We killed the beast (Matthias)

[Zephyr]

He keeps slipping in and out. One thinks when you pass out, it’s all blackness and nothing else. That isn’t exactly true…at least not for Silas. He is passed out, but bits and pieces of the conscious world come to him in his state. Nothing really sticks, he doesn’t feel any pain from the extraction or subsequent clean up. That much is a blessing at least. He just hears things. Voices over his head, Matthias’ voice, hopeful and lilting right above his head. The pressure of the hands on his back, stitching him together.

There’s something that sticks out to him, even if he doesn’t remember much of the snippets he’d been getting from the waking world, the distinct lack of Nate’s presence. The man was there when he’d passed out, digging the bullet out of his shoulder. But, he’d disappeared. Silas longs to reach out to him, to find him, but he can’t move, and Matthias is there. The steady presence at his back. So, if this isn’t a dream, and Matthias is still here, it means Nate hasn’t killed him. Which is good really. For some reason, probably the fact that he isn’t exactly all there at the moment, he’s able to take comfort in Matthias’ presence, the kid’s fingers stitching him back together. Though he whines for Nate, the sound is probably attributed to a sound of pain from his sleep.

When he finally comes to, it’s to the sound of Nate’s voice. Comforting and insistent, and right over him. Silas doesn’t remember missing Nate, but he reaches out for him, gripping the other man’s arm weakly with his own pale fingers, curling digits around the man’s arm that begin to shake from the effort. He moans; tries to bury his face in the blood soaked cushions for a moment. “M’sleepin’.” Silas growls, apparently unaware of the way he’s holding onto Nate’s arm, and the shaking and pallor of his skin.

But he moves his hand, sliding it down to Nate’s wrist and holding it there for a second. That, the gentle thrumming of the man’s pulse under thin flesh is enough to get through to him, and Silas blinks his eyes open, eyes meeting Nate’s for a second before slipping over to Matthias. “You guys look like shit,” Leaves his mouth, his voice a hoarse growl, because he realizes what he was saying. The words freeze and go sour in his mouth.

“Shit.” Silas breathes, letting go of Nate’s wrist as the events of the evening flood back to him. His hand is still shaking, but he can’t manage to take Nate’s again…because they looked like shit because of him. “God…fuck.” Silas hisses, half trying to sit up, but pain, dizziness and exhaustion make his limbs like lead, and he doesn’t get far at all. “Fuck…” Silas repeats himself, ever eloquently, squeezing his eyes shut…as if that would erase what had happened. “I’m fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have…” And he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He doesn’t regret saving Matthias, at all. But still. “I should have been here.” He says, unable to face Nate because of the pure worry and guilt gnawing away in his gut.

Finally, he turns to look at them, gaze flickering back and forth between them, fingers clenching restlessly in the clean blanket. “Are you guys okay?” Did I fuck up? hovers in the subtext of his question, and his gaze lingers on Nate for a second, worry and guilt and apology rampant in his gaze. He wants to offer to go home and leave them to pick up the pieces of their evening, but he isn’t sure he can sit up without puking, let alone walking home…so they’ll have to settle with some blatantly fake sleeping on his part.

[Matthias Walker]

He can tell the second Nate meets his eyes that two and two have finally made four, and Matthias is pretty sure the knowledge should frighten him more, or at least intensify the guilt souring in the pit of his stomach, but it just…doesn’t. The exhaustion of long hours in the library and trailing the skinwalkers, of luring them out and his own carelessness and dragging Silas back to the apartment and now this, the line of his sutures standing out sharp against the paleness of the man’s skin—it drains everything but the bone-deep tiredness out of him and it’s almost nice, not feeling the guilt or the blood drying under his nails or even anything but blank as he looks at Nate.

“Yes.” It was not a question, he knows, but saying it out loud solidifies it in his mind a little, gets him that much closer to accepting it: Yes, it was his gun solid in his palm and his finger that squeezed the trigger and his hand that braced against the familiar kickback of the shot. Lips quirk in a humorless smile, eyelashes dropping in acknowledgment of Nate’s statement; it may sound halfway between a threat and resignation but Matthias cannot remember the last time he felt smaller than he does now, sitting between coffee table and couch, looking up at Nate. His gaze does not drop when Nate’s does to Silas, focusing contemplatively on the expression on his face, the lines of his shoulders and spine, and he says quietly, “Of course.”

