Chapter Text
Parker Yang gazes up at the hospital with trepidation.
He is not afraid of hospitals. That would be stupid. He’s been patched up in enough of them to have a healthy respect for them. Not to mention all the clients and victims who various doctors and nurses had to save after Parker and Arthur did the preliminary saving.
But he is afraid of what, or rather who he will find in this one.
He doesn’t think his heart has stopped pounding since he’d run into Arthur Lester on the street roundabouts three days ago.
Weeks and weeks of searching, and he finds him completely by accident.
He socked Arthur a good one in the nose, and another good one in the gut and his former best friend hit the ground like a sack of flour.
That was about as far as he’d gotten before this fucking brick wall of a man came out of fucking nowhere.
Next thing he’d known, they were at the fucking police station. In a cell. Because apparently starting a brawl in the middle of New York City in the middle of the afternoon wasn’t appreciated by the NYPD. Who knew?
Arthur had… Fuck, he’d looked real bad.
Bad enough that the stunningly hungover Arthur he’d taken to his first crime scene looked downright glowing with health in comparison.
In any case.
Before he, the big guy, Arthur, and some other fellow who seemed downright parental towards Arthur had been released, Jack gave him the address of his inn where apparently Les and John(?) were staying.
It had taken him three days to work up the courage to call in.
Maybe ready to talk.
Because.
Damn.
Fucking hell.
Parker doesn’t know what to think.
One moment there’s a knock on the office door.
Next thing, Arthur’s picking up some damn spooky book.
And before he can blink, Arthur’s hands are around his throat.
No, he didn’t miss the yellow eyes, but fuck if it hadn’t happened so fast.
Then there’d been that fucked up nightmare realm. Like a dark reflection of Arkham.
Funny that, he’d thought Arkham was dark enough.
Then.
Then he wakes up in a fucking morgue.
What’s a guy supposed to do?
Well, being a detective...
It seemed the best thing to do would be to investigate his own death.
…Which would have been a damn sight easier if he hadn’t died over a year before.
Really did beg the question why his body was left sitting around in a morgue gathering dust?
Had his body been there the whole time?
Or had his body gone with his mind on a jaunt to the aforementioned nightmare realm?
How the fuck is he supposed to know?
Walk up to the morgue front desk and say ‘hey have you seen me lying around here before?’
Throw a smile and a wink their way?
Best case: they toss him in a cell for breaking into a morgue.
Worst case, well Parker supposes, they could scream and faint and die of shock.
He tries not to think about it too much.
And it really hadn’t been long since then.
He’d gotten a labor job that paid enough to get him a room for a couple weeks as well as what could generously be called a few meals. Then another. Enough for some less dismal food and a change of clothes.
Then, he’d gone to the library.
Tracked down old newspapers.
Finding any mention he could of murdered detectives from Arkham.
Being Arkham, they werre plentiful.
But he found his name sure enough.
And then he’d tracked Lester.
From the car crash to a John Doe in Harper’s Hill where… he lost him just as quickly.
Nothing in the papers for months.
And he’d been about to give up for the night, get some rest before trudging to his actual dayjob that kept him marginally fed, when he’d found mention of a decoupled caboose. And. Damn there was absolutely no proof, but Parker was more than willing to bet that Arthur Lester had a hand in it.
Scratch that.
No he wasn’t.
But he’d had hope.
He lost the trail after that.
And he’d slunk back to his rented room.
Now. He would be a fool if he spent the whole of his free time on that.
So call him a fool.
But, he’d followed that stupid, reckless hope.
He moved out of Arkham.
Heading back to New York City. Where, somewhere (probably in Chinatown unless hell froze over), his mother thought he was dead. And maybe he really ought to call, but she’d already thought he was dead for about a year at this point, and he didn’t want to try to explain until he knew what had happened, himself.
He got himself the most shitty of apartments, and went back to what he’d been doing for years: he started taking cases again.
Didn’t get another partner. Kind of hard to trust one when the last one had maybe tried to kill him.
Except, he wasn’t sure that was true. Not anymore.
Because there was no question that that damn book was cult shit. And who knew what that could do to a person? Especially such a tender soul as English had been… maybe still was? Sure, he’d had an edge to him. Sure, he had an anger in him that Parker knew could hurt if he pushed him wrong. But that wasn’t the most of Arthur. That’s what the criminals they tracked down saw. Not what Parker got to see everyday for all those years. No. No. No. That goddamn book had to have done something to him.
And sure, anger had been his first response to seeing Arthur again, because goddamn, Arthur Lester didn’t have golden fucking eyes.
