Bleed bright red with scribbled riddles (prp)

[Zephyr]

The last thirty minutes had fallen in a tense silence. After Silas had gotten Matthias into his apartment – supporting most of the kid’s weight if not outright carrying him into the apartment – the doctor had forgone his own bed in favor of giving Matthias someplace soft to lay on. The new couch is an ominous presence in Silas’ living room…probably not for Matthias, but for Silas, the whole room is filled with demons. He also strips Matthias’ bloody jeans on with careful, precise movements, mechanical in his fluidity.

Demons that couldn’t be further from his mind as he rushes around his apartment gathering supplies. He pulls up a chair to the side of the bed, mutely offers Matthias a bottle of bourbon, then gets to work.

A half hour later, he’s extracted the bullet from Matthias’ thigh, cleaned the wound, stitched it up with careful, small stitches, and had wrapped it tightly up in a clean bandage. The entire time, Silas enters a trancelike state, almost. He resolutely keeps his eyes off of Matthias’ face, eyebrows furrowed in his precision. He doesn’t trust himself to look at the other man’s face; is afraid that he’ll lose it if he sees a look of pain or how pallid from blood loss and shock the other man’s surely become. It’s like most of his nightmares come to life; Matthias broken and beaten and bloodied, and he’s pretty sure if he stops to think about it, it’ll be telling how often Nathan is not in his nightmares anymore.

At last, with the bandage wrapped cleanly around the wound, Silas sits back, exhausted and covered in blood. He hadn’t bothered to wrap up his own hand, which was ripped up from the cat’s teeth and his own flailing with a pretty nasty looking burn on it. He heals faster than humans, but it still takes some time when he isn’t shifting. Adrenaline has all but neutralized the pain, and chased away the drunkenness – and he hadn’t been that drunk to begin with…even Silas doesn’t trust himself wasted with a gun – and left him wearily exhausted, but not willing to sleep. Not with Matthias in his bed.

He knows things between them are strained at the moment, and he knows it’s solely his fault; that he seems to ruin most anything he touches without even trying, but he’ll be fucking damned if he lets Matthias out of here until he’s able to put weight on his leg. Silas is pale himself, not from blood loss, but fear and shock and just plain tiredness. The emotional rollercoaster he’d been on today had taken its toll on him, and the surgeon runs his fingers through his hair…and without saying a word, or looking Matthias in the face, he gets up to go rummage through his linen closet.

He comes back with a wet cloth and a clean blanket and begins to clean off the rest of the blood from the other man’s leg, not like it’ll do much good with the blood soaking through Silas’ sheets, but it makes him feel slightly better and he stretches the clean blanket out over him before he falls back into his chair; exhausted, defeated.

Guilt settles heavily in his gut. Matthias had been in the alley because of him, because he’d been acting like a goddamn idiot. The kid had almost gotten himself beaten to a pulp and run over by a car that first night because Silas couldn’t seem to get over himself. He’s been a fucking walking disaster, and there’s nothing that Matthias could have done to Silas that he hasn’t paid back tenfold.

Matthias owes Silas nothing, and Silas owes the kid everything.

And the worst part is, he’s probably lost him forever.

He finally tilts his head to look at Matthias, hand moving towards the other man in an aborted movement before it occurs to him that he probably isn’t allowed to touch anymore. His hand twitches and he pulls it back. “I’m sorry.” And his words are painfully honest. He doesn’t even mean he’s sorry about almost touching him, wanting to brush Matthias’ hair out of his eyes and swipe his thumb reassuringly over the other man’s temple. He’s pretty sure he means he’s sorry for the last few weeks, for being such a douche; for taking everything Matthias has and giving nothing back; for pushing him away.

And that’s the most gutting part.

[Matthias Walker]

If Matthias has forgotten the pain of getting shot, the agony of getting the bullet removed is even more a surprise.

He suffers in stubborn silence, bites his lip bloody with the effort of keeping still and quiet until he yields enough to turn his face into a pillow and bites down there instead, knuckles white against the comforter. After the bullet is out, though, the tension eases enough from his spine and muscles for Mattie to focus on watching the steady familiarity of the cleaning and the stitches, swallowing away the slowly ebbing nausea and steadying the shudder of his breathing. The bottle of bourbon cradled in the loose ring of forefinger and thumb rests against his left hip, and by the end, blue eyes have slid half-shut, watchful and exhausted, head tilted sideways to keep the werewolf in view.

For a moment when Silas sits back, Matthias does not register it as the end, and surprise and then a frown furrows between his eyebrows when the man stands, abruptly, without a word, without even looking at him, and walks away. Mattie shoves himself up into a proper sitting position—bites back a choked sound at the pain that lances up his thigh at the motion—and tells himself sharply that the tears that come have nothing to do with being ignored. The way that Silas had treated him the alley, God knows where that had come from; it clearly is not going to happen here and why he ever thought differently from the first second Silas stopped looking him in the eye—

The swig of bourbon burns on the way down, the taste of the whiskey still familiar, and Matthias averts his gaze from Silas to the window when the man returns, catches a glimpse of his reflection—pale and shaky, his lower lip raw and eyes bright in the darkness—and scowls halfheartedly at it. There will be no walking tonight, and he suspects he’ll be lucky to be back on his feet by morning, so fine: Silas will have to deal with him for tonight and he can leave tomorrow when the doctor is at the hospital to evade the unnecessary awkward good-byes. Absent fingers, still stained with blood, rub at the spots on the sheets where the blood has dried into half-crusty, half-sticky pools, and for a moment Mattie considers regret.

But he isn’t sorry for the sacrifice. Silas is infinitely more valuable than he is, and that is, isn’t it, what hunting is about—living to kill and to die so better men don’t have to.

