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"That's it, El. One foot in front of the other. Almost there."
Adjusting her hold around his middle, Wraith finds herself bearing the overwhelming majority of Elliott’s weight as she lugs him to his room. He leans heavily into her, towering and swaying above her, stumbling over his own feet every other step.
She found him a shaking, bloody mess, half buried in the snow at the Epicentre. It was less the blood that rattled her—he had taken a beating, but no gunshots riddled his body—and more the beginnings of pale blue tinging his lips and the frost that clung to his beard. She almost would have preferred that whoever made him this way had just finished him off instead.
But here they were.
She didn’t see the fight, but judging by the busted lip, the bleeding nose, and the bruise forming beneath his eye...it didn’t end in Elliott’s favour. Even so, regeneration was deemed unnecessary. After the match, Wraith was handed a blanket and told to try and warm him up. Get him medical attention when they landed...if he wanted it.
Advocating quite insistently on not hauling his trembling ass to the med bay, Wraith gave into his pleas and slung his arm around her shoulders before they stepped off the Dropship. If she wasn’t so empathetic towards his current disdain for hospitals, there was no way she’d have been so easily reasoned with. He looked like hell, but far too exhausted to be anywhere but home right now.
The crisp night air wasn’t exactly helping, either. Wraith wishes suddenly that they were back on Solace instead of having to spend the night in the Talos compound. The dorms weren’t exactly subpar, but...it wasn’t home—it wasn’t Elliott’s place. It occurs to her that the lines there were blurring, and she’s not sure when that started happening. Only that it did, and she yearned for the strange familiarity of it all.
His teeth chatter relentlessly in her ear, bringing her back to the task at hand. She doesn't even have the sense to try soothe him, just focuses on getting him somewhere comfortable. His suit managed to ward off a nasty case of hypothermia. Wraith considered that a plus, if nothing else. But he was stuck in the snow for long enough that his core temperature had dropped dangerously low by the time she got to him.
It’s peculiar. That worry nagging at her when she sees Elliott in such a state. It was a little pointless—it’s nothing that a little TLC (T for tough) can’t remedy—but that didn’t mean she could just...push the notion of him almost dying out of her mind.
And while Wraith wasn’t one to outwardly express it, she did possess a fair degree of emotional intelligence. The Games had the power to kill the humanity in you; make you see death and suffering as something trivial. She herself had fallen victim to the lie that life ultimately didn’t matter if you had unlimited chances.
But the Games could also serve as a stark reminder that humans are, and always will be, fragile creatures. You can drag them kicking and screaming from Death’s grip time and time again, but they can never come out the other side stronger than they were before. The sinking of her heart at the sight of him still rippled through her; her legs taking off running before she could consciously register it. The forbidden and ceaseless fear that this could be it—this could be what breaks him for good.
The voices, ordering her to get to him. Someone else’s wellbeing, for once, more urgent than her own. Whether she liked it or not, and whether it had anything to do with the man she was carrying home...her immortality complex had been ransacked, laid bare and consumed by fire. And Wraith wasn’t sure who lit the match.
She attempts to pick up the pace when they eventually cross the threshold into the residence building of the compound. But his boots scrape along the ground, unable to keep up with her movements that, at this point, were no faster than a brisk amble. She stops trying when he lets out a poorly suppressed complaint, and she notices, belatedly, that he’s been treading lightly on one of his ankles the entire way back.
When the door to his room comes into view, she lightly bumps her shoulder against him. "Here now," she says, heaving him to stand a little straighter, and he looks up from where his gaze dragged emptily along the floor. His eyes light up when he sees it.
She gets him inside, moving straight for the bathroom. "No," he whines, "bed. Please."
"After you shower," she says. "I promise, okay? You need to warm up, and you’re kind of gross right now. Can you do it yourself?"
"N-no."
"Alright," she sighs. "I'm taking your clothes off, okay? Get your kit unbuckled for me."
Elliott giggles, the cut on his lip splitting open as he smirks. "Th-that's not something you got—gotta ask to do, babe."
Wraith rolls her eyes at the name, pulling his goggles off his head. Caked blood and dirt falls to the floor around them. "The kit, El." She reminds him. He nods, trembling fingers moving to unstrap the Jump Kit from his body. Wraith already has the top of his suit peeled away by the time he manages to loosen just one buckle. "Arms up," she orders, grabbing the hem of his base layer and pulling it over his head. The clattering of his teeth intensifies as the cool air—well, cool to him—hits his bare skin.