But, then he’d seen the big guy.
And his body recognized that presence, even if his brain didn’t.
He’d had the same goddamn eyes.
Cut like a fucking church statue. And fucking massive. Anyone who towers over Arthur would dwarf even Parker. Who isn’t that short himself and he’s gio width on his side to boot.
When he pried Parker off Arthur, preventing Parker from landing any more blows, Parker would swear that he died again caught in those fucking eyes with a grip that Parker fancies could shatter boulders.
Fuck .
Even thinking about it, Parker finds his hand at his throat. Still tender. And still fucking bruised. And Parker can feel it in his soul that those marks will never go away. Nither will the chill of death that he can’t seem to shake, no matter the season and no matter how many blankets he wraps himself in at night.
Cold as he is, a nervous sweat sticks the back of his shirt to his skin under his suit.
If Arthur hadn’t killed him, he is damn near certain that the big guy did.
Parker doesn’t know how . And he doesn’t know why John hand-to-god actually growled at anyone who tried to come too close to Arthur the rest of that night in the cell. Especially when Englished spiked a fever high enough that he was struggling and screaming most of the night.
Some long buried impulse had Parker gravitating to his side at the slightest sound of distress, but when his voice failed to soothe, instead making Arthur sob and shout even harder, even Jack had tugged him back. And Parker thinks his heart may have actually broken.
What the actual fuck had happened?
He’d spent the last three days pondering just that.
And when he’d plucked up the courage to face his former best friend and the Conan the fucking Barbrian at the Anchor bar… Jack told him that Arthur was in the fucking hospital.
Parker’s stomach dropped at that revelation.
Fuck .
Did he do that?
Push him around too much and break something inside him?
And while he’d been on his ass trying to get his head on straight, Art had been suffering.
And given the state of English, Parker could have done him a lot of damage.
Still. He forces the deepest breath it feels like he’s taken in days, and squares his shoulders.
And walks into the hospital.
It smells sharp and clean like cleaning supplies. It reminds him of his baby sister, still in Arkham. Not a baby anymore. All grown up and a doctor.
A thought he pushes back with a stab of guilt.
If he ever figures out what the fuck happened to him, she’ll be the first call he makes.
He pushes on a smile that only comes out right for all the years he’s been practicing it, and asks at the front desk for Arthur’s room.
He does a fairly decent job of not thinking about what he’s doing until he gets to Arthur’s room.
The room is large. A nice long row of beds, mostly empty. Arthur is in the third bed down. The curtains partly drawn.
And goddamn, English looks so fucking small against the white sheets. Tucked in snug, and hair carefully brushed back.
It’s longer than he ever remembers seeing Arthur wear it before. Even when he’d first met him.
The hospital gown is big on him, and Parker can see the sharp jut of his collar bone through his thin skin. There are the scars on his face that Parker saw three days ago, but never before. Those, he’d been mentally prepared for. But he can see the tops of scars on his chest.
Those have to be new. No way they shared an apartment for so many years and never fcking noticed that. It’s like he’d lived through a war in the last year. But as far as Parker knows, there hasn’t been another one.
Surely wars don’t start and end so soon. He couldn’t have missed an entire war than no one talked about, right?
Right?
The bruises he put on Arthur’s face makes the air in his lungs turn to fucking ice.
Then he sees John.
The big guy is hunched in a chair too small for him. And reading out from a book of poetry he swears that he’d bought for Arthur two- wait no, three Christmases ago now. If he counts the one he was dead.
It strikes him as so fundamentally invasive that he can’t speak through it. Not that he even knows if he wants the big guy to know he’s here, and Arthur looks pretty down for the count.
Probably drugged out of his mind to keep the fever and fever dreams subdued.
Parker can’t blame them, knowing how Arthur with that high of a fever gets.
And seeing Arthur, he’s fairly certain it’s the fever keeping him here. Pretty sure, but not enough to subdue the guilt roiling in his core.
His face is flushed, and his hair sweaty.
He must have made some noise, because John looks up at him.
And despite the exhaustion and fear lineing his face in a way that would make Parker melt with sympathy under any other circumstances, those yellow eyes feel like a fucking gut punch.
The air leaves him in a whoosh, and his hand rises to his throat, desperate to remove those phantom hands that he still feels in his nightmares. And he’s absolutetly dead fucking certain that somehow this fucking demon or some other suppernatural bullshittery is the one who killed him.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t fucking breathe.
Parker doesn’t remember fleeing the room.
He doesn’t remember John calling after him.
