Chapter Text
When John was a child, as hard as that is for him to recall now, he used to venture into his back garden and observe the creatures with an inquisitive eye. He let ants and beetles crawl over his palms; he asked his parents to buy him one of those plastic boxes you could house worms in (he didn’t like the sensation of them against his skin, so it was for viewing purposes only.) Most of all, his favourite thing to do was to collect caterpillars. He would snatch them off of the leaves, observing their fat little bodies with fascination. He delighted in the way they crawled and moved and explored their new, glass jar surrounding.
Eventually the caterpillars would form cocoons around themselves and curl up on a twig. Their bodies would calcify and turn dull until something even more wonderful and magnificent was ready to emerge. This was John’s favourite part. Their shiny, silky wings. The moment they took off, diving into the blue expanse of the sky. The knowledge that something so brilliant and free could come from something so unassuming.
When John is lost as he is now, in nothing, in half-formed sleep, he imagines that this warm darkness is what a cocoon feels like. He senses somewhere in the void that it is time to hatch. Being a lover of punctuality, he does so.
He regrets it immediately.
It’s pain. Oh, Gods, it is pain- it is blinding light the glare of a thousand suns strong, tearing through the membrane of blackness he has been cradled in for so long; it is the flood of magma and ice on his skin, drowning in the first gasping breath he takes when he is finally awake. The pain in his lungs is indescribable. He is sure it will ruin him from the inside out like a plague, like a curse. Gods, just let him die, again, just let him-
And, finally, his vision clears. He realises that the fogginess of his eyes isn’t just them adjusting to the vibrancy of the new world he has been born into but that he’s crying. He blinks the tears away to find that he is lying in a bed. A bed with a patchwork blanket that someone sewed by hand. He lifts his hands to his face tentatively and touches it. Good Gods. Holy shit, in fact. He has a real face again. His eyes sting afresh.
He lifts his head to the rest of the room. Small, cozy, cramped. A warm, earthy orange colour. The walls are lined with shelves that are lined with books. There’s a single window to the right of him and through its eye he can see a pale grey sky, a lightless sun and the edge of an evergreen bush. He finally allows his vision to light on a rocking chair right at his bedside.
Slumped on it is a stout figure. He has grey hair tinged greenish-pinkish-blue with the memory of a plethora of dyes and it’s all piled up in a bedraggled bun. A pair of glasses are sliding down his nose because he’s dozing, arms folded across his floral beach shirt. He’s got a terrible fashion sense- all of the colours clash. He’s wearing socks with sandals, for fuck’s sake. John could almost scoff, if he didn’t feel so compelled to reach out to him.
He is disturbed from this compulsion by a new sensation in his chest, which rapidly spreads to his throat and mouth like a swarm of ants. John begins to cough, first soft and breathy and then louder, his throat burning with the force of each exhalation. He doubles over at the waist, one hand on his chest and the other attempting to stifle the noise. Through the pain he notices he is wearing soft flannel pyjamas that are too wide for him but not at all long enough.
This wakes the dwarf, whose eyes shoot open. He unfolds like a map, spilling out of the chair and catching himself on the edge of the bed. His eyes are owlish behind his glasses, shiny and brown, and he’s regarding John with a look of awed, relieved wonder. How John can deduce this, especially through the coughs wracking his body, he doesn’t know but it comes easy as breathing. Easier than breathing, actually.
“Water,” the dwarf says, suddenly, broken from his reverie. “Ah, shit! Just- just hold on a second, John, I’ll be back right away-” He stumbles out of the room, unsteady on his be-sandled feet. John hears the sound of running water, distantly, although sound is difficult to cope with, with the throbbing that has conjured in his skull. He wants to raise a hand to it but both are preoccupied.
John can’t steady himself for long enough to take the glass so the dwarf has to prise his hand- gently, carefully- away from John’s mouth. He places a hand under the human’s chin and lets him drink, brow furrowed in concentration and- if John isn’t imagining it- concern.
“There. That’s it,” he says, satisfaction removing the frown from his face as John’s shoulder’s slump and the coughing subsides to a wheezing current. The human relaxes against the small mountain of pillows he was propped up on before, closing his eyes to the room. Nothing will ever be as dark as it was before, and he is acutely aware of fabric on his skin, of the pounding of his own heart in his chest.
I can never go back to that, he realises. And just what was that ?
The dwarf sets down the glass on a dresser, still standing at the bedside. He’s looking at John with that same blur of emotions. His hands are linked, the knuckles burning white.
John clears his throat. What to begin with? Maybe he should just start out simply for once.
“Thank you,” he says, and is surprised by the grating quality of his voice. He puts a hand to his throat. The dwarf laughs roughly, sounding equally vocally muddy. John notices the purplish-grey rings around his eyes, the dishevelled state of his hair and beard.
“Not exactly the honeyed tone you’re used to having, right?” he says, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks so- so- so happy, it’s almost too much for John to look at. “Ah, sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe not the nicest words to wake up to, you’ve been through…a lot! I’m just nervous, I…” There’s that ardent relief again, mingled with fear. “I’m just so glad you woke up, John.”
John tries to say something, but for once he’s at a loss for words. He clears his throat, again, as if that will encourage his vocal chords to think of something better. He finds himself laughing inexplicably, a mere chuckle in the heavy silence of the room.
“I...If you don’t mind, I have a question.”
The dwarf quirks an eyebrow, his smile quickly becoming bemused. “Why of course,” he returns. “That is a staple of our interactions.”
John smiles as pleasantly as he can, threading his fingers together. “Three questions, actually. One: how do you know my name?” The dwarf’s face falls, but before he can say anything John presses on, “Two: Who are you?” And the fear in his eyes is renewed, fuelled, but John has to finish this: “Three: Are you supposed to be my friend?”
And the dwarf has no answers.