Work Text:
“I did it,” he says. “It's done.”
You barely moved when you heard him come in. You barely move now when he speaks, only twitching minutely to acknowledge his presence. His shadow fills the doorway, swaying slightly, and your heart aches to run to him. You ache to throw your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in the crook of his neck and hold on like holding on could somehow save you.
You can't, though. You can't even stand. Haven't been able to do that in a while. Ever since—
Your muddled thoughts are interrupted as he kneels beside you and brushes the sweat-damp hair back from your forehead.
“Shit,” he says. “You’re cold. Have you gotten up today? Have you eaten? Did you take your medication?”
All you can do is shake your head. Your spine revolts against this moment and sends a hot, white knife of pain into your flesh, but you barely react. Pain is your constant companion, has been for years, and you can't afford to waste your limited prescription on anything less than emergency, a word that means less and less and less with each passing day.
“You have to eat,” he says. He brushes a hand over your cheek. Light, light enough that it barely hurts. He loves you. That's why he did it. That's why he never touches you harder than a feather, even though he wants to, even though you want it. That's why he dropped out of school when you got sick, why he works three jobs so you don't have to die in the street. That's why he smells of smoke, gunpowder, why he left you alone for four days and didn't tell you where he'd gone.
You didn't think he would come back, and as he stands to pad over to the kitchen to fix you something to eat that won't make you vomit, you don't ask, “What did you do?”
You don't have to wonder about what he's done. He doesn't have to tell you, because you've seen the news. You've seen the footage. But even without that, you would know. When you first got sick—before you lost your job, when you could still run and dance and be held without screaming—you've seen his rage, his desperation. The hours he spent arguing with your insurance, with the hospital, with the bank, with your job, long after you had given up. The hours he spent holding you each time your care was denied, each time a procedure was cancelled or your prescription couldn't be filled or another bill arrived in the mail that neither of you could pay. You know the way he held you until you got so sick that he couldn't hold you anymore, and how he used to cry too, but only after he thought you had fallen asleep.
And you know that at some point he stopped crying. At some point, he just started being angry, desperation turned primal fury tinging his every movement, his every thought—even though he made sure you knew he was never, ever, ever angry at you. You know how four days ago, before he left for work, when he thought you were asleep—he kissed you, and promised you that whatever happens, whatever you see on the news, to know it wasn't your fault. That he knows this can't save you, knows that after denial after denial after denial that it is too late for you, now, that that time is lost and can never be won back. But this is for you. And that he loves you.
And then.
But anyway. You don't need a confession, or a trial, and besides. You've seen the footage. You could never mistake his beautiful eyes.