He doesn’t know how he finds the restroom.
He comes back to himself braced against the sink gasping for breath. Staring at his reflection and the deep bruises around his throat, trying to convince himself that there aren’t any hands around his neck now, no matter how hard it is for him to breathe.
He heaves a sob. He hadn’t even noticed his eyes burning.
He tries to swallow back a second, but he can’t quite manage it.
Not that he is against crying. But there is a time and a place for it. And the place is not a hospital bathroom where he’s trying not to fucking panic when someone could walk in at any moment.
He could shut himself in a stall, but his knees are already threatening to give out on him.
Just move. He tells himself sternly.
He can fall apart later.
In his own shitty apartment. Maybe even talk to Arthur another day. Because this is just a blip.
He will get to English and he will figure this out. He’s got to. Too many questions are riding on that conversation.
He hadn’t really expected to talk to English properly at a hospital. But the meeting to start mending bridges is the first step.
And he needs to know if Arthur is okay. If he will be okay.
If this is his fault.
But all such rational thoughts flee him as another sob shakes him to his core.
Then, of course, the door opens. He spins to face it. Raising his arms to fend off an attack in a way that would embarrass him thoroughly if he could think.
Which he can’t.
The sink digs into his hips, he’s bent backwards a little farther than would be comfortable. But that is the last thing on his mind.
He’s got no idea how long it’s been since he fled the room where Arthur is still lying limp and skinny on those painfully white sheets.
It could have been years, or it could have been seconds.
Time stopped making sense to him.
Even if it had been moving properly, he fancies every clock freezes when John bursts in after him.
The force of John’s entry slams the door into the wall, and for a moment Parker really thinks his heart is going to burst on him then and there.
Maybe they’ll cart him off to the morgue while he’s still struggling to breathe.
He runs cold enough.
He took his own temperature once. Out of curiosity.
He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be alive for that reason alone.
He shivers violently.
It rips through him. Distinct from the sob that catches in his throat.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t fucking breathe.
He can’t fucking breathe.
He tries to force a ragged inhale but it catches in his throat.
His hands at his throat, clawing the memory of constriction.
Struggling against hands that aren’t there.
John takes a step forward. “Parker?” With a single stride long enough that the door slams closed as he clears it entirely.
Bless , John actually sounds worried, not that that is even close to on Parker’s mind.
His back hits the wall. He doesn’t remember moving away from the sink.
His vision is swimming with tears and the lack of oxygen.
He urges another breath. But there’s air frozen in his lungs and he chokes.
It fucking hurts. His throat hurts. His neck hurts. He can’t FUCKING BREATHE.
John freezes. Maybe it finally got through his thick skull that Parker might just be afraid of him.
And Parker curses himself silently.
It would have to be silent.
Because there’s no air in him.
And he can’t take a fucking breath.
He shouldn’t be showing this fucking demon his fear. But he can’t exactly help that right now.
Slowly.
Ever so slowly.
John lowers himself into a crouch.
“Parker?” John tries again. And suddenly his voice is syrupy smooth and that just fucking…
Christ that voice.
He’s more afraid of that voice than he is of John’s golden gaze.
More than he was of seeing those same eyes in his best friend’s skull.
It’s too polished.
Makes the investigator in him squirm. And it makes the part of him who is very into men with nice voices squirm in a very different way.
Hands around his throat. Arthur’s long fingers around his throat with a force that surprises him more than the fact that it’s his friend strangling him.
Golden eyes holding him captive under furrowed brows.
Fury and delight splitting his face in a way that is utterly foreign on English’s face.
Parker can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
And his vision is starting to gray out.
He can’t let himself pass out now.
If he does, the next thing he’ll know will be that dark inversion of the world.
Where honest to god fucking monsters will chase him down the fucking streets.
Where there isn’t such a thing as light.
Where everything is dark and eternal and fucking terrifying.
Or he’ll wake up on another fucking slab.
He’s got to stay awake.
He’s got to.
Fuck , he ought to reach for his gun.
And he feels stupid for not thinking of it sooner.
But. The hands that are at his throat are his own.
And it’s his own stupid body that doesn’t remember how to breathe.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.” And now John is starting to look a little lost, as far as Parker can tell through his blurred vision. Bewildered. A lot lost, actually. “You’re…”
John starts forward again.
And a whine splits the air, that Parker belatedly realizes is coming from him.
He starts to chastise himself for being ridiculous. But.
But much as he wants to deny it.
He has been through some sort of weird, hellish nightmare. And it… isn’t surprising that it’s affecting him like this.
