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They were nearing five hours of driving without a pause and Arthur was gripping the wheel tightly mostly to stop his hands from shaking with exhaustion. He wasn’t sure just how many miles they had put between them and Addison, the winding rural roads leading away from the town forcing them to slow down, making it hard to keep track of distance and time. All Arthur really knew was that he felt tired, exhaustion creeping into his bones and body and leaving him feeling as drained as when he had first returned from the Dreamlands. And back then he had been bleeding out.
Arthur, John said after the third time of Arthur failing to heed his warning to slow down in time to avoid a pothole in the bumpy road. Maybe we should stop for the night. It’s getting late and hard to see in the darkness. “We can’t,” he protested immediately, forcing himself to sit up straighter, not sure if he was trying to convince himself or John. “If somebody is following us…”
Then they will get us all the same if you drive this car into a tree. John must actually be worried, Arthur thought, surprised at how gentle he sounded. It reminded him suddenly of John reciting the poem to him, being there for him, while he was covered in Uncle’s blood and crying. And then patching him up when Arthur had almost died and he could still feel the stitches whenever he moved, John’s handiwork, keeping the both of them alive. Keeping Arthur alive. Something warm flushed through him and he felt part of the tension that had been inside of him since they had left Addison dissipate.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe we should stop for a while.” It wouldn’t do to repay what John did for him by getting them both killed in a car accident after all, he thought. Following John’s guidance, Arthur pulled the car over at the side of the road. There had been a few villages they had passed during their drive but part of Arthur felt wary about any settlement close to Addison. “We don’t know how far the influence of the Order of the Fallen Star stretches,” Arthur said, awkwardly struggling out of his coat to use as a make-shift blanket. “And it’s warm enough that I can sleep one night in the car … ah, thanks.” He could feel John holding down the sleeve of the coat with his hand, allowing Arthur to finally slip out of it.
“Besides, I have spent too many nights to count in cars back in Arkham. They make for good places to do surveillance from.” I assume you hadn’t almost died just a few hours before back then though, John replied. Let me check the wound. “It feels fine,” Arthur began, only to fall silent when he felt John’s hand on his shirt, pulling it up.
It truly felt like the hand of somebody else, Arthur thought, slightly stunned at how unfamiliar John’s skin felt against his, the warmth of it as it slowly felt its way over the stitches for some reason making goosebumps break out on his back. They seem to be in place, John then said, his hand stopping its inspection and just resting on Arthur’s stomach. None of them came out though there’s some dried blood. Lots of it actually. You will need a bath.
A laugh escaped Arthur at that, more shaky than he was willing to admit to himself. “Better some blood than my intestines,” he half heartedly joked, trying to distract himself from the feeling of John’s hand on his skin. Who still hadn’t moved it. You were bleeding so much, he mumbled instead. Blood fucking everywhere. “You have seen me bleed before.” Yes. But never that much. For a moment Arthur could feel John’s hand flinch, almost pressing down where mere hours ago the hole had been. Arthur bleeding out, dying right there in the mine, if not for John, if not for his hand…
For a weird moment Arthur was tempted to put his own hand on John’s. But then John abruptly moved his hand away. Get some sleep. I will wake you when the sun comes up. There was a vague emptiness, the semblance of warmth where John’s hand had been just moments ago and Arthur tried to shake off the phantom memory of it. “Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the seat of the car, awkwardly curled up to fit as he pulled the coat over himself. “Night, John.” He felt himself slipping away almost immediately, too exhausted suddenly to even notice if John had replied. He dreamed though he wasn’t sure of what exactly.
Arthur. Maybe hands or a hand, wandering over his body. Arthur. And John softly saying his name. Arthur! He awoke with a start. Arthur, wake the fuck up, John hissed, any gentleness gone from his voice. There’s somebody outside the car. He felt himself tense up. “Human or something else?” he whispered, mind racing as he tried to remember if there was anything in the car that could be used as a weapon.
It’s fucking dark outside, Arthur, I can’t tell. There was a noise and then it sounded like somebody tapped against the window and then tried to open the door. “Could it have been an animal?” Animals normally don’t open car doors, do they? “No, not really,” Arthur mumbled, more than glad suddenly that they had locked the car from the inside when they had stopped.
