Dark&Host (platonic) for #47 “You look like hell.”
Prompt: “You look like hell.”
A hand clamping down on his shoulder woke him from an uneasy and unexpected slumber. He tensed immediately, then relaxed as a frigid cold seeped through his coat, into his skin; it was only Dark.
“I know you’re awake.” Dark’s voice crept over him, settled across his shoulders like a shroud. “You missed the meeting.” A wry smile. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead in here.”
“No,” the Host croaked, sitting up. He removed his headphones and set them down on the desk. His mouth was dry, his tongue parched and bloody, like he’d bitten it. He swiped it over his cracked lips, tasting more blood. His head pounded. His heart raced in his ears, nearly drowning out his own quiet, tired voice. “I lost track of time.”
“I can see that.” The Host felt Dark squeeze his shoulder, felt his presence lean in, cool and cold to his feverishly hot. “You look like hell.”
“You’d look like hell too if you could see the future,” the Host snapped, the throbbing in his head getting the better of him, if only for a moment. “I can’t control it. It never stops.”
There were a few seconds of tense silence where the Host was half-convinced the hand on his shoulder would tighten, dig in, pierce. But it didn’t, and Dark only asked, mildly, “You can come to me when you have visions.”
“Pardon me if I don’t.”
Dark’s hand left his shoulder. The Host could hear the soft rustle of cloth as Dark tucked his hands behind his back. “Fair enough. At least let me take you to get cleaned up, and perhaps then we may discuss it.”
It wasn’t a request, merely a demand disguised as one. But it was a rare day when Dark was gentle. The Host found himself with the irresistible urge to sink into it. Drown.
He nodded. “That would be nice.”
Dark’s touch was a few shades to the left of kind as he helped the Host from his rickety wooden chair, one hand on his arm, the other between his shoulder blades, supporting his unsteady weight as they left the library, footsteps muted on the thinning carpet.
How a Seer could be so oblivious to his own state, Dark would never know. The Host hadn’t taken any time to examine himself before greeting him with a squeeze to the shoulder, leaving inky, bloody smudges on his crisp white suit jacket.
If the Host felt the tendrils of his aura writhing irritably, he didn’t flinch. “Dark will borrow the Host’s coat then,” he announced, a certainty more than an offer, “to maintain his dignity until his property has been returned clean.”
He’d never seen the Host in formal wear, much less in white, Dark realized only after the outerwear exchanged hands. He must have sensed Dark’s surprise, as he smiled slightly, turning this way and that to show it off.
“How does he look?” he prompted, smoothing his hands over the sleek lower panels (creating further smudges, naturally.)
Host’s wings curl easily to rest on his back as he lands, graceful and delicate in all the ways Dark envies. Host’s smile is sad as he pulls Dark into his arms, pressing a kiss to the entity’s head.“Dark misses flight.”“Yes.”“Will he allow Host to-”“I can fly.” Dark admits, pressing his face into Host’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to see his face. “It’s just-… after- I don’t remember it all, but I do remember falling.” He shudders, wings wrapping protectively around his shoulders while Host holds him closer. “It’s easier to just say I can’t fly rather than admit I’m just too afraid to.”
Host hums, understanding and concerned and sympathetic all at once. “Perhaps one day Dark will join the Host?”“One day,” Dark agrees quietly, lifting his chin to rest on Host’s shoulder so that he can look out towards the horizon. “Some day.”
The Host sat on the chair, tied to it. He was certainly not happy about having his arms tied behind his back and his feet tied to the legs of the chair. Nor was he happy about the sock being used as a gag in his mouth.
It tasted disgusting and he would have spit it out, had it not been taped to his mouth. What kind of self respecting kidnapper would use their own sock, pulled straight from their horrible and tacky shoe.
If he could, he'd glare at the scoundrel that had done this to him, who had just walked into the small dressing room he had placed the Host in.
Wilford walked in looking satisfied with the situation at hand and the Host hated that he was so in the dark right now without his narrations.
“I don't take shit from nobody and that includes you too Hostie.” Wilford said waving his gun around and eventually it settled against the Host's forehead.
The Host flinched at the feeling of the cold barrel resting against his forehead. He tried to speak, but the disgusting gag in his mouth muffled his words.
Wilford didn't seem interested in what he had to say, so he keep prattling on in the Host's opinion.
“I'd let you talk, Hostie, but I know exactly what you'd pull.” Wilford said, cocking the gun.
It was a revolver, but Host didn't know that he had that particular gun drawn. He just knew that one wrong move and Wilford would blow his brains out.
The click of the gun being cocked caused the Host to panic and he moved as far from the gun as he could manage.
“You get to test your luck Host. Let's see if you get out of this with your brains intact.” Wilford giggled as he squeezed the trigger.
There was another click, but nothing happened and the Host breathed sigh of relief.
Wilford frowned, almost disappointed with the result.
“You stay alive for now, but I'll be back once I attend to some things.” Wilford said storming off in a flurry of pink and yellow that was his aura.
Summary: Dark is forced to cross uncomfortable boundaries on behalf of an injured friend. Doing so makes it all too easy for him to be compromised.
Anger is an expensive luxury in which only men of a certain income can indulge.
“What in the name of sanity were you doing?!”
Sputtering and coughing desperately to refill his burning lungs, the Host thrashed like a dying fish to turn onto his side. Dark’s furious demand could barely be heard behind the intense ringing in his ears and the brutal throbbing in his head and even if he had heard it clearly, he couldn’t find the strength to answer. His teeth chattered fiercely, catching on his quivering lower lip and leaving behind the taste of iron and sea salt.