Blue eyes flash up to meet Silas’s at the man’s words, catch on the tail end of the aborted gesture, and Matthias hesitates. Then, with an easy smile that does nothing to change the wariness behind his hooded gaze, he offers the bottle of bourbon back to Silas, says casually, “Hey, no, you did good, Doc, got no complaints.” The edge to his voice is undeniably sarcasm, but it is made softer with exhaustion that settles deeper than the physical weariness. He supposes it is not entirely unreasonable that Silas feel responsible for the blood and the bullet, but the farce of friendship—the remembrance of the one-sided affection, of mortifying hours spent chasing after acknowledgment—is an unwelcome reminder of better nights spent there.

“Thanks,” he sighs, and however reluctant, means it: “Seriously. Sorry about your bed and your—” He indicates the torn, blood-soaked strips of fabric from Silas’s jacket with one hand, drops the apology unfinished because God, the bed and the suit jacket are the least of his crimes. “How’s your hand?”

[Zephyr]

The surgeon is struck once more with how fucking much he misses Matthias when the kid smiles at him, and it’s almost like he’s been struck in the gut. He just stares, uncomprehendingly for a moment before Matthias offers the bourbon back to him. True to form, Silas takes it without a word; stares down at the bottle of liquor while Matthias speaks and is gutted by the sarcasm in his words. For once, Silas doesn’t have the taste for alcohol. It still burns on the back of his tongue and down his throat, and the smell of it is making him sick. The doctor sets the bottle on his nightstand instead.

He isn’t sure what Matthias wants of him, and that’s an awful thought. There was a time when they wouldn’t even have to guess at it, and Silas wants that back.

But he figures that he’s going to have to be the one to fix things if they’re going to be. Matthias has tried time and time again, and Silas has taken him for granted at every turn. He just has no idea where to start, not with Matthias like this. Even when they first met, Matthias had been bright and funny and open and beyond belief…it hurt to see him so closed off, using words meant as praise as weapons.

The fact remains. Matthias knows Silas too well, knows what to say to hurt him and how much damage it’ll do. Turning down the alcohol might be a small step on a long road, but it’s something. His lips tremble on the edge of blurting out something he’ll regret when Matthias speaks and he looks up, green-brown eyes wary, flickering across Matthias’ face for a moment.

He can’t tell if the hunter is being completely genuine or not yet, but Silas smiles slightly. It’s a small smile, hesitant but real. It’s exhausting pretending to hate everyone all the time. Truthfully, he only hates almost everyone almost all the time. It’s just easier pretending that he hates everyone the same…it protects parts that he’d rather not have crushed…figuratively. The smile is almost a shy thing, but it’s wry and crooked and Silas shrugs lightly. For once, he doesn’t give a shit about his belongings. He has enough money to replace anything that’s soaked in blood…except Matthias.

It doesn’t matter if the goddamn brat wants him or not, he’s fucking irreplaceable.

“Not a big deal. Nothing that can’t be bought again.” He doesn’t say what he wants, the words that are trembling on his tongue for release, but at least the sarcasm’s gone, and that, for now, is more than enough. He blinks his surprise when Matthias asks about his hand…he’d forgotten about it in the chaos, and he looks at it now. It’s not bleeding, but the flesh is inflamed and painful, scabbing over from the burn. “S’fine.” He says, honestly surprised that he’d managed such tight sutures with his hand like that. “Looks worse than it is.” And it’s true. He’s already healing, probably won’t even have any scars by the time he shifts the last remnants of injury away.

Without hesitating a second time, Silas lifts his left palm to Matthias’ head, stroking the backs of his fingers over pale skin. “We’ll have to watch that for infection. Make sure you fucking come to me if you start to feel off. If you don’t, I’ll fucking know and I will hunt you down. I can’t believe you fucking stood in front of a bullet. You’re such a bitch.” Silas growls and snarls at Matthias, but there’s a soft edge to it. It’s so easy to fall into his old routine of halfheartedly bitching at Matthias, even without really thinking about it.

If his fingers linger too long on Matthias’ face, brush hesitantly along his cheek as he pulls away, it doesn’t last long, and Silas settles back in his chair. “You’ll be okay though. I can stitch circles around anyone else, even with a fucked up hand.” Silas can’t really pull of cocky, but he makes a try of it now with the grin he flashes in Matthias’ direction, even as there’s a bit of amusement in the curve of the doctor’s mouth. “How’s the pain?”

[Matthias Walker]

There’s something to be said for being too fucking tired to be angry.

But then, Mattie isn’t sure it was anger the last time he walked out of the apartment and stopped coming back, or when he stopped calling or bringing coffee to the hospital: It is, simply, exhaustion. Hell, insecurity, even. It has never been in Silas’s job description to make him feel wanted, and he knows, but in an endless sea of faces and one night stands, having someone give enough of a fuck to want him to stick around—and, well, how well had that worked out, well done, Mattie—had been extraordinary. Still, to a man with everything, it should not come as a surprise that he does not matter until everything else starts to fall apart first.

At least he amounts more than a suit and a bed. Matthias exhales carefully, watches Silas levelly for a moment, swallows against the old automatic swell of triumph at the werewolf’s smile. Once upon a time coaxing a smile out of him was an hour, a day, well spent; now he averts his gaze again to the easier distraction of squinting at the raw burn and torn skin of his hand. Looks worse than it is—maybe; most burns do, but Matthias is tempted to argue it, werewolf healing and comparative severity be damned.

The words die at the brush of fingers against his cheek and started blue eyes snap up again, and if Mattie does not lean into the touch, neither does he pull away. Instead he stays perfectly, utterly still, wavering in indecision. It takes effort to avoid Silas when it has become habit to drop by the hospital with an extra cup of coffee, to maintain a mutinous silence when the casual jokes without the underlying poison come so much easier.

In the end it is the insult that crooks a grin, half-reluctant, at the corners of his mouth, and he ducks his head against the laugh. There is nothing funny about anything, and the laugh that shakes his shoulders is accompanied by a sharp ache from his leg and the edge of exhausted hysteria. “It’s not like I, fuck, I don’t know, took a flying leap to intercept it with my leg.” Impulsively, he catches Silas’s hand in his as the werewolf starts to pull away, stutters over the appropriateness and the familiarity required to do anything but let go again, eventually squeezes reassuringly and drops their hands onto the comforter, carefully arranges their fingers into something vaguely platonic.

