopefully you don't forget my details, considering that I am right here," you said, trying to bring the mood back to the lightness of before. He closed the book and slid it back over to you.
Then quietly he added, "Sometimes I don't even remember my own family's features anymore."
You couldn't quite understand the look on his face, but you knew not to press further. He looked down, fidgeting with his hands a bit after he said it, as if he was waiting for you to judge him, but no judgment came.
"I suppose I now have to worry about you sketching me in my unfortunate state this morning," he remarked, picking back up his fork.
"Don't worry, you are safe. For now."
He didn't reply, instead going back to taking small bites of his pancakes with a thoughtful expression adorning his face. "I used to draw," he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn't hear him. "When I was a kid, mostly. There weren't too many opportunities in the lab. But I had found a small colony of spiders in the vents when we moved to our home in Hawkins. I drew them."
You paused your teacup halfway to your lips. "You drew? Didn't peg you for the type."
"Quite often, I remember." His gaze drifted over towards the window.
"Why draw the spiders?" you asked. "Most people find them daunting to be around." Your question was posed without judgment, rather with curiosity.
"I am not most people," he replied, finally looking at you. "They are solitary creatures. Much like how I felt at that age."
"And do you not feel the same now still?"
He paused, giving you a puzzled look, though it seemed as if he was questioning himself more than you. "I do not know."
A bout of silence followed.
"You say most people. You did not include yourself. Why is that?" he asked, cutting off a piece of pancake and breaking the quiet.
"I like spiders. They get rid of much less desirable insects. And they look cool," you say, though a bit mumbled with your mouth full of food.
"With that, we are in agreement."
You head over to the counter to dish out more pancakes onto your plate, and surprisingly, they are still quite warm. "Wait right here. I'm pretty sure I have a spare sketchbook somewhere you can have."
Henry looked up at you. "There is no need for you to get it now. I am currently—"
"—Very bored and clean and having nothing to do. So. Yes, I am going to find it," you yelled out while running up the stairs. "Don't touch my pancakes!"
"I have had enough already!" he shouted back, voice echoing throughout the house.
You laughed and took the stairs up, two at a time. Upstairs, you scrambled throughout your room, dropping to your knees to look under your bed for your extra sketchbook. You tossed aside some clothes that you found under there, as well as a couple of books, before your fingers found a brand new one.
You then headed over to your desk, where you kept your pencils, and pulled out a handful—varying degrees of lead from a 2H to a 6B.
"Found it!" you yelled, heading back downstairs.
You were practically out of breath by the time you made it back, but the biggest difference was the huge smile that adorned your features. You threw down the new supplies right in front of him, and he looked at them as if they were some sort of challenge.
"There you go," you said as you slid him a pencil. "Draw whatever or whenever you want."
He picked up the pencil, his long fingers slipping and curling around it. The next couple of hours flew by as you were both engrossed in your respective artworks; the only sound interrupting you was the occasional chirp of a bird or other wildlife. Despite how focused you were on drawing—trust me, you really were—you couldn't help but find yourself watching him more than your pencil.
Henry was, to say the least, a perfectionist; he moved his hands with deliberate strokes, cradling the sketchbook as if it were a precious relic. His face showed most of his concentration, his brow furrowed, and he didn't look up, not even once.
"It doesn't need to be perfect, Henry," you teased him.
"Yes it does," he muttered, still focused.
"You are overthinking it."
"I want to get it right. There is a difference."
You peeked your head over your own spot to try to get a glimpse at what he was drawing, but he pulled himself and the book away from you. "What are you drawing?"
"Nothing," he said, finally setting the pencil down to look up at you.
"So your pencil is the one who is drawing instead?" you tease, nodding at his page.
He shoots you a scowl, turning his chair to look slightly at the window, the angle making it harder for you to see anything on his pages. He vigorously flipped through the pages as if he had a distaste for what he had just drawn.
This time, though, he looked over at you. Silent. His gaze wasn't piercing or predatory but instead soft and observant. He started to draw.
You had figured, of course, that he was drawing you, though he had never asked you to pose, but you didn't stop him. You just went back to your own sketch, scribbling away until the sun went down. Eventually, Henry set his pencils down.
"I am exhausted," he admitted, his voice low and weary. He looked down at his hands, the sides and splint covered with patches of graphite.
"A good kind of tired?"
He looked over to his sketchbook and hesitantly pushed it toward you with the flick of a wrist. "I would say so."
You turned it around to get a good glimpse. Even though he had been staring at you, as a whole, that is not what he drew. He drew your hands—the lines of your knuckles, the slight callouses on your fingertips. It was beautiful, really.
"You make my hands look much steadier than they are," you whispered.
"You are steady," he said as he leaned back into his chair. He watched patiently as you continued looking at the drawing, perhaps searching for some hint of approval.
"Come on, that's enough for today. If you fall asleep at the table, I'm not sure I'll be able to carry you to bed," you said, closing both sketchbooks.
He let out a huff of amusement. You came over to where he was sitting and held out your hand to help him up. This time, he didn't hesitate; his grip firm as he transitioned upright. There was no apology for struggle, for weakness, just the steady noise of your footsteps together.
At the door, he paused, his gaze lingering on you for one last moment. He had a strange look on his face, not anything you had seen before.
After all, there had been stranger things today.
A/N: I don't usually write authors notes at the end but I just HAD to bring up something. When I was starting to write this I was talking with my friend about my intentions, especially with how I thought it would be so funny if the reader fell into the bathtub with him. My friend thought that the reader was going to fall on/in his dick. I assure you that that DID NOT and WAS NOT going to happen. Also sorry if you cringe at the last line, I also thought that would be hilarious (because I am full of joy and whimsy).
Viper - Part Five: Something Wicked This Way Comes
Summary: Henry gets a nightmare. You finally make that lasagna.
Ship: Henry Creel|Peter Ballard|Vecna|One/Reader
Tags: Fluff and Angst, Hand-holding, Grump!Henry Creel, ST S5 fix-it, Slow Burn, Henry is stubborn asf
WC: 5.4k
A/N: Hi to all the little people in my phone. I sincerely apologize for not getting this chapter out sooner, but I haven't had a day off work since *checks watch* May 4th. So... I haven't had much time to write. After this chapter we will be pretty much done with the angst MWAHAHAHA. Finally, you know when you are planning out a story, and there are some chapters you REALLY want to write from the start? Well, the next chapter is one of those, so be prepared!!! ;) I also passed all my finals!!!! I think that's because of you guys :D
PART FOUR
PART SIX
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche
The silence that filled your house in the early morning was not a sound of peace; it was dark and coiled as if it were waiting for the sun to fill the sky once more. You were still sound asleep, tucked warmly in your bed under various blankets. Your sleep had been fitful, causing the warmth from your fur comforter to pool deep in your bones. But when the grandfather clock in your hallway struck two am, you were brutally awoken, or rather, shattered awake.
