The Emotional Aftermath

It was strange, John realised in an abstract sort of way. He knew things had gone wrong. He didn’t know where he was, or how he got there, or how much time had passed. He didn’t know if his friends were alright. Maybe Moira had been hurt, or Erica was bleeding, or Kitty was captured. All things he would usually bolt upright to go and find answers to.

Instead, he was just lying wherever he was, and staring upwards. He wasn’t even staring at the ceiling. If he were to be asked what colour it was, or whether it was stippled or smooth, he would have no idea. Not that he thought he could summon the effort to speak right now anyway. It didn’t seem to matter.

That was what he found so strange, as he detachedly watched himself. He knew it should matter, but it just… didn’t.

Some small part of him suggested that this might be shell-shock. That didn’t really matter either. So instead, he just lay there and thought. Watched. Reviewed his memory with clinical criticism.

There had been no need to argue with Erica beforehand. She had been right, after all. He should have stayed behind, and they would have been unable to target him.

If he had paid more attention, he could have avoided the ridiculous display with Kitty, and taken the arrow through his shoulder rather than his neck. Though, it did provide valuable information about his ability to survive basically anything.

He should have asked Erica for more information about the potential of mind control magic. It was such a common cliche that it should have been obvious to consider.

Next time-

Something cracked in his chest, and a tiny sob broke free without warning.

This, he felt. It mattered. He was frightened of it. The mere thought of there being a next time like that made him shudder inside, a tight ball of terror that curled in his stomach like stone and crushed the base of his spine.

He wanted to push it into that box, the place that all his fear goes, all the worry and concern about his life. The little box that he used to fill with late homework, and bullies, and his one spooky history teacher, and the idea of being caught fantasising about his art teacher. The little box that had spent the last week steadily overflowing, stuffed and bulging with magic, and human trafficking, and new worlds, and omnipotent deities, and paladins, assassins, Fateweavers, berserkers, mercenaries, and so damn much social interaction with all of them without fucking it up that his skull pounded with it all unless he pushed it away.

He wanted to shove it down deep into that box, but he couldn't. The box was broken, the wood split, the clasp shattered. It was useless, and the only thing keeping it all at bay was the distant numbness that let him see it from a distance and watch without caring because none of it really mattered, did it?

But then there were fingers carding his hair, gently raking at his scalp, slender and soft. Then, there was that subtle scent, faded somewhat, of sweet wild berries that he couldn’t erase from his mind if he tried. Then there was a weight on the bed near his head, and John just knew that she was there if he just turned to look.

And suddenly, he found that he cared enough to do so.

She was still beautiful. A little button nose, pale and adorable. A wide and gentle smile, the barest hint of teeth showing between pink rosebud lips. Cheeks, smooth and pale as porcelain, raised with the breadth of her smile. Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders, interspersed with the chunks of dark red that shone like dense ruby. Ivory eyes that saw him without truly seeing, and reflected his soul back to him without even a hint of scorn or judgement.

Her voice, featherlight with care as she spoke, “Hey, John… how are you feeling?”

The detachment shattered like cheap glass, and suddenly, he couldn’t ignore any of it anymore. Every bit of pain and misery and fear and anxiety. Every splinter of himself that he had crushed down into that box and pretended didn’t exist, pretended that he didn’t need.

He could taste salt. Feel the moisture on his lips, and the damp tracks on his cheeks. His vision blurred, and he barely noticed through the torrent of emotion that was crashing down on him. A little voice in the back of his mind helpfully told him that this was the result of repressing his emotions. He cried.

Then there was movement on the bed, and there were hands on him, pulling his head up and tucking it into her lap. Her thighs were soft and warm, and her murmured words were full of care and comfort. Slender fingers gently carded his hair again, and the other hand was wrapped around his head to hold the base of his skull. That comforting warmth sunk into his skin through the messy hair at the back of his head, and held him close as he cried.

The last time he’d gotten comfort when he cried, he had been fifteen, and his mom had caught him as he tried to reach his room to hide it. He couldn’t remember what had happened, only that Frank or Vanessa had done something awful again, and he didn’t want anyone to see him upset. But his mom had, somehow. From the kitchen, without even seeing him, she had somehow known to run and catch him before he got to his room. She had pulled him into a tight hug, full of motherly love and kindness, without asking a single question. It had been perfect.

This wasn’t perfect. Velvet’s fingers caught on unruly knots in his hair, left too long without a trim. Her thighs were uneven beneath him, and the hand on the back of his head was holding his neck at an uncomfortable position. Her soft words were too loud and too quiet to understand in that moment, becoming nothing more than noise.

He never wanted it to stop, either. It was the most wonderful imperfection, because she was there, and she was trying. Because it was Velvet, who had been there when it all went to shit in the first place, and had never left him since that day- had found ways to stay with him. John never wanted it to stop, and that was the real kicker. Just a week ago he would have hated being seen like this, even by Velvet. He wouldn’t be that John again, no matter how hard he tried.

No matter how much he faked confidence, or pushed himself forward, there had always been a part of him that thought he could run back to how it was- that he could get another hug from his mom, and it would all go back to normal. John was pretty sure that part of him was broken now. There was no way he could go back to how it had been. Just the thought of trying to slog through a day at Ashcroft, studying subjects he already knew, eating alone in a hidey-hole spot somewhere, scurrying to avoid Frank’s attention… He wouldn’t be able to. Not now that he knew he could change it.

