He’d found his way back to bed, he’d made a valiant effort at dozing at a minimum, but sleep had proven elusive even without a threat of dreams to haunt him. Jon might not have liked Chris locking away his dreams forever, but in times like this, he was thankful there’d be no nightmares.
Still, his mind works and memories play like visions that chase away peace for each sound in the night, and the sight of his loved ones faces as they were preparing to leave keeps resurfacing. They were going to go home. Get rest. Right?
If it were reversed, he’d want blood. He’d want to taste it in his teeth and feel it on his skin and drag the remains to the feet of his person so they’d know it was done.
They’d tell him, wouldn’t they? Not if they thought he’d have stopped them. He would have stopped them. Those men didn’t deserve more of his thought or attention than they already had, and they certainly didn’t have a right to put hands on his family if something went wrong.
If something went wrong is the thought that sends him out of bed. He can’t get away with getting up twice, but he presses assurances and promises to Jacob’s lips before shoving on his boots and stealing one of his boyfriend’s jumpers from his days as a younger man.
Chris gathers a first aid kit and bandages and an extra knife and heads out into the forest to make his way to…the elevators? The people Zoo? He’s not sure. He’ll start with the zoo, even as the thought stutters his heart, he has to check. Thankfully, he doesn’t get that far. Luck or providence has his trajectory turning a corner to spot them at the end of a street emptied by the late hour.
He opens his mouth to call to them, closes it, and lets his feet carry him instead, eyes already sweeping over them for a limp or careful movement that might give away an injury. What he sees instead is blood. Drying and flecked on skin and hair and hands and his stomach plummets as much as it soars in relief. Three steps four. Five. His bag shifts on his shoulder as he reaches out first for Amelia.
She’s even worse for touch than he is most days, but it doesn’t stop him now. He grabs for her and pulls her close, arms wrapping tight around her as he presses his lips to her hair. Her cheek, wherever he feels he can. When he pulls back, he takes her bloodied hand and presses a kiss there too, uncaring of the traces it leaves on his lips.
He cares just as much when he turns to Hawke next and takes hold of the front of his friend’s shirt to pull him in and press a kiss to his lips. It’s a slow, appreciative thing. Soft for all the evidence of violence they carry. Chris pulls back, a hand on each of them as he bows his head.
no subject
Still, his mind works and memories play like visions that chase away peace for each sound in the night, and the sight of his loved ones faces as they were preparing to leave keeps resurfacing. They were going to go home. Get rest. Right?
If it were reversed, he’d want blood. He’d want to taste it in his teeth and feel it on his skin and drag the remains to the feet of his person so they’d know it was done.
They’d tell him, wouldn’t they? Not if they thought he’d have stopped them. He would have stopped them. Those men didn’t deserve more of his thought or attention than they already had, and they certainly didn’t have a right to put hands on his family if something went wrong.
If something went wrong is the thought that sends him out of bed. He can’t get away with getting up twice, but he presses assurances and promises to Jacob’s lips before shoving on his boots and stealing one of his boyfriend’s jumpers from his days as a younger man.
Chris gathers a first aid kit and bandages and an extra knife and heads out into the forest to make his way to…the elevators? The people Zoo? He’s not sure. He’ll start with the zoo, even as the thought stutters his heart, he has to check. Thankfully, he doesn’t get that far. Luck or providence has his trajectory turning a corner to spot them at the end of a street emptied by the late hour.
He opens his mouth to call to them, closes it, and lets his feet carry him instead, eyes already sweeping over them for a limp or careful movement that might give away an injury. What he sees instead is blood. Drying and flecked on skin and hair and hands and his stomach plummets as much as it soars in relief. Three steps four. Five. His bag shifts on his shoulder as he reaches out first for Amelia.
She’s even worse for touch than he is most days, but it doesn’t stop him now. He grabs for her and pulls her close, arms wrapping tight around her as he presses his lips to her hair. Her cheek, wherever he feels he can. When he pulls back, he takes her bloodied hand and presses a kiss there too, uncaring of the traces it leaves on his lips.
He cares just as much when he turns to Hawke next and takes hold of the front of his friend’s shirt to pull him in and press a kiss to his lips. It’s a slow, appreciative thing. Soft for all the evidence of violence they carry. Chris pulls back, a hand on each of them as he bows his head.
“Please tell me you weren’t hurt.”