You heard a cry out from downstairs through the walls. It didn't sound like a cry for help; instead, it was a raw and visceral shriek that pressed harshly against your ears and filled the gaps in your mind, settling deep into the tissue. It sounded not too dissimilar from the grinding of metals together that you often heard at work.
You shot up out of your bed before you could even process, let alone think, about what was happening. Your bare feet hit the cold of the wooden floors as you scurried down the stairs towards the guest room. Your heart was beating out of your chest further than it ever had before.
You realized, whilst running for your life down the stairs, that you weren't even wearing proper clothing. You loved your blankets, and it had gotten warm at night, leaving you to hastily take off your pants. That meant that you remained in only your t-shirt and underwear. Whatever, he is more important. You are both adults, and surely Henry wouldn't say anything—you've seen him stripped down, it's really no different.
You felt a shift in the air as you finally reached the bedroom. You reached your hand out, fingers stinging as you handled the brass knob with anticipation.
You shoved the door open as hard and fast as you possibly could, almost falling in the process.
What you saw in front of you made your throat go heavy with trepidation. You took a sharp intake of breath as your gaze found him, body writhing on the bed.
"Henry!" you tried to gasp, but the words couldn't escape your throat.
He was lost. You would be lying if you said that he himself was the one lying on the bed. It was more than his own body had betrayed him, pinning itself to the sheets as he seized. His head was thrown back, and you could see the sweat pouring down his temple, making both his throat and hair damp. His whole body was corded with so much tension that you thought his skin would rip with a jerk of muscle. He looked like he was dying.
Then you saw his eyes. Almost entirely white, the way they rolled up behind his eyelids with small myoclonic jerks, making it appear like his eyes were searching for something.
It wasn't only his looks that terrified you. There seemed to be words leaving his lips, indiscernible to anyone but himself. It was almost like he could be chanting something, or begging from deep within his chest rather than his mouth. Half phrases such as "Ple..ont…" or something close to it, continuously left his lips and filled the space.
You forced yourself further into the room and closer to the bed when you began to shout.
"Henry, wake up!"
It felt like there was an invisible force trying to push you out of the room, out of what you would be soon to find the depths of his mind.
You finally reached your hands out to try to shake him awake. You opted to only use one hand instead of both for the courtesy of his broken arm. The moment your skin made contact with the cotton of his t-shirt, his body jolted and squirmed on the bed. You quickly turned over your other hand and pressed it to his forehead. Despite all the sweat, he felt like he was freezing.
"Henry. Listen to me. You are stuck in a dream. You are in my house. You are safe."
You could only pray that he could hear you.
As if on queue, his head snapped towards the sound of your voice in a jerky motion. His irises did not descend back into view; the stark whites stayed in place. You then heard a crash to his right. The collection of Poe's short stories has fallen off the nightstand as if it had been pushed, making a loud thunk as it hit the floor.
You realized at that moment that he wasn't really seeing you. Instead, what Henry saw was what you assumed to be a product of his time in the lab. More than twenty years of being plunged into the darkness that had made him. He was back in the cage that you had tried desperately to help him escape from, and in the haze of his episode, he could only see you as the same—another person to poke and prod at him.
"Please, Henry," you whispered, though you were unsure if you were really talking to him or the monsters that were plaguing him tonight. "Henry, come back. It's just me."
Even though nothing came from him at your pleas, you didn't back down. You finally walked all the way over and climbed on from the foot of the bed and moved up towards him, any sharp movement carrying the risk of ripping his stitches. With a huff, you moved forward and wrapped your arms around his trembling shoulders. You pressed the warmth of your body against the ice of his, anchoring him to you and your scent.
For a moment, nothing happened; the chanting still sang from his lips, and sweat continued to pool at his brow. And then, as quickly as you had hugged him, it stopped.
The room had regained its warmth. Henry's eyes rolled back into view, the bright blue irises rushing into place as he let out a long, shuddering gasp. He collapsed forward onto you, dead weight, and dropped his head onto your shoulder.
The room went silent. Very silent.
The only thing that was left in the room was the sound of the drumming of two hearts so close together that they could be touching. You felt a small, warm, wet patch on your shoulder where his salty tears—that he was inevitably trying to hide—stained your shirt. Henry didn't move from your arms; it was as if he almost grew further into your embrace. He simply breathed in tandem with you as his fingers clutched to your t-shirt like a lifeline.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice so small that it broke your heart. "I couldn't… I couldn't make them stop."
You stayed together for a while before you found the words to speak, tangled in a knot of warmth in the center of his bed. It was funny how you started calling it that, his bed, his room, no longer just the guest room.
"Them?" you softly asked him, as your hand rubbed, light circles forming on his back, careful to avoid his still-healing wound. "The doctors from the lab?"
He shuddered as you said the words, the force of it pulling you along with him. "Yes," he rasped, his voice raw as if he had been screaming for hours rather than just a few seconds. "It was dark. I was back in the lab… but it was as if everything was a mirror. They were all… me."
He finally pulled back from your embrace, though only far enough to look at you. His face was sharp and poised in a way that it seemed he was confused. He tilted his head and spoke, "What are you wearing? Or should I rather say the lack of?"
Your face flushed a deep red as you remembered your choice of sleepwear, and the fact that you were practically in each other's laps. "Sorry! It was just— I heard screaming, and I completely disregarded what I wore to bed and—"
"It's… fine," he said, voice devoid of any emotion, as he gazed off in the distance at the wall behind you.
"There were others there, at the lab," he whispered. "Much younger. They… didn't survive. I see them sometimes, or hear them."
"There is no one here but us, Henry, okay?" you said, your tone firm. "You're back here in my house. The lab is gone, and you are safe here."
He let out a pained noise that might have been a laugh. He looked down at his hands—his long, elegant fingers still having a faint tremble from the nightmare. "I don't think you quite understand. Everything around me is like a fabric; it continues to fray and wear at the edges."
He reached out and brushed his thumb over the pulse point on your wrist. His touch was no longer freezing and clammy, but there was something else, something electric that hummed in the air.