He never has been good at observing boundaries.

“I’m sure I’ve been worse,” he shrugs, evasive, “I’ll live.” The worst is over; the recovery from here on out is familiar enough. Blue eyes focus meditatively on Silas, and Mattie blows out his breath in a long, inaudible stream. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you or anything,” he says, awkward, uncertain, “If you were wondering. Or worried. Not a creeper. Much. Anyway, I guess—fuck, I don’t know—” He never expected to end up back in Silas’s apartment again, let alone his bed, and certainly not like this, and speaking of beds—

“—my phone,” he blurts, straightening, and wincing, half in automatic pain response and half because he knows that there are still things unsaid, but being stretched out and unable to walk on the bed is too vulnerable and wrong, and if running isn’t an option, avoidance certainly is. “Can you grab my phone—I’ve got a date I need to cancel. Ow. Sorry, I just—not trying to turn you into a personal slave, promise.” The joke is halfhearted at best, the tentative lopsided grin weak as he lets go of Silas’s hand, “In the pants pocket. Front right, I think? And…”

Clothing. Right. Mattie tugs loosely at the hoodie riding up over his stomach from all the squirming, stained with blood now, “I can get this washed and back to you, too. Slipped my mind.”

[Zephyr]

It’s something when Matthias doesn’t let him pull away. He isn’t sure exactly what. It’s the first time in a long ass time that the hunter’s touched him voluntarily when Silas has been sober. It isn’t much though, and Silas fights the urge to rub his thumb over the back of Matthias’ hand; settles instead for squeezing it gently, something uncertain trembling on the edge of his tongue. Instead of letting something vulnerable and potentially damning come out to possibly break whatever tentative thing they have going here, Silas snorts lightly, shifting his mood back into the easy territory of grumpily disgruntled. “Coulda fooled me. Still ended up with a bullet in your leg.”

Eyes flicker up to land on the hunter’s face again and Silas is silent. It’s a little amusing, and the smile that quirks over Silas’ face is a helpless thing. Genuinely amused at Matthias’ rambling. He doesn’t stop to think about all the things he missed about the other man, because if he does, he’s sure to be mortified. Does Matthias hate him? The touch of his hand says differently, even if Silas has never been the best at reading the intentions of others, especially in social situations, he knows Matthias doesn’t hate him. The grin he flashes at Matthias is pleased and relieved and the wolf chuckles a little. “It’s okay if you stalk me, just know I’ll be able to hear you and smell you, so I don’t know how effective the stalking would be.” It’s a ‘Silas’ joke. Not funny but he laughs anyway, exhaustion leading the way to giddiness.

It all disappears in an instance when Matthias mentions a date. He freezes abruptly, eyes softening, something vaguely hurt in his eyes before he shutters it. He has no right to feel hurt by the admission, even upset. Matthias had never been his. He had taken Matthias for granted before, so many times. The easy presence of the other man, his smiles, his touches…he hadn’t appreciated any of it…and they’d been freely given. He should have known that Matthias, like so many other things in his life would disappear. If he’s with someone now…things can never be the way they were before.

His eyes fall to their hands when Matthias pulls away, and it takes everything he has not to reach out and grab it again. Silas never thought that his heart could hurt any more than it did when Nate left him…but it does, and it isn’t something he’d been prepared to feel. He trembles, on the verge of reaching for the bottle of bourbon. Eyes flick to the bottle, and he hesitates for a moment before he smiles again at Matthias, this time the expression is decidedly forced. “Yeah, sure.” Before he gets up to go get the hunter’s phone. He hands it to him and stands at the side of the bed for a second.

Yeah. Things can hurt so much worse, he decides, when Matthias mentions the hoodie. It sounds like a finale; the closing of a door, and Silas decides, unknown interloper or not, he cannot lose Matthias. Even if things wouldn’t be like they were before, he wants the other man in his life. Wants those smiles and those eyes and if he has to stomach the thought of someone else touching him, he’ll do it…because Matthias is something special.

“No.” He starts, a bit too fast. “Want you to keep it.” It’s a start, because as long as Matthias has the hoodie, he won’t forget him. “I don’t…” He begins, unable to find the words. Emotions and feelings are something Silas has always struggled with, he doesn’t know how to say what he wants, or what he feels…but he knows that sometimes it’s necessary, like now. With a steely determination, Silas eyes Matthias. “I miss you. So fucking much. I don’t want to lose you. Please…” And he tries not to give Matthias time to respond, because he’s afraid the hunter will just dismiss it, and he isn’t sure he can’t handle a rejection that definite…even if it’s something thoughtless and rash on Matthias’ part. “…just think about it.” There’s longing and pleading and determination in his voice, but it falls away. “ I’m gonna go wash my hands, let you make your phone call or whatever.”

The last part is more uncertain, the flicker of his eyes shy as he looks over Matthias again before turning to disappear in the bathroom, closing the door and falling against it in an exhausted heap, his eyes falling shut.

The surgeon had no idea it was possible to feel worse.

[Matthias Walker]

The tired laughter and cautious smile pass all too quickly.

Of course, Matthias thinks dryly as he watches Silas step away from the bed at his request for the phone, of course maybe it is only natural. Deterioration turns the easy camaraderie into effort, of consciously censoring even the innocent. For a moment as Silas pokes through the cut-apart scraps of denim, Mattie is half-tempted to correct himself, but in the end he holds his silence. It would be a lie of omission anyway—there is not a literal date for the simple reason that Mattie has not for five years operated on the conventional wining and dining. Still, the promise of company has remained unmade only because it does not need to be made to be understood that Matthias inevitably shows up before the night is through on Cesan’s doorstep.