He was about to ask John if he remembered if there had been any tools in the car they could use as a weapon when suddenly there was a loud noise. Somebody knocking against the window. “Anybody in there?” a gruff voice then asked. Don’t answer, Arthur, John hissed. But well, Arthur thought, there was no way whoever was outside hadn’t seen them already, was there. “Yes, hello. I was … I was sleeping.” Arthur, why the hell did you reply?! Ignoring John’s outrage, Arthur awkwardly sat up, orientating himself to where the noise had come from.
“Bit of an odd place to sleep, isn’t it, mister?” the voice said, deep enough to likely belong to a man. “Yes, I have underestimated how long the trip would take. And then got too tired so I decided to stop and sleep,” Arthur replied. Maybe, he thought, this was merely a concerned man who had seen a car on the side of the road and come to investigate.
“I am not on your ground, am I?” he added quickly. A brief pause. “No, you aren’t," the man then said. "Was just worried, that’s all. Don’t see a lot of folks out here, specially not that late. You sure you’re okay?” He seems to be just a man, John said. It’s too dark to make out his features and the moon is hidden behind clouds but I-. “My cabin's not far off, you should come and stay the night there,” the man cut off John’s description. “It's not much but better than your car, I reckon.” Arthur, don’t get out of the car. “Thank you, but I’m fine, I was about to drive off again anyway.”
Another long pause. And then John suddenly gasped. Fuck, Arthur, he said, the exact same moment Arthur heard the sound of glass breaking. “I wasn’t asking,” the man growled, voice closer now, and Arthur let out a pained gasp as he felt something cut into his arm, leaving painful scratches. He broke the car window, John yelled. And now he’s trying to open the door. Arthur, get the hell out of the car!
There was blood running down Arthur’s arm, likely from the glass of the car window cutting him up and Arthur’s hand was wet as he fought with the car lock, fingers slipping away. “You aren’t getting away,” the man said behind him. “None of them ever gets away from me.” Arthur, he has a knife, get the hell out- John’s words were cut off by a loud scream on his part and then Arthur felt more wetness, dripping down his left arm now. He tried to pull it away, feeling resistance and John screaming louder.
He stabbed us, John hissed and there was pain in his voice. Right through my fucking hand. Anger shot through Arthur at that, boiling hot and without thinking, he twisted around and blindly kicked out. There was a loud yelp of pain as Arthur felt his boot connect with something soft. You got him, Arthur, he fell down! John yelled. But it won’t stop him for long. “The knife,” Arthur said, not caring if the man would be able to hear them. “Does he still have the knife?!” It’s stuck in my hand, Arthur, what are you…
There was no time to apologize as Arthur reached out for the knife and pulled it out of John’s hand, even as John letting out another scream of pain made something cold grip his heart. We need to get out of the car first, John then hissed, voice shaking with clear effort to speak clearly. You need to open the car door, Arthur. He didn’t even think about fumbling again with the door behind him. Instead he reached out towards the door the man had been trying to get in, somehow managing to find the lock on his first try. He was about to push it open when there was suddenly a noise like the snarl of a wounded animal and he felt a sharp pain as something hit him hard on the back of his head.
It’s the fucking man, Arthur, he’s back up again, John yelled and the ringing in his ears was muffling his voice, making the maelstrom of dizzy confusion and painful aching inside Arthur’s head even worse. There was pain spreading through his entire body, not just from his head but lower too, from his stomach and his shirt suddenly felt wet and cold as it clung tightly to his body. God, he just wanted to rest, Arthur thought dimly. To not feel cold. His body was slumping down, ready to just give in, give itself up to the cold spreading through him, his right hand slowly losing its grip on whatever it was he was holding.
Arthur, John then yelled though and there was so much pain in his voice. And the cold could maybe take him but it couldn’t take John, Arthur thought. Not when Arthur needed the warmth of his hand so desperately. The knife, Arthur, use it! Without thinking he raised the knife, wet with their blood, and he stabbed out.
There was a scream of pain, cut off all of a sudden when Arthur let the knife come down again, replaced with a gurgling noise and more wet on his hand. You got his throat, Arthur, keep going, John growled and Arthur kept stabbing, feeling wetness, blood, it was the man’s blood, splattering on his face with every wild trust of the knife.