"You shouldn't have helped me," he murmured as his eyes locked onto yours, making your breath catch. "You let me into your world, but you also let in my darkness. You don't deserve that."
"You don't get to decide what I deserve for me," you countered, refusing to let yourself be pulled into his nihilism. "I told you that I wanted to help you; I meant it. I want to help you. And in order for that to happen, I need you to lie down before you pass out. Your heart is racing."
He continued staring at you for a long time, his jaw working to regain his composure. Slowly, his cold mask slid back into place, the pride and detachment from before returning. He allowed you to help him lie back down, his movements uncoordinated. As you pulled the duvet up to his chest, he looked to the book on the floor, the pages splayed open like the wings of a fallen bird.
"Read to me," he commanded you. His voice was weary, replaced with the exhaustion from his tossing and turning.
"Henry, it's three in the morning."
"Read, please," he repeated as his eyes closed and his gaze faced the wall. "The silence is back... I want a distraction."
You sighed, but didn't move to sit in the armchair to read to him. Instead, you stayed seated right on the bed next to him. The weight of your body shifting beside him caused the springs to groan out, which brought the room back to reality.
"Fine," you sighed. "But only because I don't want to walk back to my room right now."
You bent over and picked up the book from the floor, smoothing out the pages that had become crumpled in the fall. You knew he preferred reading the darker and creepier stories, so you opted to choose something more lighthearted and satirical, something to lighten the mood for this morning, if you could even call it morning.
As you began to read, your voice was melodic, words coming out like song lyrics. It was a nice difference from the shrieking and frantics earlier. He didn't open his eyes back up, but you could see the tension slowly bleed out of his body as he settled into the mattress. He shifted from his waist, his shoulder coming to rest against your hip, the point of contact almost accidental.
Your voice never wavered as you read, even when your eyelids grew heavy. Eventually, Henry's hand relaxed from his clutch on the fabric. His fingers uncurled, and his hand moved to lie flat next to the space of your thigh.
You read until the light of dawn began to bleed through the curtains, warming up the room. By that point, Henry's breathing had slowed, and his head tilted toward yours in his sleep.
You closed the book quietly, but you didn't get up. You stayed sitting upright for a while, watching the sunlight hit the spiderwebs in the corner. You knew, realistically, that there were instances that made trauma to the human psyche unfixable. It can become so damaged that no amount of neoplasticism can fully heal it. Maybe you didn't need to make him "normal." Maybe you just needed to make him understand that he is not alone.
Your exhaustion finally won the battle against you. You began to nod off, and as you were pulled under, the book slipped off your chest onto the small space beside you. You slowly slid down, your shoulder bumping into the headboard as you settled onto the pillow beside Henry.
When late morning rose, and the sun cleared the trees, Henry was the first to wake. He didn't move; he lay perfectly still, his eyes slowly opening to the ceiling fan spinning above his head. Then he felt the unfamiliar feeling of warmth in the bed beside him.
He cautiously turned his head, not knowing what he would find on the other side, though he had his suspicions. You were fast asleep on the bed, your face soft, softer than he had ever seen. It lacked the sharpness from your concentration and worry that defined your features ever since you started tending to him. A small wispy strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, swaying softly as the air from your breath moved it.
He stared unexpectedly at you, and the memories from last night came flooding back. He didn't realize you had fallen asleep with him. His expression wasn't cold, nor was it soft. It was like he was observing a miracle, one he didn't believe in. He looked over at your hand, which was only a few inches from his own on the sheet.
When he was in the lab, touch wasn't something that came often, and when it was, it was for utility, mainly probing him. He'd never felt the touch of a gentle hand, only the harsh ones reserved for punishments. But in the room this morning, your presence made him feel otherwise. You had stayed because he was afraid. You had fallen asleep because you were tired from dealing with him. Because you cared, and that felt more foreign to him than any of the inventions of the 80s.
He felt the familiar urge to pull away from you, to forget the thought even crossed his mind, to retreat into the sharp-edged solitude you both know so well. But the desire was more than those hums of distress.
Slowly, as if he was testing the waters, Henry reached out. He didn't touch you yet; instead, his hand was hovering just a few inches over yours. His fingers lightly trembled, this time having nothing to do with his injuries.
Instead of touching you, he first reached over and quietly pulled a warm blanket up over your shoulders. "You look so peaceful," he whispered so as not to wake you. He then returned his palm to its position hovering in the air.
He finally let his hand drop, his pinky finger barely hooking over yours. His touch was tentative and fragile. He closed his eyes, not sleeping, but instead soaking up the feeling of your warm fingers placed together. It was unlike any type of warmth he had felt before, and it made him sigh in relief.
The first thing you register as you wake is the smell of the wool and the lavender from the pillow your face was smushed into. Then came the warmth, which was heavy in a way that grounded you more than the blankets ever could.
Your eyes fluttered open, the aggressive morning light stinging your eyes as it poured through the gaps in the curtains. Your mind jolted with adrenaline as you suddenly realized you weren't in your own bed.
You were lying on your side, tucked into the dip of the mattress, warmly wrapped in a blanket you don't remember putting over you. Your hair was a mess around Henry's pillow. Before you could realize what had happened, Henry had quickly pulled his hand away, now resting it inches from yours on the bed.
Henry was already awake, and he didn't startle as you shifted. He was staring at the ceiling, as if it were the sky. He didn't have any look of his usual grumpiness on his face; it was hollow, like nothing was ever there. There were some dark circles under his eyes, defining the sharpness of his skin even further.
He was the first to break the silence. "You stayed."
"Sorry I… fell asleep," you stammered as you rubbed your eyes. "Your book… I was reading and then—"
You trailed off as you looked down at the book teetering off the edge of the bed, remembering the event of the early hours.
He didn't look over at it. He was instead staring at your hand, which was odd to you, as it was simply resting near his, like it had been all night. "The noises stopped," he murmured as his gaze shifted to yours. "They were distant… it was nice."
He didn't thank you; he himself wasn't sure what had caused the aching silence to stop. He didn't want to believe that it was your presence, for he could never admit that out loud. Instead, he remained lying there in the quiet, surrounded by the sound of both your breathing.
"You're not freezing anymore," you said as you reached out to touch his forehead.
He surprisingly didn't flinch and let you check his temperature, his eyes tracking you with a quiet wonder. "The fire is back," he said with the ghost of a smirk teasing his lips. "Though I suspect that it is my mind reconciling with the fact you won't let me die."