The tears had stopped, and the sobs had slowed to a slow shuddering with each breath. He looked up at her. This girl who had dragged him into her life, who had gotten him kidnapped. Her eyes were closed, and her caring ministrations hadn’t stopped, despite the tear that rested on her cheek.

“...Why me, Velvet?”

John’s voice was hoarse, and it was almost painful to start speaking from how strongly the emotion caught in his throat.

Velvet’s hand kept carding through his hair, and she responded with barely a moment of thought, “Why you? Because you’re… good.” It was simply spoken, and soft as if wary of breaking the quiet air. She had none of her usual stammering in this moment, the words flowing slowly and gently from her lips with an unshakable confidence beneath the surface.

“I’ve seen a lot of Abyssals, you know. Mercenaries, usually. They’re always there for money, and if they can do a good thing on the way, they might. Then there’s ones like the slavers on the other side of that, who also want money, but don’t mind being nasty for it. Or the average Abyssal, like Asta or Kitty. They’re nice, but they’re still doing things for themselves mainly, and keeping their heads down. Like me.”

Her fingers slowly trailed down his hair and towards his exposed skin around his neck as she spoke. He barely noticed, enraptured by the almost husky low quality of her voice as she answered a question he never really meant to ask.

“Even Moira, my dad, her dad… I wouldn’t call them good. My dad does what he does for me, and… I think he does it to try and forgive himself for something. I never asked. Lord Brighton? He might be a paladin, but he’s not a good man. What he does, he does for his religion, or for his own power, or whatever. He’s a great man, but not a good one. Moira… She’s already a great hero, even if she doesn’t know it. But she’s not like you.”

Velvet’s fingers trailed up to his face, soft fingertips warm against his skin as she framed his face in her hands and smiled down at him.

“She wouldn’t foolishly try and rescue a blind girl from mana slavers. She would never accept a dangerous gift to save that girl. She certainly wouldn’t have taken an arrow for someone that’s basically a stranger.” Velvet giggled very softly as his face twisted in surprise under her hands. “I’ve heard about that, yes. She wouldn’t do those things, because she’s not you. She’s heroic because she knows she has the power to be able to be heroic. But you, John? You’re good because it’s your nature. If you see something happening, you do something about it, and it doesn’t matter if you’re weak or ****, or it’s dangerous, because you won’t stand by and watch.”

Suddenly, he couldn’t just lie there anymore. There was something charged in the air, an urge that he couldn’t ignore. Something in her tone, her eyes, her face- Her. Her fingertips fell away silently as he rose and twisted to face her, her milky white eyes catching his own without knowing the impact they truly had. Her face was creased slightly to accommodate the upturn of her pretty pink lips, and her smiling eyes.

It was strange. Even now, despite his almost instinctual knee-jerk reaction to deny it, there was an abstract part of him that studied what she said and compared it to what he’d done and how he’d acted. And… He couldn’t say she was right. Not after what had happened before he’d woken up here. He refused to accept that he was whatever image of ‘good’ she had.

“I…”

John trailed off as her hands reached for his face again, this time firm in their grip on his cheek and the back of his neck as her lips firmly pressed against his, a suddenly **** energy released in the kiss that he felt as clearly as the warmth of her body so close to his.

And he could feel it too, suddenly surging to the surface. The reminder that he was alive, that he almost died, that his life was changed forever, and…

When she eventually pulled away, just far enough for him to see her face, an unrestrained flood of affection filling her face, she said, “A-and that? That was because you almost died, and I never really told you, or got to show you- Well- you know-”

“I know,” John told her, ignoring the slight **** of emotion in his voice. “I know, and- God, you don’t even have to explain why if you keep kissing me, never have to. Please, Velvet.” He reached and wrapped his hands around the back of her head and neck, almost mirroring how she held him, and pressed his forehead to hers.

She was right about one thing.

Even now, when he couldn’t manage to think too hard about anything that had just happened, about how much it terrified him, how nothing would ever go back to what it used to be… even now, he didn’t need to think, because there was a part of him, a piece of his very nature, which simply ignored any logic or reasoning or common sense, and told him to simply do the next right thing he was able to do. It didn’t need thought, or consideration, or a balancing of morality and guilt or anything else.

It was almost instinctual, and had been this entire time. To simply take the step into the alleyway. To fight when it was hopeless. To jump in the way of an arrow. To sacrifice whatever part of himself he needed to, in order to do the right thing.

To stop thinking and start feeling, because honestly, what was one more change, and one that could be so good if he just stopped thinking and just blurted-

“I want you, Velvet. All of you, all of it. To take you on dates, show you off, keep you home, kiss you, everything. Will you? Be my girlfrie- Mmph!”

He couldn’t finish the question as her lips surged to his again, this time far less controlled as a passion flooded it, her tongue pressing past his lips, and John felt himself respond as if it were second nature. Her body pushed and moved against his, as hot and demanding as her mouth, which definitely didn’t go unnoticed by his own body.

When they finally separated, both gasping for air, John **** himself to tell her, “I- fuck, that was amazing, Vel, but- I don’t want to upset you, and If you keep going, I- I can’t help my…”

He trailed off, wide-eyed. Velvet had listened to him, but clearly she was of a different opinion. Her strange second-sighted eyes had shot down to his crotch when she realised what he was saying. He’d trailed off when, upon seeing whatever her magical vision let her see, her eyes had blown open even wider, and her tongue had darted out to slowly lick along those plump pink lips, leaving them parted slightly as she panted lightly.

Then, she said the words that sent John reeling, “I’ll only be upset if we stop.”