“I can’t breathe,” he wheezes out. As if that explains everything. Pathetic as it is, as if he’s asking for John’s help. Or maybe asking him to keep back. Or maybe just stupidly trying to explain. Asking his murderer to not let him be taken back to that strange dark place. To not be taken back to a morgue. Maybe this time he’ll wake up with the autopsy half completed. Will he die again, then? Can he bleed out during an autopsy?
Would he even wake up again?
What if he just passes out and is stuck in that dark place forever?
He doesn't think he could actually die there. And that’s even worse. Because when the monsters came for him, he couldn't escape even as they ripped him apart. He had to just wait for them to get bored. Let himself go limp and wait.
And why is crouching with his back to the bathroom wall in a fucking hospital so much fucking scarier?
John huffs angrily. “You’re fucking choking yourself, of course you can’t fucking breathe.”
John starts forward again, thoughtless of the terror seering through Parker.
Large hands on his own.
And OH GOD he is going to die. Again.
His eyes flutter, reaching a critical lack of oxygen.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t fucking pass out on me.”
And instead of crushing his windpipe, his hands are torn from his throat.
And while he still can’t pull in an actual breath, it is startlingly easier to breathe without obstruction.
He can draw in the oxygen.
But he’s hyperventilating now.
Maybe he had been this whole time.
In any case, he is now. Breath coming in shallow gasps instead of not at all, which Parker would admit is an improvement, however he is aware he could very easily pass out if he doesn’t get his breathing under control soon.
He pulls in a breath. Tries to keep it in for longer. Tries to pull it deeper than he wants to.
But he can’t and it bursts out of him in sharp pants.
Fuck.
“ Breathe, goddamn it ,” And heavy arms are on his shoulders.
He can’t slow his breathing with John right there . He shoves away, as hard as he can. Ass meeting tile ground as he slides from his former position on the wall.
“Don’t,” he forces out. “Do-don’t touch me.”
John backs away immediately, although Parker isn’t sure if he actually mustered the strength to remove John.
He manages a slightly deeper breath as John dodges his gaze now.
Good.
Good.
He couldn’t breathe with those eyes on him.
Couldn’t think.
He still can’t. His skin feels too tight. Numbness pricking at the backs of his hands. Tongue thick and heavy. And the fear tying knots in his guts.
“Stay back,” he says. Unsure if John would think about moving closer.
John doesn’t move.
He sits back on his heels. Like Parker is a cornered animal. One he’s trying not to startle again.
He feels like a cornered fucking animal just now.
It’s not a good feeling.
Parker isn’t sure how long they sit there.
The silence is only broken by his own ragged breathing. And his own heartbeat ringing in his ears.
Long enough that his ass goes numb. Long enough that his legs fall asleep, although the transition from the tingling numbness stemming from lack of oxygen to the painful numbness from not having moved in too long barely registers.
What he does notice is the fear slowly being replaced by exhaustion.
Still, John doesn’t move. Well, that’s not entirely true.
John fidgets.
Not quite the same way Arthur does. But not unlike it either. It’s a little uncanny. Although Parker isn’t in the right headspace to think on the implications of that.
There’s a stillness in John’s core that Arthur never quite managed.
He fidgets in a way that makes Parker think that his skin must not fit quite right.
It sets his teeth on edge and Parker finds himself flinching at the slightest twitch.
John does his all to stay still.
Perhaps having picked up on that.
It briefly occurs to Parker that Arthur might have been the one to teach John about reading body language. A thought which is also not comforting.
Still.
Parker doesn’t pass out.
And no matter how much it felt like he was dying in the moment. His heart rate starts to slow to what could almost be normal.
Almost.
The exhaustion sweeps through him in the absence of terror.
Or maybe the exhaustion starts to outweigh the terror.
That feels more likely.
He’s not less afraid of this hulking presence before him. He’s just… simply too tired to feel all that fear. Back to the wall still, he rises on shaky legs. Slowly.
John seems to start towards him when his legs almost fail him, buckling since the blood still hasn’t flowed back there yet and his brain can’t make sense of where they are. The whole of them feel like cinder blocks.
Cement overshoes , his brain supplies, unhelpfully.
John is stopped by the fearful vocalization that tears itself from his lips. He freezes again.
And Parker stumbles his way to the door of the restroom.
And flees.
Parker doesn’t remember getting to the Anchor.
He doesn’t remember the walk. He didn’t consciously think of where he was going.
But his feet found the Anchor nonetheless.
Jack takes one look at him and led him to the couch.
Parker is asleep before Jack can bring him tea.