It isn’t a date, but if the way Silas’s gaze has become shuttered and the smile has become forced is any indication, any fumbling clarification Mattie could offer would only make it worse. (And hell, maybe holding his peace is the easy way out but Matthias is too fucking tired for anything but the easy way.) Blue eyes drop to the phone Silas hands him, and Mattie murmurs an automatic, “Thanks,” gingerly rubbing the flakes of dried blood from the screen—

—and is cut off by Silas speaking.

For a moment Matthias is still, phone cupped loosely in his palm, eyes bright and appraising as he looks at Silas, hesitating. He doesn’t make friends easy, either, and pride and a thousand empty excuses keep his distance from Silas, but if Silas is asking…Mattie drops his gaze before Silas does, because yeah, for all the drinking and the downward spiral, he still gives enough of a fuck to be here now with his blood soaking into the sheets, still remembers enough of before to miss his company. It isn’t the same as crawling back and settling for less if Silas misses him, and Mattie opens his mouth to say something—and snaps it shut again when Silas straightens, voice going flat again.

“Yeah, okay,” he says dumbly, watching the doctor step into the bathroom, and blinks back down at the phone in his hands, hesitates. A phone call would be nicer, yes, but Mattie is far from sure how steady he can keep his voice now, so instead he pulls up a text and, with a supreme effort, keeps it determinedly casual—if there has ever been a time in which By the way, I was shot managed an air of nonchalance over text message, Mattie thinks it is now. That it spares him getting fussed over (or not, although which of the two would be worse, he cannot decide) is a bonus; that it gives him the time while Silas is in the bathroom to sit and think is, in his opinion, decidedly not.

Mattie is restless at the best of times, and even exhausted he cannot keep the tension from his shoulders, taps his fingers against the edge of the mattress and then starts peeling back the bloodstained sheets. The mattress itself is likely ruined, but it looks marginally better, and by the time Silas steps out of the bathroom again, Mattie has managed to wiggle himself up and sideways enough to shove the pile of sheets over the worst of the stains on the mattress and has resolutely pulled himself into a sitting position again. He is paler and a little shaky for his efforts, but still manages to level a careful, resolute look at Silas.

“I missed you too,” he says, firmly, “And I wasn’t kidding, I am sorry.” Picking up the thread of a conversation from a good hour ago is thoughtless; Mattie rarely adheres to linear conversation. “And I don’t know what I’m doing, so.” The crooked smile is wry, self-deprecatory, and he makes a small, half-aborted gesture to the clean side of the bed before the arrogance of inviting Silas into his own bed dawns on him and he pulls a face, “So, you know, there’s that. Also I’m—probably going to fall asleep. But just—yeah. I’m sorry I ran.”

[Zephyr]

Of all the things Silas is expecting to return to, it is not what actually happens. He has just assumed that Matthias left because he didn’t give a shit about him anymore, or he was tired of taking care of him – and that is a thought that scares him to death; he is a grown ass man, he shouldn’t need someone taking care of him – for a moment, the surgeon only stares; blinks comprehendingly before his smile returns…one of those small smiles that is pleased and shy and giddy all at the same time.

“I always did say you were a clueless brat.” He jokes, infinitely relieved that he hadn’t come back to Matthias professing his hatred for Silas, or hurting himself trying to get away as quickly as possible. The man’s eyes widen slightly with concern and he approaches the bed, touches Matthias’ head once more before withdrawing. “You shouldn’t have tried to move yet, you idiot. Are you dizzy?” The amount of blood he’d lost was the most critical thing at the moment, but Silas knows he’s going to be fine as long as he doesn’t try jumping out of bed or anything.

The surgeon barely hesitates for a second before he toes off his shoes and slides into the bed next to Matthias. He reaches over to squeeze the man’s hand, everything else forgotten as he revels in what he’d been missing so much…and this? This is totally worth trying to get his shit together and live like a normal person. “You should sleep. It’ll be good for you.” Spoken as more than a doctor, and he knows it’s stupid, and impulsive, but Silas shifts to the side, wrapping his arms around Matthias’ neck, fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck before he leans his forehead against the guy’s shoulder.

He’s silent for a moment, taking comfort in the sold warmth of the other man, Silas’ fingers trembling, scrabbling for a tighter hold on Matthias’ shirt like he doesn’t want to let go ever again. He knows it’s inevitable, that this might not change much at all, but at least it’s motivation. Even if he’ll never have Matthias like he wants, just his presence is enough.

Silas laughs softly into Matthias’ neck, eyelashes crunching against the kid’s skin for a moment as amusement ripples through his entire body. “I’d probably run too.” He licks his lips, lets his tone grow serious and bitter all at the same time. There’s something sad in the purse of his lips and tone of his voice. “I’m a goddamn mess.” He’s heard that acknowledgement is the first step to solving any issue, and this entire time, all the drinking, it was him denying to himself that there was anything wrong. “I don’t…” And he searches for the words, nose wrinkling in confusion. “…want to be anymore. I hope…you don’t stay away anymore.” And this isn’t Silas asking Matthias to move back in. Sure, he’d fucking love it, but Matthias has a life now…a life that isn’t cohesive with sharing Silas’ bed.

He just wants a semblance of what they had before. Matthias bringing him coffee, hanging out in his office, the jokes and banter, the easy touches, comfortable silences, the kid stretched out on the floor reading to Silas. Hell, he’ll take whatever he can get. “You should sleep though. You lost a lot of blood.” The guilt weighs heavily in his gut. “I’m sorry I got you shot.” The grin he makes in the spaces between them is sardonic, but he grows sober enough quickly. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d died.”

Completely lost it? Most definitely.

[Matthias Walker]

In the end, of course, it is easier said than done.