She gently bats his hands away as he starts to undo the Jump Kit again. "I got it," she says, making quick work of yanking him free of each strap until it loosens around his hips, landing with a soft thud on the tiles. Grabbing his hand so he doesn't topple over, Wraith reaches to turn on the shower. He kicks off the rest of his suit and she helps him remove his boots and his underwear before guiding him in. She quickly undresses, hair tumbling down her shoulders as she undoes her bun, and steps in with him.
Honestly, Wraith had envisaged something a little different at the thought of showering with Elliott. What was slightly on the scalding side for her was apparently not enough for him, and she had to keep reminding herself that she loved him whenever something touched her feet on its way to the drain.
She cleans the cuts on his face. Has him tip his head back when the steam makes his nose bleed again, and helps him scrub the grime from his body. When she washes his hair, she accidentally uses her own shampoo instead of his. Though, he doesn’t seem to notice, and she didn't mind him smelling of lavender.
It takes a little longer than Wraith would have liked, and there’s an unexpected dizzy-spell where she could do nothing but hold him up as his whole form sagged against her, but he comes around towards the end. Perking up a little, pressing thankful kisses to her shoulders while she took the time to scrub herself of the match gone by.
Afterwards, he lies half asleep with his head resting just below her chest while she sits up against the headboard. Combing her fingers through his damp curls, thumb smoothing over the darkening bruise on his cheekbone, she asks him if he’s feeling better.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, “sorry for being a big baby.”
“It’s okay,” she tells him, mouth twitching in amusement. And it was okay, now that he seemed considerably less close to death than before. Needless anxiety uncoiled itself from her gut, replaced by the even, serene rise and fall of his upper back as he curls himself around her.
They’re quiet for a moment. Long enough that Wraith is sure he’s fallen asleep. She shuts her eyes, laying her head back as she lets out a relieved sigh. But then he speaks up.
“It was Nat.”
“What?”
“Nat,” he repeats. “She’s the one who beat the crap out of me.”
“Oh.” Despite having witnessed and experienced just how vicious Natalie could be in the Ring, hearing it out loud never failed to surprise Wraith. She might be incredibly sweet and angelic, but Elliott’s injuries were the work of someone who possessed some pretty hefty animalistic tendencies within them.
And Natalie was not to be mistaken for anything but. Elliott’s death would have been a cruel one, and as long as he wasn’t on her team, Natalie would have fully intended for it to be that way.
“Remind me to avoid her next time we’re in the snow.”
Elliott’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. “At least you’ve got an advantage! The other you’s can...y’know. Warn you.” He shifts upwards, folding his hands over her stomach and resting his chin atop his knuckles. “My other me’s aren’t cool enough to tell me stuff.”
His eyes sparkle in the darkness, towel-dried hair tumbling over his forehead; not artfully tousled to the side like it normally was. A wave of fondness washes over her, then. Wraith had never used that word—or anything similar—to describe what she could do. But Elliott was so convinced that, in that moment, she found herself unable to disagree.
“Hey,” he says, “do they ever talk about me?”
Wraith tilts her head, debating on what she she should tell him. “Many paths include you,” she says carefully, mouth curving a little at one corner. “And I know what you’re thinking. We don’t have little slumber parties where we gossip about our own timelines... but sometimes...they tell me things like—like when you’re in trouble, say.”
“Oh, so I’ve got all the Wraith’s swooning over me, huh?”
She playfully narrows her eyes at him. “No. Some of us think you’re an ass.”
“That’s a small minority, though.” He says, winking at her.
“Okay,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I think it’s time to sleep, now.”
Elliott pouts, his brow furrowing as he shifts his weight. “Not tired, now. I just keep thinking...what if there’s a version of me out there that’s just so...I don’t know. Charming?” He grins when she laughs, resting his cheek on the backs of his hands. “I need tips!”
Wraith shakes her head, finally at ease and smiling freely at the idiot lying half on top of her. “Elliott...”
The mischief in his expression fades, but his eyes still crinkle at the corners. “Alright, alright. I’m just kidding.” He props his head up again, and the light coming from the bathroom hits him in just the right way—accentuating his sleepy, teasing smile; the vitality behind his drooping eyelids. It makes Wraith want to kiss him, so she cups his face and leans in. The cut on his lip leaves behind a coppery aftertaste.
He follows her when she pulls away, craning his neck and pressing his lips to hers. “You’re the best,” he tells her between kisses. “Thank you.”
Wraith wasn’t sure she agreed with that, but she makes no effort to counter him. “No problem,” she says, and she means it, and she hopes he knows that. She still looks at him the same way when he lays his head down again, arms winding around her. That he was still her best friend, and she had come to love every inch of him—from the way he stumbled over his words to the tape that held the broken parts of his suit together.
Until, that is, he wakes up the next morning with the sniffles.