It is not you’re welcome because there was no thank you, and it is simple in the end: Of course he brought Silas back—because Silas had asked.

He lingers in silence as Nate’s attention turns to waking Silas, eyebrows furrowing faintly in sympathy at the painful process of regaining consciousness. Mouth crooks up into a sarcastic mimicry of his familiar grin, Matthias snorting softly at Silas’s words before he can stop himself, “Should see yourself.” Or not: The moment Silas speaks he is back to the third wheel, the stranger in the relationship that could span, for all he knows, years, and if there had been any question about it, Silas’s words make it clear enough.

And it isn’t even something he can deny: If Silas had been here, then this wouldn’t have happened. There would have been a hunt and he may have left bleeding but there are other doctors at the hospital, other people who would have taken him home out of pity or lust, and Silas would not have been shot. The question may be for both of them but frankly Matthias cannot see Silas worrying about his safety, and it is only passively and mechanically that he shrugs, the lopsided tug of his grin evasive because Silas doesn’t need to be worrying about the fact that he thinks Nate probably has every right to attack him on the spot, “Pretty sure you’re the one in his sickbed, puppy. Take it easy.”

His gaze is warier when he lifts his head up a little to look at Nate again, the question overtly casual, “Mind if I stay? I can take the floor.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

This affection, this tenderness, is not something Nathan is inclined to advertise; it is not a mode of operation he expresses easily, even in private, and with the invasion of Mattie into his own home and space it should be rendered impossible. But with Silas still coated in a thin sheen of sweat, so pallid beneath the thin cover of his blanket, Nathan cannot even begin to deny him the soft peace found in sweet nothings and gentle words; they slip from his mouth thoughtlessly, instinctive, representing some small and honest piece of the man under that cocksure façade. Where every wall is thrown up between the werewolf and the hunter, this new stranger in his territory, they are down before Silas – and he doesn’t have the energy to rectify that.

Silas is moving, grabbing for his hand once more and murmuring indecipherable complaints into the cushions of the couch, and Nate releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Words are good; moving is good; consciousness is good. The fact that Silas’ grumbling turns into legitimate sentences, less pain-stricken than the last time he’d tried, is a relief Nathan can hardly put into perspective. With the silver out of him, he at least won’t be getting worse, but it’s always a gamble not knowing how far he had slipped. How many more minutes he may have had; how much worse it could have been. Nate’s face slides into impassivity, save for the small quirk of a smile he manages at Silas’ stammered and guilty apologies.

As if any of this were his fault; as if Nate could blame him. He might feel some shred of irrational bitterness at the idea that Silas had nearly risked everything – his life – without a second thought, that he should have been here, but it is a wholly selfish sentiment, and the man stuffs it down to sleep with the wolf. Fault falls easier on Matthias’ shoulders, but with the cold truce that has settled between them Nate avoids chasing down the trail of blame. They are both purveyors of lies of omission; no one is innocent in this.

Nathan eases away when Silas releases him, giving him some space, but reaches forward to lay a gentle palm on the man’s chest when he makes to rise; his stare is a challenging thing, threatening to hold him in place with the weight of his gaze alone. ”Relax. Nobody’s going anywhere.” Mostly in reference to Silas, but Nate has no plans on moving from this general location until he’s entirely reassured. When the doctor gives in, falling back with exhaustion and sickness, the werewolf moves in to press the back of his hand to Silas’ forehead, checking on the progress of his silver-born fever and wiping the sweat from his brow. ”You’re gonna be alright, but you have to stay put.” Just in case the idiot had any more ideas involving climbing off the couch.

”Mistakes happen.” And that is, apparently, all Nathan has to say on the matter. Whether it is some absolution for Matthias or a vain comment on Silas having skipped out on an evening at Nate’s is deliberately unclear – but the heart of the matter lies only with Nate, a truth clutched inside and guarded. He cannot keep Silas safe. Silas cannot always live in the cage of his apartment; the world is dangerous, and the hidden cracks they have all slipped between is a thousand times worse. Huffing, the werewolf rolls his shoulders to ease the strain between them and picks his head up to glance away, running a hand through his unkempt mess of hair.

There will always be moments outside of his control. The most Nate can do is manage what stretches of time are allowed to him.