Even for Mattie, to whom apologies are rare and genuine ones rarer still, offering the patchwork solution of words to tide them over is much simpler a task than the proof of it. And I’m sorry is hardly a promise, feels a little too much like a cover-up instead, but the way Silas lights up over it is something. Not that it’s anything but subtle—careful and still wary and if Matthias hadn’t been looking, he’s sure it would go overlooked entirely—but for Silas, smiles are rare as eclipses and Mattie twists his fingers awkwardly in the loose tangle of sheets, a disclaimer hovering in the back of his mind because apologies are so much fucking quicker to come than trust and security and what the fuck else friendship requires, but he just—

Lets it pass, instead, quirks a familiar dismissive smile at the doctor. “I’m not gonna die, but seriously? Sitting in my own blood was just unhygienic. Chill, it’s okay.” An absentminded shrug as he watches Silas kick off his shoes, and he hesitates a moment before he turns his hand up into Silas’s, natural, to dovetail their fingers together loosely. Whatever this is, the way Silas stretches out beside him and turns to pull him closer, there is nothing about it that reads as platonic and somehow it was different when it was Silas and Nate together but now, now, with Cesan, this is not…

He has never promised not to, has never even promised not to go looking for strangers to spend the night with, but it still feels like cheating, and the thought is ridiculous in and of itself.

Still, he squirms, uncertain, on the verge of pulling away, and then catches the tremble of Silas’s fingers and the death grip the man has on the hoodie, the brush of eyelashes against his pulse and the low exhale of laughter, and he goes still again. Summons the last remnants of his dignity, and wraps his arm around Silas, quietly closing his eyes against his own indiscretions. It can be platonic. It can, especially now with Silas holding on more like a scared child than a man, and with quiet resignation Mattie turns his head to press a grave kiss against Silas’s forehead, “Sure. I can—yeah, I can do that.”

Visiting, friendship, is just fine; this, after tonight, he isn’t sure is allowable, regardless of how familiar it is. He drops his head back against the pillow, gingerly eases himself down onto the bed properly, and pulls a face at Silas, “Quit with the massive amounts of guilt, dude, I’ve been way worse before. Anyway, I’m blaming the fucking cat, not you.” And the boy, but Mattie supposes seeing a human turn into a cat without so much as a by your leave is fairly shocking; pulling a gun is not, strictly speaking, an inappropriate reaction, even if it is an inconvenient one.

Blue eyes find Silas’s in the darkness of the room, and Matthias says, “It’s fine,” with the kind of determined, steadfast insistence that inevitably comes in the same territory as lying. It doesn’t take a doctor to know how close the bullet got to an artery, but the hunter’s sharp look brooks no argument, eases after a moment into a casual half-lidded sleepiness. “Fucking demon cats, Jesus Christ, puppy. You gotta pick your company better.”

[Cesan]

It’s getting late, and Cesan is still working. Alone in the laboratory, the setting is almost peaceful—with the distractions of classes clanking, machinery operating, fans running and the constant, quick scribbles of pen on paper, the Scotsman can relax. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose when he leans over the table, quickly scrawling notes between every glance into the microscope. He isn’t being paid overtime for this, and he has no desire to be. The time passes and Cesan nearly forgets that the world contains more than just his paperwork, but the persistent buzz of his cell phone in his pocket steals his attention. Gloved hands search for the source, and he almost has the mind to type an irritated response, until he sees the name of the sender.

Matthias. The lad asks him to pick him up at an address that Cesan has never been at before in the morning—shot?

His heart jumps, and his work is forgotten.

There’s rarely a moment in time where Cesan gets stressed, but adrenaline and more than a little bit of worry causes the hunter to move immediately out of his chair and out of the lab door. He doesn’t bother filing his paperwork, turning the lights off, or even removing the gloves on his hands. “Shot…” he grumbles to himself, hitting the elevator button to go down. He steps forward the moment that the door opens, fingers drumming and foot tapping, and as soon as he is able to, he is gone again. The night air of Boston is a biting chill, causing Cesan to shudder and shove his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.

He has nothing—not information, a name, a place, only an address, and something about a doctor.

But it’s not good enough, not for a man who worries easily and cares too much. When he starts driving away from the building, the address is already programmed into his phone, and directions are given. The passing minutes are tense, made of the kind of anxiety that pushes away the options of “soothing” things such as music or audiobooks. The silence comforts him just as much as it eats at him, and Cesan refuses to acknowledge the fact that he may worry too much, that he may care too much, that he may be too concerned. But Cesan has shot others, just as much as he has run scans of bullets removed from gunshot victims in the lab. A man shot in the foot dies from a large severed artery, a man shot in the wrist has his hand amputated due to severe ulnar and median nerve damage.

And he hates to think of what has happened to Mattie—or what could have happened if he were otherwise unlucky.

The voice of the GPS breaks the silence and his thoughts. You have reached your destination on the right. The time between opening the door, making his way to the building and finding the apartment number is fuzzy in his head—automatic, mechanical movements take him to his desired door, and Cesan does not bother with something as time wasting as knocking. A still-gloved hand reaches for and twists the handle to the door, and Cesan invites himself in with little hesitation.

And when Mattie and his apparent doctor are not in his immediate view, Cesan furrows his brow in concentration, pushing his glasses back up out of habit. “Matthias—” He strides through the apartment, stopping briefly when soft voices float from another room. He follows them without a thought, feet soon leading him to a doorway that Cesan moves briskly through. The smell of blood and iron is thick in the air, and the two forms on the bed are easy to tell apart. Whoever the second man is, Cesan has never met, but he immediately draws the conclusion that this is his home.

And that Mattie is a welcomed guest.

“Sorry t’ ruin th’party, lads.” he grumbles, running stressed fingers through his hair. The friendly cuddling is something that Cesan ignores for now, and his eyes settle on Mattie. Without saying another word, Cesan flips the lights on, tilting his head to the side when the room floods with light. “Matthias—wha’ the hell happened to ya?” Blood and bandage, sorrow and exhaustion. All of them feel thick in the air. “Ya really think ya can jus’ text me abou’ gettin’ fuckin’ shot?”