"Orrr you could just say that your body is healing," you said, sliding out from under the blanket and onto the cold floorboards. Henry let out a sigh that you couldn't quite place."I'll get the kettle started for some tea. Breakfast too. We need to eat."
"Lasagna," he reminded you. "You promised it."
You laughed and let out a sound of relief. "I did, but that's for dinner. Hopefully, I can manage making it without burning down the kitchen."
As you walked out of the room, you felt eyes staring at your back. You glanced back over your shoulder to see Henry lying there, the sheets tangled around his waist. His gaze shifted down to your hand again.
"Henry?"
"Yes?"
"For the love of God, please do not get out of bed until I get back with tea. If I hear a thud, I swear I will revoke your reading privileges."
"That is a cruel and unusual punishment," he muttered, though he settled back into the pillows with a huff. "Fine… I'll remain in bed for now."
The smell of tea followed you back into the room. You chose Earl Grey this time, the two mugs steaming in your hands. You had expected the quiet, lingering vulnerability from earlier, maybe even happiness if you had decided to dream.
Instead, you were greeted with the exact opposite. Henry was sitting up against the headboard, his jaw like a vice with the way he looked at you. The shame he had borne when you comforted him, let him scream, let you hold him, had boiled into bitter defensive poison in the few minutes you were in the kitchen.
"You took your time," he snapped. He dint reach for the mug as you set it on the nightstand with a confused look. "I suppose you were in there, savoring the image of me trembling in my sleep? Something to spread around to the neighbors, perhaps?"
You paused, your hand still near the handle of the mug. "What are you talking about, Henry? I was only waiting for the kettle to heat."
"You," he hissed. "You look at me with that… disgusting pity. You think because you, what? Held me, tried to care for me, that you have some kind of power over me? You think that you have a seat at the table of my mind?"
He let out a sharp noise that put you on edge. "My temporary incapacitation is not something you can relate to. We are not the same, and we will never be the same."
The sudden change in his mood hit you like a train. You didn't even flinch or back up. Quite frankly, you were tired and annoyed with his antics.
"Is that what this is?" you asked, your voice low and dangerous. "You're embarrassed because you had a nightmare? You are so terrified of having human emotions that you have to start snarling to prove that you are still a monster?"
"I am what I made myself!" He roared back as he gripped the nightstand so hard it groaned.
"Enough with your god complex!" You slammed your own mug down on the nightstand, the tea sloshing around and spilling out. "You think you are so special because you suffered? You think it gives you the right?"
He scooted towards you, invading your personal space; the shadow of him displayed long and jagged across the floor. "I do have the right because I have the power to."
"No," you shot back, invading his space as well. "You went through something horrific, Henry, yes, but that trauma doesn't permit you to make it everyone's problem. You don't get to decide the fate of everyone just because a few locked you in a cage."
His pupils dilated until they were almost black. "Stop talking to me like a child! I've told you before that you have no idea what I could do to you. I could—"
"Then do it," not backing down. "Harm the one person who hasn't put you back in a cage. Who has tried to help you. Destroy the one place you are safe. I dare you. Or shut up and drink your fucking tea."
The following silence suffocated you. Henry let out a jagged—and rather annoyed—huff of breath as he slumped back down onto his typical spot on the bed. Clearly, his aggression had stopped, for now.
"Get out," he said, voice cracking.
"Drink your tea. I'll be in the kitchen working on the lasagna," you said firmly.
You didn't wait for a response. You simply walked out, shutting the door with a force that sounded a little like a slam, leaving him in the room to decide what version of himself he wanted to act like today.
The only sound that glazed your mind in the kitchen was the thudding of the knife as you sliced onions and other ingredients against the wooden cutting board. Your eyes stung from what you hoped was the onions and not Henry.
As you chopped, your hands remained steady, but your mind was reeling with chaos and uncertainty.
What the fuck were you doing? You've been trying so hard to help him, but you cannot help someone who refuses to get better. He is infuriating in the way he uses his past to justify his arrogance. It simply makes your blood boil in the way that he turns his vulnerability into a threat when someone tries to get close to him.
You swiped the onions into a bowl and reached for the garlic. A small tear escaped from your eyes and rolled down your cheek. Definitely from the onions.
You remembered how small and lost he looked in his sleep, his trembling hands and shrieks coming from his body. The anger flared once more, but it quickly died down. You were certainly not a psychiatrist, nor were you a saint, but you didn't need to be to know that if you let him retreat into the shell of a being he was, he would never come back out.
He's afraid, you realized, pausing your chopping.
He wasn't angry at you; he was terrified. Of the world, maybe. He wasn't used to this era, and he was trying to find a reason to stay in the world that had moved on without him. He claimed to be powerful, because in reality, he was helpless, and he would never admit that.
As you poured the garlic and onions into a pan with a splash of olive oil, you decided that you had had enough of his theatrics. He's gonna eat my damn lasagna and shut up about it. You were going to get through to him, layer by layer, just like the dinner you are making.
By the time the evening sun was shining bright and hot, the house was filled with the scent of the meats and pastas. In the hours you cooked, you decided that he had stewed in his pride for far too long.
You pushed the guest door open without knocking, coming to find Henry in the same place that you had left him. His gaze had been on the book on the floor; he must have been like that for hours. He looked up and scowled at you when he saw you enter.
"It seems you're back," he murmured with a dry voice. "Are you done cooking, or did you just have the decency to finally put on pants?"
"Decency is required for dinner, I assure you. I'm not going to be eating in my underwear," you said as you walked across the room and grabbed his cardigan from the chair. "And you are not eating in here. It stinks. Smells like old bandages. Come on, we are going to the kitchen."
He stiffened as the words left your mouth. Of course, he had been healing, but after the events of this morning, he was left rather exhausted with very little physical energy left. "I think the atmosphere in here is perfectly adept. I have no desire to join you in the kitchen."
"Too bad, you have an audience waiting."
He shot you a confused look.
"Me. I'm the audience," you said as you tossed him the cardigan."Come on, get up now. Or I'll feed you toast again and leave the lasagna all for myself."
He perked up as he heard you still made the lasagna. He let out a sigh and winced as he pushed himself up onto his feet, taking the cardigan and sliding it up over his frame. He still refused to look at you.
"You are remarkably tiresome," he hissed. "Does it satisfy you to see me struggle? To watch me stumble in your house?"
