Maybe horror literature had been a bad choice. Some parts read like a comedy, but the novel’s overall tone was… dark. Edgar grimaced as he leafed to the next page of William Blatty’s “The Exorcist.” He’d borrowed it from one of the nurses, a transplant from America who’d come to get to know her English relatives or some shit. He hadn’t been listening. Not enough to be quizzed on it. Edgar had just seen the book at the nurse’s station and made small talk until she lent it to him.
He sat where he always did when he watched over Doc, guarded him and prayed on every passing turn of the second arm that today would be the day he finally woke up. Slouched in the chair near the head of Dearborn’s hospital bed, Edgar’s feet were kicked up onto the mattress, one ankle crossed over the other as he read the book propped up on his sternum.
This was where he’d been for the last five days, not moving unless Moody told him to clear out and sleep in an actual bed. He’d have told Moody to sod off, but the threat of him summoning his sister –the cavalry– had been enough to make him sigh in distaste and grumble the promise to be back in a few hours. Knowing that he’d call him if there were any changes had also helped get him out the door.
There hadn’t been, though. Not in days and days. Caradoc was still sleeping like a fucking princess and Edgar had read every goddamn magazinge, tabloid, old news paper the hospital had to offer. He’d even read Rita’s articles, Merlin help him. So, while “The Exorcist” was a bad choice, he was starved for an alternative.
The scratchy sound of Doc’s raspy voice ripped Edgar’s focus from the page onto the man beside him. His every instinct was to jump out of his seat, grab Doc by the face, and stare into those blood ringed blue eyes, undecided between laughing or cursing, or some other inarticulate sound. Instead, surprise, incredulity, complete and utter shock had frozen him to the spot and all Edgar could do was gape.
A second turned into ten, a minute, before he blinked, shook his head, and drawled out, “With better hair, I hope.”
He snapped the book shut, moved his boots from the edge of Doc’s bed to plant them on the floor, and turned his body to face his not-as-dead-as-he-looked best friend. “What am I doing here,” he repeated, choking on a laugh that was either wary or insulted, or the most crushing kind of relieved.
Edgar shrugged, half cocked grin finding its way onto his face. He rested his elbows on his knees, the book dangling from his hand as he held Doc’s gaze, muttering, “You know, I actually got turned around trying to find the cantine. Decided to hole up in here because, hey, odds are they gotta feed you eventually, right? Just been biding my time until then. Can I have your pudding cup?”
He lifted the book and lightly thwacked it on the only spot of Doc’s arm that wasn’t bandaged. “I’ve been keeping your comatose ass company, you fucking tosser.” Edgar stood up from his chair, tossed the book onto the table beside his hospital bed, and strode over to the jug of water the nurses kept fresh for visitors. As he filled the cup, he said, “Not that all that beauty sleep’s done you any favors,” and walked it over to Doc.
Licking his lips as he regarded the blond, Edgar remembered the handsome face, the sparkling blue eyes and the way they crinkled at the edges when he laughed and smiled. Clenching his jaw, he carefully slipped a hand under Doc’s nap and helped lift his head with a muttered, “Here,” and watered him like an oversized houseplant.
“Easy,” he said, mindful of how much water he was drinking, of how fast and when to stop so he didn’t cough it out before he could actually swallow it down. Their eyes met and his brows bent in question. ‘more?’ When Doc was done the cup went to the table and Edgar moved the chair closer to the bed before reclaiming it.
As he got comfortable in the chair that made every effort to make it impossible, Edgar barked a laugh at Caradoc’s question. “Am I good,” he said, shaking his head, grinning a mirthless smile as he stared quizzically at him. “Yeah, Doc. Couldn’t be better. How about you?” Beaten to shit, violated and tortured, he suspected he knew the answer to that question, but if either of them should have been asking it it was him. The one who hadn’t been abducted by Death Eaters and tortured for months. Months. Was he good? Peachy keen, thanks for asking.
“Well, I have better hair. I couldn’t tell ya what you have...” He replied with a soft chuckle, that quickly turned into a rough cough. Both were absolutely the ‘slide over the hood of an old muscle car to get to a perp’ type. They’d most likely stumble over each other to get there first.
The ghost of a smile lilted the corner of his broken lips at his friends running commentary. “You can have my puddin’ cup, so long as you feed me the liquids through a straw when I need a feed.” He was surprised his jaw wasn’t wired shut with how broken it felt. He had no idea how long he was out of it, he was just so damn glad to be awake.
He winced at the thwack of the book, his grin breaking the surface at Edgar’s annoyance. “I bet that was riveting for you. Enjoy watching my beautiful face while I sleep? All peaceful and shit?” He had no idea how he looked, just how he felt and could only imagine... “What? You saying you wouldn’t date me lookin’ like this? I’m heartbroken.”
The warmth of his hand as it slipped behind his neck registered through the pain medication, slicing through the fog of his mind. He groaned as a head filled with lead was lifted from the pillows but relished in the cool flow of water as it hit dry lips. He had no idea how long it’d been since he’d enjoyed something a simply beautiful as water.
He lapped at it like a dog. An what a dog he was, now. Pushing that thought from his mind, he focused instead on the hazel eyes boring into his own. The way the luminescent light overhead reflected off of irises of green and brown. There was something so calming in them, an ease washed over him as he sucked back the cool liquid.
The only thing that slowed him down was the soft voice of the man hovering over him. Concern ever present on his features as he asked the question in his gaze. His own answering ‘yes’. He hated how pathetic he felt, unable to lift a hand to do it himself. It drove him nuts, but he pushed those thoughts aside, too. This was Edgar. The man who had seen him at his best- and his worst over the last ten years. They had no secrets, nothing left untouched between them.
If anyone was going to look after him right now, it was the man whose eyes promised peace and a future. He groaned when the glass was taken away, first from the loss of the liquid- the guy felt like he hadn’t had clean water in months... likely because he actually hadn’t. But also from the pain that racked through cracked and broken lungs after the slugging of the liquid had ceased.
The smile that appeared on Edgar’s face had him wanting to widen his own. If his face didn’t feel like it would fall off at the act, he likely would have. “Everything’s comin’ up Roses, Bones.” He replied lazily, trying to shift in the bed but struggling. “Why the fuck do they make these things so small?” He asked on a guttural groan. “How long do I have to stay here?”
He thought about leaving, about returning to HQ and his expression fell. It took all the effort he had but the wizard managed to move his hand enough to wrap it around the forearm still hooked behind his neck. “Moody? Did he use the serum? I didn’t give anything up, Bones. Not a damn thing.” Tears welled in his eyes, a weakness he couldn’t seem to stop as he searched for answers from the other.
“He knows that, right? You know that, right?”
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