Wounds, worries and broken-into apartments… It’s another night in Boston, and Cesan is already left wishing that it would end already.

[Zephyr]

With Matthias’ assent and the press of lips that seals the deal comes the feeling of a weight being lifted off of his shoulders almost. The trembling bleeds out of his limbs and into the fabric of the hoodie, and at least for now, Silas is content. Drinking and his downward spiral are the furthest things from his mind with Matthias’ pulse near his lips, and the doctor wants nothing more than to close the distance between them, but he can feel the tenseness in Matthias’ limbs in a way only an animal can, and he knows he shouldn’t be pushing it. Because this, whatever the hell it is…is something. One step closer to a greater goal, and he knows he should quit while he’s ahead.

Because this is a hell of a lot more than he had this morning. “Good. The doctor hides his indecision with some halfhearted grumbling. “Because I’d have to hunt you down, and I know you wouldn’t want a crazy werewolf doctor at your door.” Or your lover’s door. Another thing Silas chooses to tuck away in the back of his mind as unimportant and something that doesn’t have to be contemplated at the moment.

He rolls his eyes, but manages a small, genuine smile at the kid, lifting a hand to card long fingers through the brat’s bird’s nest of a hairdo. He runs his thumb over the curve of Matthias’ cheek before he drops his hand entirely, letting out a rumbling laugh. “Wouldn’t be complaining if I were you, darlin’.” The words are soft, but genuinely amused. “Picked you, didn’t I?” And there were so many ways Matthias could take that, more ways than Silas himself is even aware of.

The doctor wonders if there’s a poem about someone who was lost and the person who brought them out of the dark. He’s sure there is and goes gravely contemplative against Matthias, ignoring the scents on the hoodie that don’t belong to either of them in favor of thinking about asking Matthias about the poem thing…that is, until the scents start getting stronger.

And a voice that makes Silas jump a good two feet in the bed rings out around them. The doctor starts, swinging up into a sitting position so fast, his head starts to spin, a truly animalistic snarl on his lips that would put any guard dog to shame. The surprise and shock at being caught in such a vulnerable moment bleed into confusion and the reddening of his face as a blush blooms over his skin. He’s successfully able to morph it into indignant anger with the angry growl on his lips as the fact that someone just broke into his apartment successfully penetrates his brain.

“Who the hell…”

The other man finishes speaking before Silas does and the doctor goes silent, emotion wiped from his face as he puts two and two together. This is the man Matthias is sleeping with? Jumping to conclusions is something Silas is pretty good at, especially when it comes to something or someone who’s able to take him apart so effectively.

He’s stuck between leaving the two of them to do…whatever it is they do, and defiantly staying put. In the end, pride wins out and Silas stays perched on the edge of the bed, the wolf fiercely protective of the man in the bed. It doesn’t matter what happens between these two outside. This is the wolf’s den, and it will not tolerate being treated like less. The wolf doesn’t get its way often, but in this, for Matthias, Silas lets it loose.

Still. He’s a proper southern gentleman (most of the time), and he isn’t going to lose it so easily in front of someone for circumstantial evidence. Instead, the doctor takes a deep breath. “Let’s try that again. Who are you?” The werewolf’s gaze is hard and wary, but at least there isn’t any overt hostility in his voice anymore, even if every line of his body is hard and tense; taught to spring if the guy makes a wrong move.

[Matthias Walker]

Well, put like that.

Matthias quirks a tired half-smile at the ceiling, closes his eyes; it calls to surface all the old insecurities, the sureness that he is not, and will not become, enough for Silas. If Silas ever picked him he did it with the expectation that Nate would be there, too, but the pet name from the alley earns a wordless hum as he settles back into the pillows, relearning the way Silas presses against him in the darkness. The pain in his leg has settled to a steady throbbing ache, and there is still blood gritty on his hands and drying sweat on his skin, and the easy quips don’t make everything better (banter was never why he stayed with Silas, and it isn’t why he left), but exhaustion has his eyes falling shut anyway, settling familiarly against the werewolf.

—and then a Cesan happens and Mattie jerks in shock, blinks his eyes open again and, instinctively pushing himself up into a sitting position, he is rewarded by a spasm of pain poorly masked in a low intake of breath. For a moment, he stares, owlish and still pale and squinting a little in the unexpected brightness, blue eyes flickering between Silas and Cesan. In his confusion there comes the distinct thought that there had decidedly not been a knock on the door and Silas definitely did not have an inviting Come Right In sign on the door, so had Cesan just—

“Well—I said ‘don’t worry’?” he says, blank and with exquisite eloquence, finally settling on the bewildering anomaly that is Cesan in the middle of Silas’s bedroom. They have always been decidedly separate in mind and in practice, and Mattie is half-surprised that the overlap is not more dramatic: The birth of a black hole or a temporal rift or something. He offers, still startled, “And hey, ‘I got shot’ is at least marginally better than ‘I’m dying,’ look on the bright side?” The wide-eyed bewilderment resolves itself at last into a grin that aims for reassuring, and falls more into the realm of utterly uncertain, and, perversely pleased that he matters enough to merit this kind of reaction, Mattie waves a half-dismissive hand at the bandage around his leg.

“It’s fine, it was just an accident. Meet Silas? He’s the doctor.” And a werewolf, and a past one night stand, but that goes unsaid; instead, Matthias shoots him an apologetic glance.

Whatever he had been anticipating to come of the text message, it had not been this. Silas is stressed enough without a stranger bursting in his apartment without so much as a by your leave.

“He’s…not a house burglar, don’t worry,” is what he says to Silas, settling his weight more carefully on the bed again to ease the intensifying ache, “Cesan’s,” trips over labels they have never discussed for a lack of necessity and decides creativity in making one up at this hour, now, is simply not an option, “uh, he’s the one I texted? If, you know, you hadn’t already figured that one out. Did you just,” blue eyes going back to Cesan with growing amusement, circling back on his own distracted, fleeting thoughts, and it is only partially an attempt to divert Cesan from the issue of what happened, “Do the whole CSI thing and kick down the door or something?”