"Oh, absolutely, I think about it all the time," you shot back with a smirk. You watched him take some shaky steps out of bed, swaying back and forth. His hand clutched the bedpost so hard that his knuckles turned white. It was getting ridiculous with how stubborn he was, but he was about ten seconds away from falling flat on the floor.
You stopped and turned to face him, offering your arm and shoulder to support him. "You know, if you are going to be this dramatic about walking to the kitchen, I could just carry you. I'm stronger than I look, and it would be faster than this," you gesture to him.
Henry froze and turned to look at you with a look of such profound horror that it was almost laughable. "You would not."
"Try me." You leaned into him with a smirk and a teasing glint in your eyes. "Sooo, what's it going to be, Henry? A little help? Or should I scoop you up and make this more embarrassing for both of us?"
He searched your eyes in the following silence for any sign of a bluff, finding none, he let out a defeated huff of air.
"Fine. You can help," he grumbled. He reached out and draped his working arm, allowing you to help him walk across the room, the hesitant trust contradicting everything he had spoken of this afternoon. "But do not speak of carrying me again, or else I will find a way to make you incapacitated as well."
"Deal, now start walking," you said, adjusting your stance to support him better. "We have some lasagna to eat."
You both finally reached the small wooden table tucked into the breakfast nook. You lowered him into the chair, and he let out a sharp exhale as his body went down.
"There," you said, breath coming in a little harder. "We make a good team if you just accept my help."
"We are an inconvenience," he corrected. He looked at the lasagna that you had set in the center of the table. "This seems like a significant amount of effort for one meal."
"Well, I like it, so eat. And I mean actually eat, don't just push sauce around to look busy."
He took the plate with his serving on it and set it down in front of him. He didn't dig in; instead, he just stared at the top of the pasta.
"Just eat the food, Henry, stop staring at it."
He finally took a bite, savoring it for a moment, not speaking. You watched him, waiting for his inevitable complaints about your dish, but instead, his eyes widened.
"I like the tomato, your dish is… acceptable."
"Acceptable? That's very nice coming from someone who just threatened to incapacitate me," you teased as you dug into your own plate.
"Do not push your luck," he warned, but you could tell he didn't really mean it.
"You know, you might hate this new era, but you have to admit, the food is pretty good. Probably better than what they had at the lab," you said, leaning back.
He stared at a piece of meat that had fallen out. "The only thing I admit is that you are very persistent. Like weeds."
"I'll take persistent weed every day over you calling me mediocre again," you replied.
He didn't smile, you didn't know if he had even remembered how to do that yet, but for the first time, he didn't seem as hollow as before.
"Do you want more ?"
"If you must," he said, holding out his plate. You had a shit-eating grin on your face as you reached for the spatula. "Don't make this a habit. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Of course, a very grumpy reputation. I could never dream of ruining it," you said as you tried to hide your grin.
You finished the rest of your meal in a comfortable silence, the only sounds being the clanking of forks and the occasional rush of water in your glasses. Henry was focused as he ate, but as he finished his second helping, he finally fully mellowed out from the frantic-ness of the morning.
"Wow, I'm shocked, you actually finished it," you said as you watched him set down his fork in finality. "I didn't think you'd finish your second helping."
"I told you… It was acceptable. My stomach feels strange. Unnatural."
"That's called being full, Henry."
He glared back at you. "I think it is inefficient. How can you get anything done when you instead spend your time recovering from the caloric intake of dinner?"
"Get used to it," you said as you stood up. You reached over, grabbing both your plates and stacking them on top of each other, eventually taking them to the sink. As you did, you hand brushed over his. His skin was warm, and his big blue eyes stared right up to yours.
Afterwards, you came back over to the table, standing right behind him. "Come on, let's get you back to your room for the night. I don't want to have to haul you by myself if you fall asleep at the table."
He sighs once more. He looked down the hallway and then back at you. "I think I can manage making it back by myself."
"Okay, but I'll be right behind you," you promised.
Granted the fact that Henry wasn't taking your assistance, the walk back to the room was much slower than the one to the kitchen. As you entered the room, you helped him sit down on the edge of the mattress, and for a minute you both sat there in silence. The room was bathed in a dark purple light from the setting sun outside, its features spreading across the Poe book that had somehow made its way onto the nightstand.
My editor is currently 6000 miles away as well as on vacation so it’s been a bit of a struggle to get stuff edited!! If she can’t get to it I have some people who can beta read. But TRUST i’m getting it out.
Update: Definitely gonna be out by tomorrow!!! Probably afternoon unless she edits in the morning
Henry Creel is not naturally a cruel person. The only reason Henry Creel ever got possessed by the Mind Flayer is because he went in the cave to help that scientist. It was this act of kindness that sealed his fate, his biggest mistake in life was being kind
Apologies for not getting a chapter out, I ended up working 65 hours this week. I’m exhausted as hell but I still have work until Monday.
I’m gonna try to work on chapters and see if I can get 2 in this weekend, If not, you should at least get one. I’m really excited for the second one and i’ve really been looking forward to writing it so I can probably crank both out.
I hope you guys have a good rest of your weeks!!! Thank you for all the lovely comments :D
Summary: You work on becoming more friendly with Henry.
Ship: Henry Creel|Peter Ballard|Vecna|One/Reader
Tags: Fluff, Slow-burn, Injury, Season 5 fix-it
WC: 4.5k
A/N: Hi guys!!! Sorry for the late chapter update, in the span of the last week, I had finals and moved out, so I didn't have much time to write. Speaking of, I definitely failed my multivariable calc final, and I'm really hoping I wont have to retake the course.
I will also be a driver for an international race this summer, so I had some race prep stuff to do, which made it even longer for me to get this chapter out, so apologies again.
This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but I think it's really cute, and I had a lot of fun writing it. :D
PART THREE
PART FIVE
“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.” - Friedrich Nietzsche
The rain had been relentlessly pouring down for the past three days, the droplets seeming to burrow themselves into the bones of the house. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ointment and Henry's healing endeavors.
He was recovering, though it just so happened he did it with the ill-tempered grace of a caged animal. Every morning, the guest room would slowly creak open, and he would emerge like a specter–pale, silent, and draped in the oversized sweaters that you had found for him in the back of your closet.
By the end of the week, his silence had morphed more into a simmering grumpiness. He thankfully was no longer weeping and was not as harmed as he was when you found him on the road. Instead, he found everything in his life to be a personal affront, especially the toaster.
