#and him. having the GALL to tell hero and partner they must’ve been ‘seeing things’ and downplaying the HELL they went through. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whumpiary · 3 years

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Dark Timeline. Continued from here and here, and just before this!

content warning: blood, loved one in hospital, fears of death, premature grief, borderline compulsive cleaning

Cassius leans over the sink of the hospital kitchenette, shoulders tight, back aching. It’s five in the morning and he’s standing on the third floor of a private hospital, trying to distract himself from every damn thought in his head.

Lev’s in surgery. Won’t be out for a good couple hours. Cassius tries desperately not to add the ‘if at all.’

He’s still holding Lev’s jacket.

He’s holding Lev’s jacket in his fist, the same way he has been since the paramedics took it off Lev’s unconscious body a couple hours before. Only put it down once, briefly, when he was changing into the clothes Lou had brought to the hospital for him. Picked it up again straight after. Hasn’t let it drop.

Like it’s some lifeline.

Like it’s Lev’s lifeline.

Stupid, really.

He feels… He’s not sure what he fucking feels. He’s glad the clothes Lou brought him to change into aren’t black. That’s what he feels.

His left thigh keeps twitching like it hasn’t figured out yet that he’s not still sitting useless in a waiting room, leg bouncing away. Maybe like it wants to run. He’s not sure. He doesn’t know.

The jacket needs a wash. That’s what he knows.

Lou had offered to take it from him earlier. Offered to take it for dry cleaning. He’d nearly bitten off her hand like a feral dog for having the gall.

But she’s right. The jacket does need a wash.

It’s stained. Badly. Deep red blood that now just looks like spilled ink soaking through one side. Lev had clearly pressed it to the wound as he’d driven himself – fucking driven himself – to the Estate. Not to a hospital or a goddamn doctor.

If Lev wakes up from surgery, Cassius is going to let him fucking have it for that. When. When he wakes from surgery.

Cassius turns on the tap. Cold water. You use cold water on blood.

Cold water and dish soap.

He puts the jacket in the sink and starts it soaking, hand aching and stiff as he struggles to uncurl it.

The whole night feels surreal. Distant. There was a difference, somehow, in knowing your partner – business partner – was mob and having them turn up and collapse on your doorstep. Lose consciousness and bleed out in your arms. Ruin your rug and your favourite robe. All at once have the mob brought home.

The difference between your waiter describing tonight’s special and eating it. Between watching someone drown and having your head shoved under the water.

Cassius pulls his hair back, ties it up. Doesn’t notice the chunk at the back that he misses that doesn’t go up with the rest. Tries not to feel the brush of Lev’s lips against the back of his neck, the kiss he earns more times than not, when Lev sees him throw his hair up at home. He doesn’t exactly know why. Just one of those little rituals. Stupid, really.

He’ll get that again, he tells himself. He’ll feel that again. In a few days from now, a few weeks from now, a few months from now when everything’s fine. When Lev gets out. When Lev is fine.

Cassius just needs to focus on the first step. What’s in front of him. What’s tangible. He just needs to get Lev’s jacket clean. Back to normal.

The water’s fucking freezing. Pricks his skin, numbs his fingers.

All this money. All this influence. All this fucking power. And none of it means shit when it matters.

He couldn’t keep Lev awake, couldn’t even call the ambulance.

But this? This he can do.

Under the jet of the water, under the fluorescent yellow, lemon-scented dish soap, the blood starts to loosen from the denim. He rubs the fabric against itself, the heavy stitching a good abrasion, the water turning from clear to pink as it swirls past and through. The longer he scrubs it, the lighter it gets. It isn’t perfect but it’s working. It’s enough.

Someone else had called the ambulance. Someone else had fetched the towels. Someone else is with Lev now, cutting a bullet out of him, stopping him bleeding out, keeping him alive.

And Cassius’d had to stand there, swaying, useless, powerless as they took Lev away from him.

Had to watch as people put their hands on him, touched him, skin on skin contact that Lev would have hated had he been awake. He’d kept wanting to scream at them to get off him, to get away, to leave him be, not to crowd, not to grab, not to touch or hold down but-

All he could do was let go of Lev’s hand so they could treat him. Hand him over. Hold a jacket instead.

Cassius keeps trying to remember the last thing that Lev had said to him. The last moment he saw him, alive and well and untouchable. The last proper words Lev had said to him. He doesn’t know why he’s hooked on it. Hardly like those would’ve been his actual last words.

Lev’s hand on the back of his neck, a kiss pressed to his hair, the lightest touch there and then gone with a “See you Friday for breakfast?”

And he’d barely responded, head buried in his phone. Must’ve said something stupid or funny because he remembers Lev laughing as he’d gone out the door. That’s the last thing he’d heard from a Lev who wasn’t bleeding out in his arms. His gorgeous, stupid laugh.

The last thing Lev would’ve heard was a command from Cassius’ lips.

Lᴇᴠ, sᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ.

The last thing he would’ve heard was a crushed promise.

You are never going to use it on me again. Understood?

Never. I swear.

A broken vow.

Do you?

One of the patches further down is speckled with red that’s refusing to lighten to pink. It’s a different kind of fabric, embroidered and silky to the touch and the blood won’t shift, no matter how much soap he rubs into it. It just suds up and floats on. It’s like that near the seam of the buttons as well. On the edges of the stain where the blood dried first. Harder to get out.

Maybe Lev will like that, he tries to reason. Tiny flecks of red sitting like tiny badges of honour of what he’s survived. If he survives.

If he doesn’t like it then they’ll just get it fixed. Dry cleaned, restitched, made new, whatever needs to happen. Lev Viklund-Reid needs his jacket. This jacket. It needs to be clean. Needs to be perfect.

Lev needs to survive.

Cassius scrubs. His hands are freezing. Joints stiff from holding too long, now aching from too cold. His chest is aching too. Squeezing.

Is that how Lev had felt? Sitting in a car, hand pressed to his torso to keep his blood inside as he drove. Hands freezing from the blood loss. Chest aching from a heart working overtime. Jacket getting more and more soaked.

Cassius breathes. Keeps breathing.

Somewhere in this goddamn hospital he hopes, begs, prays that Lev keeps breathing too.

He can’t change what he said. He can’t change what he did and didn’t do. He can’t rewrite the last few moments to make them more poignant, more profound, more meaningful. He can’t make himself Lev’s hero or change the last thing from betrayal to I love you. He can’t go back to Lev’s breakfast invitation and say fuck the meeting, let’s have lunch today instead.

He can clean the jacket.

He can have it ready for when his partner wakes up and wants to wear it again.

He can have it perfect. Make up for the loss.

Cassius scrubs.

The blood washes into the sink.

The water dilutes it.

Both swirl down the drain.

He’s sure the plumbing won’t complain about a few tears mixed in alongside.

#blood cw #death mention cw #grief cw #cassius bergen #lev viklund reid #dark timeline au

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