”No one’s dead, right?” It is a question that is more telling in its blunt honesty than anything, but Nate passes it off as casual, matches Matthias’ hollow smile beat for beat. He reaches forward to tousle Silas’ hair playfully before rising with a crack of stuff joints and a grunt, drawing assessing eyes down the wounded man’s covered form. The bites and scrapes he is worried about less with the silver out of Silas’ system; everything will heal in time, and with shock staved off, there is little to do but wait for recovery. Remembering the whiskey, Nate salvages it from the chaos of the coffee table and busies himself with pouring a glass, which he holds out to Silas cautiously. ”…not too much. Just take the edge off.” Backwater medicine at its finest, but he would rather have Silas lucid than knocked out from painkillers or his fill of bourbon.

Nathan stiffens at Matthias’ prompt, turning his head to fix the man with a gaze that questions his bold audacity. Mind if I stay? As though it were so simple; as though there weren’t suddenly this ocean between them. More unwanted, however, is the slow realization that he’ll have to fucking sleep at some point – that he has work in the morning, and a thousand things to do – and Nate thinks that maybe his petty issues of jealousy, blame and bitterness are a drop in the bucket compared to Silas’. He has shared his home – his bed – with Matthias before now. The intrusion of a little thing like werewolves shouldn’t be enough for the hunter to slit his throat in the middle of the night, right?

Nothing is worse than having to rely on someone else – least of all a man Nate no longer trusts, and feels implicitly betrayed by – but circumstance has left him with few options. The fight goes out of him in a subtle release of harbored tension, a slackening of muscles and a shrug of his shoulders, and he slumps to a nearby armchair with no further intent of arguing. ”Yeah. We’re fine. You’re fine.” Nate’s eyes flicker from Mattie to Silas, resigned and acquiescing, but it is a sacrifice he makes willingly. ”I could probably use the help.”

[Zephyr]

His gaze, when he catch’s Nate’s, is almost a challenge itself. He’s never been good at not doing anything, and though he isn’t sure if he’d be able to walk even if he tried, he doesn’t like being forced to stay in one place. It doesn’t take long for his gaze to soften as Silas acquiesces and returns to his prone state on the couch. He’s further distressed that all of his apologies seem to have been just simply dismissed as unimportant. He bites his tongue though, challenging either man is not going to make the situation better, even if pushing will make him feel better. Pushing is definitely a better plan just lying on the couch like this, but he grows quiet, gaze flickering between both men warily.

They both seemed to be holding out on him, and Silas’ metaphorical hackles immediately rise. He shouldn’t feel like this right after waking up. Sick and clammy and weak and painful and like the two most important people in his life are deliberately hiding things from him. Like he isn’t strong enough to handle the truth. After answering his question, Matthias is deliberately evasive and uncharacteristically quiet. Silas watches him for a moment before looking to Nate.

His reaction is almost worse, his comments are clipped and vague, and Silas just wants to tell them to calm the fuck down. Instead, he takes the offered glass with a shaking hand and a grunt of thanks. Silas has to lift his head off of the couch to drink and the world swims before his eyes. This is one of those things that he decides to face head on though, and he takes a steadying breath, supporting himself on one elbow while he gathers himself, eyes closed. After the worst of the dizziness passes, he downs half of the whiskey, physically having to stop himself from drinking the rest with an audible growl.

Without a word, he hands the glass back to Nate and lays back down, gaze deliberately shifting away from the two men. He’s biting his lip hard by the time Nate and Matthias are working out sleeping arrangements, but he glances back over just in time to see Nate falling into the chair. He isn’t aware of the stiffening of the man’s body when he spoke to Matthias, has no idea that Nate has realized that it is Matthias who has shot him. But his eyes rove over the familiar form of his best friend for a second, fists tightening into white knuckled balls in the blanket laid over him.

Silas’ entire body is tense in his quiet fury. He sees his anger as completely justified. They’re keeping him confined to a bloody sofa (and yes, he feels bad about ruining the sofa in the first place. The first thing that gets replaced when he can get off of this damn thing is the sofa itself), while both Nate and Matthias look fucking exhausted. He isn’t a goddamn invalid. He can sleep by himself without fear of dying.

“Go to bed.” He says finally, his voice tight, the entire length of his body stiff as he tries to control the irritation he feels. It isn’t their fault, he knows. They saved his damn life and are only worried. Still. He can’t shake the feeling like they’re keeping things from him because they think he’s so damn fragile. Eyes fall on Nate and hold the werewolf’s blue gaze. “You have work. I’ll be fine. I promise.” He knows he can’t make a promise like that, but he holds Nate’s gaze, trying to impart the meaning of his words onto the other man.