“This is fascinating. It is so… inefficient,” he murmured one morning. He was standing in the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter as he watched the bread pop up. He hadn't touched any of the dials, staring at the glowing coils with a profound sense of disdain. “The people of this decade seem to be obsessed with attempting to make things faster. They rush to toast the bread, they rush to drive their loud cars, and yet they have nowhere important to be.”
“Henry, it's just breakfast,” you said, reaching past him, going to grab a plate. You tried not to notice how he no longer flinched as you entered his personal space, though that stiff dignity remained underneath. “Not everything you say has to be commentary on how Western society has been failing.”
“Is it not?’ He turned his head slowly, gaze sweeping over the various magnets on your fridge. “You surround yourself with these… trinkets. They are simply distractions. As if you are terrified of everything else in the world.”
“Maybe we just like toast,” you say as you slide a piece of toast onto his plate.
He looked down at the toast and then up at you. He was wearing a navy blue sweater today, the one that you had given him; the sleeves were a little too short for his long arms. He reached out, taking the plate, his movements slow and deliberate.
“It’s cold in your house,” he stated, though it didn't seem like he was complaining. Rather, just observing.
“I'm sorry, the heater is finicky. It’s an old house, Henry.”
“So it's… decaying,” he replied as he finally took a bite of the toast.
“No its not decaying! My house is perfectly sound.” You went on to grab your own plate, and the rest of breakfast was eaten in silence.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Later in the afternoon, the tension from the morning shifted into a bitter frustration. You were currently sitting in the living room trying to read, whilst Henry sat across from you in the armchair. He had refused to go back to the guest room after his meal, claiming it was too ‘stagnant’ there. Instead, he spent his time staring daggers at the television, which you had left off. He seemed to find the blankness of it oddly comforting.
He tried to stand up and reach for the glass of water you had left on the side table for him, but his leg, which was still weak, buckled beneath him. He didn't fall, but you could hear a sharp intake of breath, and the way he steadied himself on the edge of the chair told you everything you needed to know.
“Let me help,” you said, starting to rise.
“Stay where you are,” he snapped, voice cracking like a whip. He was hunched over, knuckles white from gripping the upholstery. His face was a mask of fury, this time not at you, but at the betrayal of his own muscles. “I do not need your assistance to move a few feet across the room.”
“You are going to rip your stitches, Henry. Lie back down, please.”
“I am not broken!” he said, looking straight at you. The cold had returned a few days prior.
“It takes time,” you said softly. “The body does work quite like the mind. It's slower. More stubborn.”
He shifted his head so that he was staring at the blank TV screen, his voice coming out as hollow as a whisper. “It is a prison. This life. This flesh. It is the smallest, most suffocating room I've ever been kept in.”
You didn't respond, after all, everyone was stuck in the prison we call living. He reached out, finally able to snag the glass. He took a small sip, his jaw working as he swallowed. For a long time, the only audible thing was the rain.
“The soup yesterday,” he said, eyes still fixed on the screen. “It was better than the toast.” He paused for a moment, the word clearly causing him to lose a great deal of pride. “Thank you… again. For not leaving me.”
It was the briefest flicker of a truce.
Henry remained in the armchair as the rain continued pouring down. He looked exhausted from the effort he had just put in. He closed his eyes, leaning back as he listened to the sounds of the storm.
“I called my manager this afternoon,” you said, breaking the silence as you began gathering spare napkins and cups from the living room.
Henry didn't open his eyes, but you could tell he was interested in the way his brow furrowed. “A manager. Someone else taking up your time.”
“It's just my job, Henry. But I told them I wouldn't be in. I took the next week off.”
That made his eyes snap open. He turned his head towards you, expression guarded, suspicious almost. “A week? You are abandoning your work for a stranger you found lying on the road. That's an awfully significant sacrifice for someone who claims to value normalcy, a routine even.”
“It’s not a sacrifice,” you said, moving to the windows to make sure they were fully shut, primarily to avoid his gaze. “It's practical. You can barely walk without eating shit on the floorboards. If I'm at work and you fall and rip your stitches, you are just going to bleed out in my hallway. Personally, I would rather not come home to a corpse.”
Henry watched you, his pupils tracking your mob events with the precision of a hawk. “It's so easy for you to lie, isn’t it?” he murmured, voice sounding like velvet. “You are not staying out of practicality. You are staying because you are curious. You want to see if the monster you rescued is capable of gratitude, or if I will simply swallow you whole.”
“Maybe I just like my house,” you countered, turning to face him. “And maybe I think you are not this monster you say that you are, maybe you are not as far gone as you want me to believe. You thanked me for the soup, didn’t you? See. Progress.”
A shadow of a scowl rushed through his features, his pride flaring up once more with the reminder of his momentary lapse into politeness. “It was simply the slip of the tongue brought on by the stagnation of that room. Do not let it embolden you.”
“Too late,” you said, moving past him into the kitchen. “Since I'm going to be here all week, you are gonna have to get used to the TV, or rather, you are going to have to start talking to me. Really talking to me. No more riddles or whatever it is you are trying to achieve.”
He didn't answer. As you left, you heard a rustle as the pages shifted in the book he picked up.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The next few days settled into a weird kind of domesticity. Your house, which used to be your own fortress of solitude, was now crowded with reminders of his presence. Henry was a demanding patient, even in his silence.
He spent most of his hours in the armchair in the guest room, staring out into the window. You could swear that sometimes you caught him staring at his own reflection in the glass, his expression cold and detached. He was growing stronger, though. The tremors in his hands from the first few days subsided, and the color was slowly returning to his face. It made the blue fire of his eyes stand out even more.
He still didn't quite understand the TV. You caught him watching a commercial for a new brand of laundry detergent with a look of genuine horror, as if the smiling mother's bright white sheets were some type of grotesque occult ritual.
“They are so happy,” he remarked one evening, voice dripping with disdain. “They act like they find divinity in the removal of grass stains. It's a terribly shallow life.”
“It's just a commercial, and it's just soap. People keep their clothes clean.”
“No,” he said, turning off the TV with the sharp flick of his wrist on the remote. “They like to lie. They like the idea that life can be scrubbed clean. They don't want to see anything beneath the fabric. They don't want to know anything about the past.”
He looked at you. “You are the same as them,” he continued, his voice softening. “You spend your week off tending to me, thinking that you can mend something that was never meant to be fixed. You want to scrub me until I'm nothing but your pet.”
“Is that what you think I am doing?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“I think you are trying to find the boy before the lab,” he said, his eyes darkening. “But that boy died a long time ago. What remains is… something else.”