[Cesan]

And let the hilarity ensue.

The moment that Silas turns around, whipping his head in a very dog-like snarl, Cesan’s only reaction is to lift an eyebrow as he observes. He’s nothing impressive—and Cesan has certainly seen some pups that looked scarier than him. With no more expression than a deepening frown, the Scotsman bites back the urge to tell him that if he’s going to act like a dog, Cesan would treat him like one. But he stays put, neither moving forward or backward, putting an invisible barrier between him and Matthias. It’s a barrier that Cesan does not necessarily appreciate, but he tolerates anyways when the man apparently decides it’s a better idea to calm down than to jump the gun.

“I am Cesan Ruthven.” His words are tired—as the adrenaline wears down, he feels exhaustion creeping forward. It’s been a long, long day.

Mattie captures his attention, and Cesan tests his luck by taking two small steps forward, shrugging and shaking his head in the younger hunter’s direction. “Ya really think tha’ I’m not gonna worry abou’ yeh if ya tell me ya got shot?” There’s an underlying disbelief there, that Cesan has to consider that Mattie thinks so low of him. “Ya damn near scared me half to death!” his fingers run through his hair again, shaky from the remnants of his fears. “Ya can’t do tha’ t’me, lad.” Because clearly, Mattie had thought that Cesan would shrug, heat up a TV dinner and watch some bullshit movies until the following morning.

Cesan has experienced too much of this near-death bullshit already, he doesn’t need any more.

A long, heavy sigh, and Cesan directs his attention to Silas as Mattie gestures. “Sorry ‘bout the interruption, Doc.” Totally not sorry. And just as quickly, Silas is once again the last thing that Cesan wants to pay attention to. Mattie’s humor manages to get a flickering grin out of the biologist. And he rounds around, approaching Mattie, with glances thrown back at Silas. “It’s this magical thing called openin’ a door.” His shoulders finally drop, and stress begins to ebb away. Mattie is not dead, nor is he dying. It’s the closest thing to comfort that Cesan can get from a reasonable distance from the bed. He may not genuinely like Silas yet, he may not give a good god damn about how Silas feels about a damn thing, but even Cesan knows when it’s smarter to approach with caution.

And he doubts that Mattie would let his cuddlebuddy strangle Cesan just yet—or at least, he hopes.

“No beatin’ around the bush, please. What the hell happened to you?” The worry, the concern, the fear, the stress, the long hours without sleep, it all shows on his tired expression. He starts wringing his hands, taking the gloves off in the process and stuffing them back into his lab coat. “Had a long day at the lab an’ I don’ want ya t’ tell me it was jus’ an accident.” Things like these are never accidents. And Cesan already has names, faces, ideas, suspicions, all of them shuffling through his head at hyper speed. It could have been anything, anyone, but it wasn’t an accident. ”An’ more importantly, who?”

Cesan may not have his gun on him now, but as a hunter, the need to track down and take down stirs in his chest.

[Zephyr]

Everything about this man ruffles the wolf, makes it aggressive and hostile. Brown-green eyes narrow, but at least he’s able to keep the growl in. What the fuck? He calls him lad? It kind of sounds like how some old guy would refer to a child. Silas wrinkles his nose, wondering how old this guy really is. Silas shifts back when Cesan takes his steps closer, scooting back against Matthias without really thinking about it.

The fact that this fucker is concerned about Matthias should please Silas. Matthias doesn’t have enough people who cares about him as it is…and Silas knows he shouldn’t feel this jealousy, rising ice cold and clawing its way through his gut…but he can’t help it. Matthias is the only person Silas has anymore, and he knows how fucking sad that is, but he isn’t willing to give that up, not when he’s just gotten it back again.

That Cesan just barged into his apartment is a non-issue at the moment – really, why would he have locked the door? He was really only interested in saving Matthias’ damn life – the fact that the man is practically ignoring him after a few jabbing comments is not okay…especially in his own fucking apartment. The wolf rises hot in his chest at the transgression, and though Silas has never been one to let it control him completely, he doesn’t hesitate now.

It doesn’t even matter that the bastard is bigger than him, Silas rises to the occasion, standing up and stepping resolutely between Cesan and Matthias, effectively blocking the injured man from view. The wolf demand’s attention; to not be ignored in its own den. This man has traipsed knowingly into it though, and for that he must respect the wolf. It doesn’t give him free reign to do whatever he wants because Matthias is still here, but even with that, he isn’t going to let Cesan just do whatever he wants.

“He needs his sleep.” At least Silas is able to keep the fury he’s feeling out of his voice. There is the inevitable challenge though, but if he can fucking play the doctor card, he damn well will. “I was there, I got him back here and I patched him up.” Except for maybe the part where Silas didn’t think he was going to get Matthias back in one piece, but that’s neither here nor there and not something Cesan needs to know. “Stressing him out about making him tell you what happened is not going to help his recovery. If you want to know so badly, you can wait until he’s gotten some damn rest.”

And it isn’t just the fact that these two are apparently together…that he’s the reason he and Matthias can never be more than just friends…this is a matter of some madman barging into his apartment and harassing his patient! The wolf scratches at his skin, and Silas twitches with the effort it takes to keep it back. As much as he wants to scare the guy away by turning into a monster wolf, it isn’t going to help matters.

Finally, most of the fight seeps out of Silas as he finishes his figurative pissing match and he deflates a little, glancing back to Matthias. The softness in his gaze doesn’t dissipate when he turns to look back at Cesan, but it is a little firmer. “He’ll be fine, I promise.” And there might be a pleading in his eyes for Cesan to understand, I care about him too, so goddamn much. It's impossible for either of them to read minds, but maybe he can see the rawness in Silas' gaze. "I won't let anything happen to him."

[Matthias Walker]

Is Silas—

He is.

