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It wasn't supposed to go like this. Tyranny couldn't stop thinking it, the only coherent thought buzzing in her head as she rushed to Wick's side. He'd already hit the ground when she reached him, his body—not corpse, not corpse—tossed aside like worthless trash.
Heart pounding in a frenzy she'd never felt before, she could only stare at his unmoving form. This wasn't like sleep. His eyes were still open, glassy and distant, but open. From within those pools of crystal blue, an unfamiliar, well-endowed woman stood frozen, face contorted in deep, primordial despair.
Tyranny fell to her knees. It wasn't supposed to go like this.
Vaguely she was aware of the battle raging around her. Feet thundered up the stairs, charging after the Baron of Sloak; shouts and screams and the clashing of metal echoed from above and outside. None of it mattered. She didn't even want to think about it, loathed the idea it could wake her from this nightmare.
Her mind conjured a plan with little input from her. She lowered shaky hands to Wick's collar and carefully, shushing as if to comfort a half-sleeping infant, dragged him into the centre of the room. The squid—the stupid fucking illusory squid—would conceal them. It felt good to be doing something, but it wasn't nearly enough. A deep red stain was blossoming on his shirt, expanding around the wound. Tyranny's vision flashed, and she was watching again as the sword plunged into Wick's chest, twisting, gutting, killing. His eyes widened, breathing hitched. Then she blinked and they were back on the floor. The stain kept expanding.
It wasn't supposed to go like this.
She didn't even know what she was supposed to do, besides press her hands over the wound, pretending the hot stickiness coating her fingers wasn't what she knew it was. Demons weren't built for shit like this—she wasn't built for shit like this. Watching blood leak from a dying body should've been fun, but this was Wick's blood. It was Wick dying. And he wasn't allowed to fucking do that.
Rage bubbled up in her chest like nausea, and she wasn't sure what to do with it. She wanted to slap him. Let it be his turn to get yelled at.
Dying was a dimming. Leaving her behind was a dimming.
"If you die," she started, the desperate anger in her voice surprising her, "I'll fucking kill myself. So you better not!"
It was meant to sound threatening, but all she could think of was the play he'd taken her to see. The one where the lovers died at the end, drinking poison or driving a dagger through their own heart. If Wick had called dibs on being impaled, did that leave her to poison? Where would she find enough of it to kill a demon on such short notice?
Only, they weren't lovers. And Wick wasn't dead yet.
She wiped his blood on her skirt, somehow knowing the stain on her hands would last longer than that. Gently, she lowered his head into her lap and running her trembling fingers through his pale turquoise hair, Tyranny once again met her reflection's gaze in Wick's eyes. Like a ripple disrupting an image on water, the disguise faded away. She was herself again, for better or worse. Probably for worse.
Her tail whipped behind her, rustling her skirts. She couldn't look away from his face, his eyes, couldn't bear to see the red anymore.
"If you die," she began again, then stopped. A sharp metallic taste spread throughout her mouth. She hadn't even realised she was biting the inside of her cheek.
It was just… He looked so beautiful. Lips slightly parted in surprise, tattoos emitting a soft, flickering light. She'd never seen him so perfectly still. Even in sleep, he carried an anxious energy about him, an inability to stop fidgeting. But now he looked like a fairytale illustration. A cursed prince, caught between life and death.
Hot, angry tears welled in Tyranny's eyes, and she blinked away the blurriness. It wasn't supposed to go like this. She was meant to watch out for him, stop things like this from ever happening. It was her fault they left the city in the first place—she'd put him here. He came charging in after her. If he died…
If he died, the pact would be broken. She'd go back to the Pit, knowing a good man was gone because of her.
And, Hells, all this while he was staring right at her, and though she knew there was no way he could see her, she could've sworn his gaze moved to follow her face as she slipped back into her true self. Despite it all, his eyes still shone with belief. Belief in her. He was impossible. He was perfect. He couldn't die.
"Gods, you have really pretty eyes." She sucked in a breath to keep her voice from breaking, to keep the tears from overflowing. Her fingers left his hair, trailed down to cradle his cheek. "And they're going to make beautiful cocktail garnishes for me if you fucking die right now."
Maybe he heard her; maybe it was an utter coincidence. She didn't really care, because as she lowered her forehead to rest against his, Wick breathed in.