“Well, this ‘something else’ still needs someone to change his bandages,” you said, refusing to entertain his thoughts. “Come on, let's see how your wounds are doing.”
He didn't argue with you; instead, he followed you down the hallway, his limp heavier but more confident than it had been the day before. The guest bedroom was bathed in the soft gray light of the afternoon as you prepared fresh bandages. Henry sat on the edge of the mattress, his posture rigid and fixed on some point above the doorway. He had grown quiet.
“Shirt off,” you said, your voice in a matter-of-fact manner as you slipped on a pair of latex gloves.
At first, he didn't move to take off his shirt, his jaw twitching with the indignity of your request. Then his fingers went to the buttons of the flannel shirt he was currently wearing. The flannel slid down his shoulders and then pooled at his waist. Since it had been a few days, you could now see the blooming bruises that had been brought upon him.
The stitches that you had taken care of had held well, but the skin around them had many bruises in many colors, dark purples and sickly yellows. The perfect circle on his back still looked unsettling, but seemed to be clearing up as well.
You leaned in to take off the patches of gauze; the physical proximity to him made it feel like you were standing next to a live wire. Even without his powers, Henry radiated a strange sort of aura, which made the air and surroundings feel static.
“You are healing faster than you should be,” you murmured while you peeled off the tape. “The bruising is already fading in places.”
“My body has its own…methods,” Henry replied, his voice a low vibration that you could feel even in your own chest. He sat still on the bed, but you saw the way the muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he tried to stay still.
“It looks like one of your lateral stitches almost ripped when you tried to take a stroll earlier,” you said as you dipped a cotton ball in some antiseptic. “Hold still, this will sting.”
You pressed the cold cotton to the wound. Henry didn't flinch, his eyes or even blink. He simply stared ahead, his breathing slow and shallow, almost imperceptible. It was almost as if his mind had left his body, leaving only the hollow shell of him behind for you to tend to.
“Is this what they taught you in the lab?” you asked, your voice softening as you began to wind fresh gauze around his stomach. “How to turn off your pain?”
His piercing blue eyes felt like a weight as their gaze slipped to you. “They didn't tell me to turn it off. It was rather a necessity for me to learn.” His voice dropped. “Learning how to forget about it was one of the smartest decisions I ever made.”
“Most people just call that hurting.”
“Most people are terrified of their own fragility,” he counted. He looked down at your hands he they worked his chest, hands smoothing the tape against his skin. You avoided his gaze as you reached around him to secure the final pieces of tape, your arms momentarily encircling him. For a minute, you were able to feel the frantic thumping of his heart.
He went perfectly still. His pupils slightly dilated, and for a second, you thought he might reach out–not to strike you, but rather to touch. Then, he pulled away, his face snapping back to its former indifference.
You gathered the discarded bandages and antiseptics to throw them away. “You’re all patched up. Try to stay there for at least an hour before you plot to try to take over the government or whatever it is that you do in your head.”
He didn't reply, but you caught him looking at the fresh white bandage that reflected in the vanity mirror. He looked at them with a mixture of loathing and wonder, as if what you gave him was some kind of gift.
The room remained still as you finished packing up the remaining medical supplies. You expected him to sink back into his brooding silence, but as you were walking out, his voice caught you at the door.
“What is it that you do anyway? For work.”
You paused, looking back. Henry was still sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt back on, but hanging open. He wasn't looking at you, instead at the bookshelf, but the tilt in his head suggested that he was truly curious.
“I am an engineer,” you said, shifting the weight of the medical kit.
“So you build things,” he murmured. He finally turned his head, blue eyes searching your face. “A strange vocation for someone who spends her nights patching me up. I would have thought you prefer to fix steel to the messy, unpredictable failure of human flesh.”
“It’s not that different, honestly,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “In the work I do, it is all about structural integrity, load bearing, that kind of stuff. If the foundation is cracked, it all comes down, same as with you. I work at a firm in town, mostly on civil projects. I've been doing a lot of redesign for the repairs after the.. Earthquakes.”
Henry's expression shifted, a ghost of a smirk on the corner of his lips. “Ah, so you spend the day stitching the earth back together, and then you come home and spend your nights doing the same for me. You have a remarkable obsession with preventing damage.”
“Someone has to do it,” you shrug. “We can’t just sit around and wait for the world to end.”
“Is that what you find so compelling about it?” he asked.
“I want to make things last, I want them to be safe. I like knowing how things work–how they fit together. When something breaks, there's always a reason for it. If you find out why it broke, then you can fix it.”
Henry looked down at his own hands, fingers curling and uncurling around the mattress. “And what happens when it’s gone? When something is not just broken but… fundamentally altered?”
“I don't know,” you admitted. “I've never had to fix something like that. But I took a week off because you need supervision. You will be my project for the next couple of days. Don’t make me regret it.”
He didn't snarl at you this time. Instead, he let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh in a different life. He scooted over and leaned against the headboard, his book still on the nightstand.
“It's a shame you didn't use your engineering skills to work in the lab. Perhaps you would have noticed the issues before they were too big to fix.”
“Maybe,” you said, turning off the light. “Get some sleep, Henry. Tomorrow we can try walking you to the kitchen without you limping as much, or falling for that matter.”
As you closed the door, or you heard the soft rustle of the sheets and a sigh as he settled in for the night.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The morning brought a reprieve from the rain, but it left the outside in a thick, grey humidity. Inside, the house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock down the hall.
You found Henry in the guest room, sitting in the chair that he had dragged over towards the window. He was draped in a thick, charcoal cardigan and was looking out into the woods once more. Thankfully, this time he wasn't mumbling insanities; instead, he was tracing his fingers over the cover of his novel.
You set a fresh cup of tea on the small table beside him, the steam rising in a thick, elegant curl. “Are you staring at the trees again? You've been at it for hours. They haven't changed.”
“I simply just like looking at them.”
You pulled over a stool from under the vanity, sitting far enough to give him space, but close enough that he knew you weren't leaving. “I've been thinking about what you said. About the lab. You mentioned it was at the old energy plant, but that place had been a shell for as long as I can remember.” You watched as his profile sharpened as you spoke. “So this lab inside… How long were you actually in there? Because you seem to know nothing about this time period. You act like my television is from an alien planet.”
His hands went still on the book. For a minute, he remained quiet, but the look in his eyes told you that he was thinking clearly.
“Well, I think that depends entirely on what year it is now,” he said, his voice low. “Time seemed to work differently there. There were no sunsets, no windows, only the hum of the fluorescent lights and one's own pulse.”