Silas doesn’t mention that he has work in the morning too, and if he can’t get someone to let him out of bed, he’ll have to call in…then he realizes that his clothes are gone, and with them his phone. Fuck. He’d have to coax Nate’s phone out of him tomorrow. He knows the guy just has to go to bed. He wants to offer to go with him. If Nate’s so concerned about him, what would it hurt to curl up on the bed next to him? Nate doesn’t even have to fucking touch him if he’s so worried…Silas just wants to be near him and make sure he actually sleeps.

He then looks at Matthias, eyes hard. “You go to bed too. You look just as fucking exhausted as he does. I’ll be fine guys, Jesus. I’m not going to get off of this couch.” It’s a promise that’s going to be pretty easy to keep since he doesn’t think he can get up even if he wants to. He’s trying not to let his anger shot, but suspects he’s bad at it. Instead, he looks back at Nate, holding his gaze for a little longer before he looks away completely, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to let the quiet anger course through his body and leave him drained. It doesn’t though. And all he wants to do is get off this couch, for any reason.

The alcohol burns in his gut, and combined with the dizziness of shock and blood loss, he knows he really isn't thinking straight at the moment. So he doesn't fight it. There'll be plenty of time for that tomorrow.

[Matthias Walker]

Matthias cannot quite help the curl of his lip at Nate’s words, his gaze leaving Silas to focus on the other man, his expression flat. Correcting him would feel like breaking whatever unspoken tenuous truce they have forged in the moments before Silas’s waking, but he wants to—it was not a mistake and people did die; the skinwalkers who killed and were planning to kill again died today, and he is not sorry for taking them on or for taking the shot when he had it, and doesn’t the fact that they died make it worth it or at least matter? Or is there a truce among all the supernatural of Boston that renders justice and injustice moot regardless of the crime?

They are questions that will wait for another time: For now he watches Silas drain half the whiskey and settle onto the couch. At least he is lucid, now, and conscious, the familiar glower back at his command to wield—the thought is disproportionately amusing and Matthias does not bother to smother the genuine, if tired, smile that quirks up at the corners of his mouth when Silas glares at him. The expression is brief, settles into solemnity at Nate’s acquiesce: Matthias can only imagine how grudging the agreement is, how wary the other man must be of him, but he is too tired to find the appropriate words to make things remotely better—not with Nate, who has every right to hate him, so he just nods.

There is nowhere else to go, anyway, even if he didn’t want to make sure Silas healed properly; he is too tired to put on a good enough show for attention and his car—well, he can only imagine how the passenger’s seat looks now, with the blood congealing on the cheap fabric.

He can’t help the laugh at Silas’s glaring and his orders, like he is in any form to be demanding they rest, and curls in on himself to drop his cheek against his knees, slanting his gaze up at Silas and picking at a bloodstain on his jeans with his fingers. “Pretty sure this is my bed,” he says, and it isn’t funny at all, but he’s still grinning because of how much he’s fucked everything up. Special talent of his, that: Thank you Boston for bringing out the best in him. “Nice to know you still think I’m pretty enough for someone to lend a bed, though.”

Speaking of pretty, though—

“I’m gonna go—” he says, and pulls himself up onto his feet with the coffee table, “—wash off.” The blood on his skin has dried into grotesque smears over his bare stomach and chest and down his forearms, and his jeans aren’t much better: That it is all Silas’s blood because the skinwalkers didn’t even get to touch him settles heavy in his stomach, and in passing Matthias combs his fingers loosely through Silas’s hair to check for fever. The touch lingers a moment too long to be distant, brows knitting together in concentration as he looks over the suturing and the angry wound beneath, and then he turns and moves on to the kitchen sink.