Tyranny's blood froze in her veins. With the back of her hand, she hastily wiped the wetness from her cheeks, shuffling back so she could look at him. The stillness was gone. His chest rose and fell, slowly as in sleep, and his eyes fluttered shut. The red stain on his chest had stopped growing.
She had to press her hand to her mouth to muffle her sob, unsure what was happening in the world around them and not wanting to attract any attention. Not yet, not while the sounds of battle continued. But he was alive. He was okay. Heat built behind her eyes as tears threatened to fall once again. She didn't care. Her own breaths came in shallow, panicked bursts, interrupted by moments when she forgot she needed air. What use did she have for it? Only relief could fill her, sustain her.
Like she did each morning, in the moments before he woke, she clambered onto his chest, careful to leave the gaping wound untouched. Perched like a gargoyle, she watched his face closely, waiting.
"Move," she murmured after a moment. "Move. Move. Move, fucking move." He wasn't dead—he wasn't—but he wasn't awake either. If he didn't wake soon… No. He had to. "Please," she said, nearly hissing it, grabbing at his collar as if to shake him into consciousness. "Please, just move."
For a long while, nothing happened. She watched, waited, whispered a prayer to her father, though she knew what little good that would do.
Then, a booming voice came from above. "It's over, Cosgrove. The Baron is dead."
She stayed very still in the following moments, holding Wick close as the knight who left him for dead walked down the stairs and out into the courtyard. The conversation was brief, and her ears perked up when that same knight said, in a voice soaked in guilt, "Your Lord is also slain, I believe. Within the squid."
Then Thimble spoke, and Teor. She couldn't make out the words, but just knowing they were alive and near was enough to shatter her remaining caution.
"Help!" she called. If her voice cracked, no it didn't. "Help! Help!"
The illusion covering them disippated in time for their friends to burst into the room, all eyes darting immediately to Wick's unconscious body. Not corpse, she reminded herself, tears of gratitude still burning in her eyes. If anyone noticed how much of a wreck she was, they very kindly didn't mention it. Probably because there were about a thousand more pressing issues. Like the sleeping beauty.
Taking a knee at their side, Teor rested a paw upon Wick's shoulder. As pure light flowed between them, travelling across Wick's skin in a glowing river until it reached the wound at his chest, Teor glanced up at Tyranny, a question in his eyes. Are you alright?
For all his clarifications that his life debt extended only to Wick, he was still a good man, one who seemed unable to do anything but look out for those around him. Even her, she supposed, and Tyranny nodded in reply. As long as Wick was okay, she was right as rain.
And he was okay now. Crystal eyes flew open, and he took a gasping breath.
One blink, then another, and he was awake, confused, looking at Teor, the room around them, then Tyranny. Just Tyranny. She saw herself in his eyes, tear tracks running down her face, lower lip trembling despite her smile.
"Oh," was the first thing he said.
By the Hells, she loved him. More than life—and she'd been having a pretty fun time with life so far. But also fuck him for scaring her like that. How dare he.
Instead of pulling him into a hug, like she desperately wanted to, like they hadn't ever done before, she waited till he moved to sit up, and pushed him back down again. Just for good measure, she spat in his direction.
Fuck. Him.
He flinched, and she couldn't tell if she was being sincere or making a joke when he said, "Ah, it burns!"
Whatever. She could yell at him later. She would. Thoroughly. But for now, Hells she was glad he was alive.
"Get up." She rolled her eyes at him, standing up herself, stepping away and letting the guilty knight, Sir Finch, offer to help her Wick to his feet.
The ache in her chest, that unbearable helplessness she'd clung so tightly onto before, was beginning to ease away, though she felt sure she wouldn't be able to sleep that night. Not without those desperate thoughts she didn't want to remember clawing into her dreams. If you die, I'll fucking kill myself.
Well, maybe they wouldn't be joining the dead today, but, as she watched Wick handle the scene with all the ease of someone who hadn't just almost died, she wasn't convinced their story wouldn't still end up a tragedy. She hadn't lost him yet, but she would. He couldn't love her and be happy. She wouldn't let him forsake himself for her. One day, maybe soon, he would rise, she would fall, and the distance would be far too great for either of them to close.
One day. She was just glad it wasn't today.