Good, John said when Arthur finally stopped, when the gurgling wet sound in front of them had finally died down fully, when Arthur couldn’t tell if what he felt was their blood or that of the man. You did good, Arthur. He’s dead. His hand was shaking when he let the knife fall out of it.
“Fuck,” he mumbled. “What the ... what the hell was that, John?” I don’t know, John said. He doesn’t … he wasn’t wearing anything that looked like cult robes. Just a hunting jacket. I … I thought the dark spots on it were animal blood but now I am not sure anymore. “No,” Arthur mumbled, suddenly remembering the words of the man. None of them ever gets away from he, he had said. “I don’t think we were the first ones he tried to hurt.” We will be the last ones though, John said and then let out a hiss of pain.
“Oh, your hand, how bad is it John?” Arthur asked. It’s okay, John said, only to immediately let out another pained yell when Arthur gently touched his hand. Arthur flinched away, his fingers having felt the ridged edges of a deep wound. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “We will need to patch that up.” You first, John said. Your shirt is soaked with blood. I think the stitches came out.
At that Arthur was suddenly aware of the burning pain coming from his stomach, made worse with every careless movement. “Your hand first,” he said though, trying to push the pain away. Arthur, John began and they were not going to argue about this. “No, you first and then me,” Arthur said, already tearing off part of his left sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage.
Arthur, don’t be stupid, if you bleed out… John went on. “I need you to help with the stitches which you bloody well can’t with a hurt hand, now can you,” Arthur said. “John please, just let me … just let me do this for you,” he then added more quietly, too exhausted and in too much pain to keep arguing just now.
A pause. But after that we will take care of you, John then said. Moving his hand around as he did so and Arthur had managed to tear off enough cloth to use as a bandage. There was another hiss of pain when Arthur wrapped it around John’s hand, tight enough to hopefully stop the bleeding. He could feel the wound as he bandaged up John’s hand, a nasty thing, deep enough to have gone through completely.
"How bad does it hurt?” he asked quietly. Bad, John replied, almost surprising Arthur with his honesty. Not as bad as when I lost my finger but still really fucking bad. “Welcome to being human,” Arthur mumbled as he finished up the bandage. “It comes with a lot of pain.” I wish it didn’t, John replied. Least I wish you … you could stop hurting. A small smile spread on Arthur’s lip at that and underneath his hand, he could feel the wet make-shift bandage, soaking up the blood but not as much as Arthur feared, the tight pressure of it seemingly having stopped the worst of it. Still wet and cold and unpleasant underneath his touch. But the rest of John’s hand, it was warm. So warm.
The stitches, John then said, pulling Arthur out of his thoughts. “Oh, yes,” he said, feeling slightly foolish at briefly having forgotten the burning pain still running through his body. They lifted up Arthur’s shirt together, Arthur trying to ignore the way his heart twisted at John letting out another hiss of pain as they did so. Three stitches torn, John then said. Could be worse. It started bleeding again but it stopped now. There was relief in John’s voice as he said so, obvious even to Arthur. Get some thread from your shirt and help me with the hook, John instructed him. They somehow managed to thread their make-shift needle and then Arthur tried not to flinch away as he felt the needle dig into his skin.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Glad I wasn’t awake for that last time.” It was so much worse than this, John said. Keep still Arthur, I am almost done. The needle was digging deep into him, not only painful but also an uncomfortable feeling of pulling deep at his skin, forcing it closer together. There, John finally said. You really need a bath now. Arthur couldn’t hold back the sudden laugh at that, allowing himself to sink into the car seat. There was still pain running through him, the new stitches on his stomach, the cuts from the glass and he was very careful about not accidentally touching John’s bandaged hand. Old wounds and new ones, more scars to add to their already huge collection. But, he thought, they were still there. Both of them. As always.
Impulsively he lifted his hand, gently touching John’s fingertips. He could feel him twitch in surprise but not move his hand away. “Thanks John,” he said. “For all of this.” You too, Arthur, John replied softly.
And then moved his hand, enough so their fingers were overlapping, a conscious acknowledgment of touch that required nothing more of them but to just keep their hands still and feel each other. No new or old pain, Arthur thought and John’s fingers were warm against his. Just this. Just warmth. Just John.