The motions of water, paper towel, rinse and repeat are mechanical, and it does not occur to him to think of modesty when he peels his jeans off, too, and pads barefoot and down to his boxers back to the living room, sits down in the foot-space between couch and coffee table again. It feels remarkably natural to put himself there, to rest one forearm against the edge of the coffee table, looking from Nate to Silas in silence, watchful, contemplative: For all the secrets and the tentative truces this feels like it is Boston’s inevitability, where he was supposed to end up with blood on his hands from the second he stepped into the city.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

From the distant safety of his chair, Nate watches Silas rise and drink; his thoughts are detached, elsewhere, but his gaze is locked unblinkingly on the dark stain settling into the cushions of the couch. His chin rests on one fist, elbow on the armrest, and though there is an amount of lazy relaxation about his form, it reads more of exhaustion than comfort. Nothing about this is comfortable. The changes that overcome Silas he wakens and picks up on the tension in the room are both subtle and slight, but Nate can feel them, sense them, even before he turns to recognize the line of cold fury stiffening the surgeon’s jaw. Leaning forward to collect the discarded glass, he cannot help but recoil visibly as Silas shifts away, wetting his lips with a darting flick of his tongue.

Nathan stumbles, searching for the words that will explain this all away, that will fix everything – and for once in his life, the man comes up with nothing.

He breaks their held gaze long before Silas does, hit with an emotion strangely close to shame. Even a hair’s breadth from death, even with that silver still coursing through his blood and his shoulder only freshly bandaged, the damned man can still manage to worry about other people before himself. Nate huffs quietly, fiddling with the glass in his hands, feeling chastised despite not knowing what he’s done; a flare of proud and indignant anger flares in his gut, and he pointedly ignores it. Everyone is on edge and worn through. Tossing out heated comments made only out of weary bitterness will get them nowhere.

”I can make some coffee,” Nate offers lamely, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. ”Still early for me.” It’s not much of a lie, despite the long hours he’s already put in today and the sudden lack of adrenaline that is leaving him spent and useless. The smile that graces his lips is a small, thing; wan. ”I’ll sleep once you do.” It is a little motivation for Silas to relax and deal with being stuck on the couch for the night; it is also a nimble way of avoiding any true answer, knowing too well he’s likely to fall asleep in his clothes on this chair as soon as the doctor shuts his eyes. It is not a pleasant thought, but little about this evening has been. One final discomfort is the least of his worries.

”—Promise,” Nate adds, almost as an afterthought, a reprise of Silas’ own hollow vows.

Blue eyes with pinpricked pupils dart to Mattie daringly at his bandied comments, but Nate resists the impulse to snap at him. The animal is still hot beneath his skin and incensed at the stranger’s every word, his every moment; it is thanks to a firm grip on reality and responsibility that the man keeps the emotions caged, using his own weariness as a clever excuse. He has offered Matthias his house for the night; they are not on steady ground, but he won’t be seen revoking that ceasefire they’ve called. Arguments like that are better left for morning, when the moon isn’t riding so high – and the fact that the hunter makes an awkward exit doesn’t hurt, either. Nathan sags back to his chair with a visible release of tension, refusing to watch the man go.

There is a silent moment of thought before he can manage to compose himself, leaning forward almost cautiously. ”What were you thinking?” Nate muses, reaching out to tousle Silas’ hair, but there is no heat of anger in his tone; there is a sad sort of concern, a bitterness he can’t quite hide, but he does his best. ”Getting involved in that. You’re too goddamnned selfless sometimes.” The words are laced with resigned affection. Nathan has to swallow tightly before continuing, his throat thick, but when he manages it there is a lopsided smirk sprawled across his features. ”I hope he’s fucking worth it. I wouldn’t let anyone else get away with fucking you up so bad.” As he pulls his hand away, the backs of his fingers trail gently along the uninjured section of Silas’ shoulder, his expression thoughtful.

Whatever more Nate has to say – whatever questions he has for what the hell happened – will have to wait. Matthias returns, slightly cleaner for his efforts, and Nate hoists himself off his chair with a grunt and a pop of his knees. He does not meet the other man’s eyes, but his moment alone with Silas seems to have settled him; there is still a hard set to his chin, a revealing twitch in his fingers, but it is simply begrudging now. A muddied reflection of the true emotion.

”Lemme get you some blankets, then. Goddamn layabout.” He will complain and curse more before he is done, but in the end Nate will not settle until everyone is at least lying appropriately about their level of comfort; and only then does he sit, and lets the last of the fight drain out of him. Swearing and bitching, for Nathan, at least represent a strange improvement of mood. It is safer than cool and quiet anger and hot rage both.

Against his own wishes and heedless of promises made, the werewolf will find his eyes heavy at the first sign of silence; and with no further interruptions, he will drift off fitfully, mind fogged with images of crimson blood and bone.