“You should never have ventured out there,” Dark continued to rebuke him as he gripped his friend’s shoulder and returned him to his back, fumbling with his sodden clothing. The buttons of his coat were slippery, refusing to cooperate with his shaking fingers. Despite himself, he had a persistent twinge of worry thumping in the back of his chest. He had only dunked his arms in the water long enough to keep the Host from drowning, and he was losing feeling in his fingertips. How long had the Host been submerged?
Finally he managed to wrangle the Host’s coat open, peeling the heavy fabric away from his heaving chest. The Host had gone limp by now, letting him work as he pleased, but that wasn’t what Dark needed.
“Take your arms out of these sleeves, Host. Do you hear me? You need to keep moving; let me get this off of you.”
For a few seconds it seemed as if the Host hadn’t registered the order—until his dripping, blue-tinged fingers twitched and he bit back a groan as he started sliding his arms in toward his sides. Dark nodded curtly in encouragement, pulling the sleeves the opposite direction until the coat lay limp in its growing puddle.
“Now sit up. Sit up.” Even as he spoke, Dark slid one hand under the Host’s head and gripped his shoulder with the other, simultaneously pushing and pulling until the younger Ego was somewhat upright. Shuddering faintly, the Host slumped further forward than Dark was expecting, laying his forehead against his knees. Now that the back of his head was exposed, Dark busied himself with untangling the tails of his bandages, wringing the cold water out of them.
When he glanced at the Host’s pasty face, he noticed his lips moving, though no sound left them. Even now he was narrating, helpless to stop, and Dark pursed his own lips, tilting his head to read whatever words his friend was trying to form.
“…his hands are wet with more than just water…”
At that Dark flinched back, several alarms sounding in his mind simultaneously. “What?” he demanded sharply, already turning his hands over for his inspection. Water trailed thinly down his fingers—as did blood. Cursing in disbelief, he leaned forward on his knees, pulling away the bandage tails and brushing his icy fingers searchingly through the Host’s hair. It was warm and sticky just behind his right ear and as soon as he parted the plastered strands of dark hair to get a better look, rivulets of blood began racing freely down the curve of his neck.
“Oh, Host, you fool…” he seethed, bending over to rifle through the pockets of the fallen overcoat. He withdrew the Host’s roll of emergency bandages within seconds, his heart dropping into his stomach as their sogginess made them difficult to unwind. His impatience overtook him and he tossed them aside, instead opting to press one of his hands against the wound. The Host flinched at the sudden contact, a sudden jerk much larger than his consistent shivering, and Dark found himself swallowing what could have been an apology, of all things.
The Host should be grateful, he decided as he fished his free hand through his jacket for his phone. After the dip in the water, he doubted the Host’s would still be functional.
“Tell me, Host,” he began, his voice tight with accusation, “what exactly was it that you were thinking when you stepped onto that ice? Hm? Did you think that you could be trusted to hold your balance? Were you actively trying to tempt danger? Were you feeling adventurous?”
“T-The Host has been t-taking walks in this area f-for s-several days,” was the faint, stuttered response. “Googleplier h-has been encouraging him to improve his b-balance on uneven surfaces.”
The sheer, sharp red in Dark’s aura flared at that and he set aside a mental note to have a discussion with Google about what could come of making plans to improve anything about the Host without his knowledge or consent. This thought was briefly interrupted as the Host stirred, lifting his heavy head from his knees with a strangled groan and listing sideways to slump against his friend. Dark drew in a startled breath, resisting the urge to recoil as fresh blood immediately formed a disconcertingly large stain in his jacket.
“What is it?” he asked instead, wary of this change in position. The Host’s response was too slurred for him to catch very much of it, but he heard something about his aura being in flux. That didn’t explain why the Host would want to draw closer to him; his aura was naturally cool and the Host was already chilled to the bone—
Oh.
Celine’s influence…His anger. It created temperature changes, flushed him with excess heat. Though his jaw was working as he chastised himself for his lack of control, he could at least excuse it by reminding himself that it served a purpose here. It was an expensive luxury, given the circumstances; he would rather the Host have avoided needing his anger for warmth altogether.
It was too late for that now. His friend was slipping in and out of consciousness, his breath too shallow, his shivering too violent. There were too many variables—cold shock, hypovolemic shock, hypothermia, hemophilia…He couldn’t afford to be conservative or selfish. Exhaling harshly through his nose, Dark lifted a hand to the Host’s head, guiding it down and back so the wound was compressed firmly against his chest. He kept his hand thoroughly tangled in his cold, dripping hair, unwilling to release any pressure. As he did, he pried open his hold on his anger, letting it ripple through him like the first churning froth of a rising wave.
Within seconds, the blue in his aura was almost completely drowned, though there was a trace of it on the very edges of the harsh, scorching red smoke surrounding them. That blue made up his grim concern, his recognition of an ally’s need, his own need for his ally…He would never be channeling his anger like this if it weren’t for that tinge of blue. As he felt the Host’s wracking chills ease little by little, the blue wisps regained some strength, entwining lightly with the red.
Balance. Even now, there was something of a balance.
Dark remembered, suddenly, that he had been searching for his phone. It was buried at the bottom of his pocket, but once he found it he was able to speed-dial the doctor, tucking the device between his shoulder and his ear so he could put his hand between the Host’s shoulder blades, concentrating the heat in his aura to that point, blanketing it over him.
“You should know, Host, that I would do this for no one else,” he murmured lowly, brows furrowing as he gave it a second thought. “…Wilford, perhaps, but no one else.” The Host didn’t make any attempt to reply and Dark was forced to remind himself to keep his breathing even, closing his eyes in concentration as he waited on the dial tone.
