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I was feeling rather hot and a little faint and quite nauseous, and wanted desperately to lay down and sleep, but… of course, there was work to do. I could feel my uterus collapsing in on itself and other fun parts nearby tearing themselves wide open. Blood, blood, blood. Thou shalt bear your children in pain. Blood, blood, blood. Where was that damn boy? Man. Boy?
I reluctantly raised my eyes from the wooden tabletop below me, giving the rowdy club a once over, searching for him. Him, of course I wanted him. He who couldn't touch me but would sometimes. Oh, how I knew it made him sick. Where was he? My boy. My man? My boy? Wh- oh, fuck.
Our eyes met, his dark, stern, contemplative. My own I'm sure were pale and shadowed and a little… clammy? Sickly? Why couldn't I just think? Why- how- who put so much noise in this damn room?
He descended from his palace (the upper quarters over the club) down his grand stair (wooden and beginning to break apart…) in his three metered gait Lord the pain the pain what on earth how do I breathe the pain and um, something… i was thinking about ow fuck something. What had it been? Blood blood blood. Bear your children in sickness and pain. Blood blood bl-
“You're not well,” he murmured, materializing in front of me with a straight, graceful posture and two hands resting lightly on his shiny cane. His eyes searched over me, taking in the clues on my skin and in my clothes and hair and shadows… the clues that would give him the intel on what to do next. I never did understand why, but for some reason,
“Come with me, dearest,” he whispered, nodding his head to his palace. Quarters. The King of the Barrel. My boy. Dearest.
What had I been thinking about? Pain pain ripping ow fuck fuck dying making a face what face, oh shit turn it off help please I don't- He saw me wincing, and frowned in concern. I could see his eyes flickering, brow furrowing as he wondered to himself how bad this one was. He'd nailed me for menstruation the moment he stepped out onto the landing. I'd seen that too, but lord pain fuck-
“Take this,” he murmured, pushing something vaguely familiar into my hand. I didn't even want to raise my hand. I looked at Kaz dimly for a moment before looking at what he had given me. A silver ornament beneath my palm, heavy and expertly crafted, heading the suave black staff he used as an extra leg. Kaz had given me his cane. I looked up at him.
“Use it,” he said, his voice insistent and cool. “Let's go before you collapse in the middle of this heap.” I could hear him pretending like he didn't care if I did collapse in the middle of… I closed my eyes briefly, nauseous and tired. The middle of this heap. I, um… there was something to be said. Leather met my chin, coaxing my face skyward. I opened my eyes. I thought they had been open? He was there. Ah, good, found him. Um…
“I said before you collapse, not collapse now, please,” he said in a whispered, gentle tease.
I smiled tiredly, cheeks pink with heat from the blood clawing its way out of me. What a holy event. He released me, stepping back, caneless, waiting for me to stand.
I didn't want to. I wanted him to carry me, I wanted him to hold me close and tell me he'd run a cool bath and bring me all the fruit and buttery bakery in the world, but, um… something deprecating, that's all.
I tensed my muscles first and leaned forwards, slowly urging my uncomfortably warm, lethargic sack of bones off the chair and up, fighting gravity. For a moment I wished I could black out and let this all be a dramatic scene and he would save me, and everything would be- I got upright, my hand throwing weight down into his cane. My wrist protested, not used to this method of standing. The legs moved a little easier though. My legs, I mean. My legs. Had I been saying something? Oh, yes, shame. Always shame. I stood, my hand firmly on his cane, legs weak, skin clammy and hot, stomach hollow and cramping. My eyes closed and I let them.
He let me have a moment before he commanded softly, “Walk upstairs with me.”
I opened my eyes, my head feeling imbalanced, and began to walk.
We made it, of course. With no cathartic fainting spells. No glamorous heroic action on his part, no dame-lit swooning shots of me. No. Of course not. I'm too strong for that. I've always been too strong for that.I’ve always been too strong for that.
The door swung shut behind us, and his hand snaked around my waist, settling under my ribs. He gently coaxed the cane from my hand and used it for himself as he pulled my aching, weak body into his. Nobody could see us; he would be my crutch now. Kaz held me upright and kept us moving, slowly working the way down to his quarters. My knees felt flimsy, like they were made of paper. I found myself drowsily resting my face on his shoulder, letting my eyes close as he walked me the rest of the way there.
“Do you want to sit, or lay?” he asked softly.
I hesitated for thinking, and then sighed, “Need to be upright.”
“Very well. I'll try to make the best arrangements I can.” He was quiet for a moment, opening his door, carrying me inside. Then he asked, “Is it an ice day or a hot towel day? You feel rather warm, so I'm guessing ice, but I figured I'd ask anyway.”
“Ice.”
He set me down on the edge of his bed, his brown eyes drinking in my raw appearance. I could see the gears whirring, the data sorter robot scrambling to assemble a logistic approach. His hands settled on my biceps, keeping me upright. I let my eyes close, head swimming.
“I'm going to wake you up in a little bit to eat. Is that okay?”
I nodded, sending a wave of seasickness through my body. Then he was gently sitting me against a mount of blankets piled against the headboard, moving my body for me with strong, gentle hands. The relief was instant. My uterus dulled to a pounding ache. I tried to find his hand in the darkness, but leather met my cheek instead, stroking. “Sleep. I'll find dinner.”
I woke to him.
I was given soup and there was ice all over me and it was nice.
I couldn't speak, too tired, too weak. Too weak to cry. The shredding had continued, despite my sleep. I reached out for him and was given what I wanted, his leathered hand in mine. I was tired. And sad. Very sad. But mostly tired. And deeply ashamed of myself for being so pitiful and for how badly I needed his hand in mine. Who… said that?
I found myself crying, not quite sure why, watching his stoic face as he gently added ice and brought more soup to my lips, and as he calmly brought water and as he sat on the edge of my bed (his bed) like a statue. He was my statue boy. I smiled at the thought of him as a statue.
I kicked him with my foot, vying for attention.
He looked up, a brow raised, his eyes openly searching mine, asking, “What do you want, darling?” But he was silent. Our gazes were enough.
I did some sort of face, I'm not sure, I didn't even know what I wanted. But then he was crawling up next to me, putting the ice back on the self-destructing lowest abdomen, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me close. “I'm here. Anything you need, it's yours.”
I tucked my face into his chest and closed my eyes, fatigued and a little ill, not saying anything. His hand met my hair lightly, playing with the strands as I slackened and lost further and further pieces of myself.
He stayed while I blacked out for the night, and was there in the morning, ready to help.