It is half-endearing and half-bewildering, the way Silas presses back against him again like he’s trying to protect him, and even if Silas is looking at Cesan, not him, Mattie slants a sideways glance at the werewolf. What exactly Silas is trying to guard him from is beyond him, and—the proximity made awkward by Cesan’s presence because with the surprise of the other hunter’s arrival fading, the uncertainty of being—caught, he supposes, curled up with Silas is catching up—Matthias resists the half-formed urge to reassure him with an arm around his shoulders or anything. He has never been shy about touching but the overlap is throwing him all off-balance, and making things weirder when things are strained at best already is not in the cards.

Blue eyes find Cesan again and waver, and yeah, in retrospect the casual text was stupid, maybe, but Mattie is not exactly at his best here. “Sorry I stole you from your bacteria,” he offers, quieter, and even with the smile is quick and light the apologetic undertone is genuine, “And yeah, I try and make a point of not getting shot on a regular basis, it won’t happen again.” It is hardly a promise he’s in a good position to be making, but he has no idea what else to say: Having somebody worry about him is strange, let alone having two people, neither of which seem terribly fond of the other, and Matthias, predictably, lapses into the familiar humor to hide the vulnerability of bewilderment.

Not, of course, that it holds up long.

Mattie’s gaze shutters and drops guiltily at the questions, and he hesitates, trying to piece together some semblance of a satisfactory retelling that can conveniently leave out the part Silas played, tempted to refuse. Cesan looks fucking exhausted and he can explain later; it can wait until he’s back on his feet and he can hunt, too—

—what.

Silas pulling away has Matthias’s gaze coming around in sharp confusion and protest as the werewolf interjects himself directly between Mattie and Cesan and God, he is too fucking tired for this. Still, blue eyes stay glued to Silas’s back, and he hovers torn between confusion at what is even happening and relief—does not want to tell Cesan what happened because it was an accident, just some stupid kid panicking because of an equally stupid demon who did not understand that subtlety was required even at night. Even more he does not want to explain that standing still and doing nothing would have spared him the bullet.

Softly as Silas glances back at him, “Doctor’s orders?” The entire scene is strangely askew, and Mattie is fucking exhausted and trying to figure out the subtler underpinnings is beyond him. “It’s okay, it’s fine,” he says, reassuring, feels a little bit like a broken record, “Don’t know anyway,” addressing Cesan even if he can’t see him that well as he holds out a hand to Silas in silent appeal to come back and let the other man through, “It was an accident. Some kid freaked out ’cause of some—” he stutters over the words, hesitates; hunting in Boston is as carefully guarded a secret as is werewolf and Matthias suspects any mention of the supernatural, now, is as good as an opening to an entire new line of questions from both of them, “—stupid cat and couldn’t aim, that’s all. Fucking shittiest luck of the year, right? But that’s it. Didn’t see the kid, cat ran off, so.”

Lies of omission.

They may have secrets of their own, but Matthias is the only one deliberately leaving things out. Better this way, though; he can pick through the appropriate details, the ones that aren’t too personal, too tangled with the werewolf, to fill in the blanks of the supernatural bits for Cesan later, and Silas—well. He may not be infatuated with the Boston pack anymore, if he ever was, but it’s for the best that knowledge of hunters is kept between hunters. Quieter, though, “I’m not gonna report it or anything. It’s not worth chasing down.”

[Cesan]

SHORT LIVED THREAD CRASH FOR CESAN!!11! lmfao

---

Cesan has always been, all around, a logical and rational man. But the way that Silas chooses to put a physical wall, once more, between he and Mattie, causes a spark in his nerves to be seen in cool blue eyes. But either way, Cesan obliges, and takes a step back, away from Silas, and away from Mattie as well. “Ah see tha’,” his response is hard, and all sympathy that may have been there is gone now that Silas makes his next intervention. “But,” he begins coolly, “Ah’ don’ think I was askin’ ya, Doc.” The pleading look in Silas’ eyes is carefully ignored when Cesan’s eyes shift downward to pay attention to his hands instead as they reach for his glasses, pulling them away from his face and folding them for his pocket with much more care than necessary.

When he looks up again, it isn’t at Silas—but rather, through Silas. The man can attempt to create a barrier as much as he wants, but Cesan is much more determined than that. And in no way is he going to bow his head and tuck tail at a grumpy territorial dog.
There is a pause in Mattie’s words that Cesan understands better than he should, and Cesan just nods slowly for the next few moments. Mattie has no desire to “report” it, and neither does Cesan, but heavier gears turn in his head than just the idea of some official documentation—unnecessary discussions that would likely lead nowhere. He thinks of his gun sitting in the drawer of his nightstand at home, of the workboots that he has the overwhelming desire to trade in for the oxfords that he wears now. His fingers drum against his thigh in thought—Mattie may not think that it’s worth chasing down, but Cesan is just as territorial, just as obsessively protective as Silas makes himself appear to be.

And maybe it makes him crazy, maybe it makes him irrational.

There’s a moment of lingering silence when Cesan’s eyes drift to the wall, and when his mind is made up, he rolls his shoulders back in a shrug. “Ah guess there’s nothin’ that I can do then, aye?” A strained, and visibly forced smile curls his lips, and the Scotsman finally sighs. “Nice meetin’ ya, Doc.” Never again. He begins to turn, taking this opportunity to finally make his exit from the room and from the apartment, but not until he can stop. His head turns over his shoulder, sending a look back at Silas. “An’ thanks.”

He reaches the doorway now, stopping again with his thumb over the lightswitch. “I’ll be here t’morro mornin’ for yeh, Matthias.” And he flips the lightswitch off, perhaps his last dick move before taking much longer strides out—through the apartment, through the front door, and gone.

Whether he goes home and stays home is not yet decided. The Scotsman is exhausted beyond belief, and by the time he reaches his truck, he feels the drowsiness set in that makes him consider just staying here, in his car, in the parkinglot, for the night.

Of course, though—this is nothing that coffee can’t help.