“It’s 1987,” you said in a quiet voice.
He sighed for a moment before leaning back against the chair. “I was taken there when I was a boy. I was a prodigy to them. Because of this, they wanted to study, to dissect, to refine me. I became their.. Primary subject, they called me their ‘One, ' and when I proved to be more than they could manage, they simply just locked me away.”
“A boy?” you whispered, trying to reconcile the tall, formidable man before you with the image of a child in a sterile room. “The earthquakes happened last year. If you were in there until then…”
“I was brought there in 1959,” he stated flatly.
The math hit you like a physical blow. You stared back at him, your mind racing through the decades of things he missed. The moon landing, wars, colored television being introduced to households, and he missed all of it.
“Thirty years!?” you breathed. “You were in there for thirty years?’
“I was not in the lab for the entirety of it.” Henry countered, jaw tightening. “I was in exile for a long while. A place… very different from this. But yes, the majority of the time was in the lab where the doctors believed that stripping away the real world from me would reveal the true nature of the power I possessed.”
He looked back towards the window, a bitter smile adorning his lips. “So, you are correct. I know nothing of your time period. I know nothing of your music, your politics, or your obsession with convenience. To me, this world is a fever dream.”
“It's not a dream, Henry, it's just life now. The people you knew grew up, they moved on while you were… down there.” You reached out, almost touching his sleeve before you pulled away. “No wonder you are such a grumpypants, you've missed everything.”
He made a disgruntled noise at your comment about him being a ‘grumpypants.’ “I missed nothing but the world rotting away,” he snapped with a sharp tilt of his head. “I saw the world from what it was before they took me, and now I still see it as the same. It's the same cycle: wake up, eat, work, sleep, reproduce, and die. It just hides it.”
He turned the book over in his lap, thumb pressed against the seam. “You are an engineer, surely you will understand. Imagine a structure that has been denied its foundation for thirty years. What happens when you finally go inside?”
“It would crumble,” you say honestly. “Unless you have someone or something to brace it while it is being repaired.”
He looked at you, and for a moment his coldness wavered; his pride wouldn't let him lapse so soon, but he knew you were right.
“You are very persistent,” he murmured. “It's a dangerous trait. You might find that it's not in your best interest to try to restore the structure.”
“I guess we will find out at the end of the week,” you said, as you picked up the now-empty mug.
“Read your book, Henry, it's better than staring at the woods.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The next day, Henry was in his usual spot by the guest bedroom window, the Shelley novel resting on the arm of the chair. He hadn't touched the tea you had brought him this morning; instead, he was staring at the cover.
“You finished it,” you noted. You could see the way it had been carefully positioned not to fall. “So did it live up to its name? Or was it ‘mediocre.’”
“It was… good,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. “The doctor in the story.. His goal was that he wanted to conquer death. He was a coward, in the end.”
He finally looked at you, his expression unreadable. “He was terrified of what he saw in his monster. Most people were. They wanted the power of creation without the burden of consequence.”
“I think that the monster just wanted someone to be his friend. Someone to tell him he wasn't a mistake,” you said quietly.
“A sentiment that reeks of your faulty logic. But Shelley understood something that you do not: some things are born of a darkness that cannot be cured.”
He picked up the book and handed it to you. “The prose was nice. Much better than anything on your screeching television.”
“I'll take it as a glowing review,” you said as you took the book from him. Your fingers brushed against his, and for a moment, the air felt thick again. It was tension, yes, but not the same as the suffocating display of power he usually had. “Do you want another? I have a few more classics upstairs. Or I could find something more modern if you are finally ready to catch up with the twentieth century.”
“I do not think I am ready to read any modern works,” he murmured. “They are too loud, too intense. I would prefer to continue reading classics if you have any. There is a reason they are considered as such.”
“I think I have some of Edgar Allen Poe's works,” you suggested. “Or some Dostoyevsky.”
“Poe,” he repeated as if the name was a secret. “I read some of his things when I was still in school. I found it relatable.”
“Relatable, huh?” you echoed with a small, tired laugh. “Of course you would. I'll go dig it out. Just stay in the chair. Don't fall on the floorboard and mess it up. Or even better, don't hide a body in them.”
He didn't get your joke, instead looking at you with a puzzling look. Maybe he would eventually, surely the Tell-Tale Heart was in your collection. He took the mug off the nightstand and took a sip as he fixed his gaze outside.
You spent a good hour going upstairs and sifting through cabinets and boxes until you finally unearthed your spine-cracked collection of Poe’s short stories. By the time you returned to the guest room, the house was silent, save for the rustling of the trees outside.
Henry was now on the bed, the duvet straightened out over his two legs. He looked up as you entered, his gaze dropping to the book in your hand.
He reached out impatiently. “You took a long time. I assume you didn't get lost in your own home. At least I hope that would be more pathetic than you keeping me alive.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” you said, handing him a book. “For someone who has been out of commission for thirty years, you've picked up sarcasm remarkably fast. It's a bit concerning, actually.”
Henry flipped the book open, the smell of the old, yellowed paper filling the air between you. “Sarcasm is merely the language of the misunderstood. It is much better and more efficient than sincerity. Sincerity requires a level of trust that I know neither of us possesses.”
“I don't know, I was pretty sincere about that soup,” you teased, leaning against the bedpost. “And you were pretty sincere about liking it. Or was that just the ‘silence’ talking again?”
He shot you a look as his jaw tightened, his stubborn pride flickering behind his eyes. His head tilted slightly as he spoke, “The soup was a necessity that I needed to function. Don't romanticize it.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Henry.” You turned towards the door, your hand pausing as you reached for the light switch. “Just a heads up, I'm going to make lasagna tomorrow. It's a lot of layers. I think you might like it.”
“Lasagna,” he repeated. He looked down at his book, the corner of his mouth twitching as if it was trying to curl into a smirk, or maybe it was just the trick of the light. “I will prepare to critique it accordingly. It can't be worse than the toast.”
“I'm shaking in my boots,” you shot back, finally clicking off the light. Goodnight, Henry, don't let the Tell-Tale Heart keep you up.”
“I don’t worry about the heart,” his voice drifted out from the darkness.
You closed the door, a tired smile breaking through the exhaustion. Maybe you should be worrying about your own heart. Henry was still a mystery, and still by far the grumpiest man you had ever met, but you finally felt like you were getting somewhere.
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
izzy806
