Amethyst hummed, turning her eyes to face the ceiling. The motion instantly reminded her of God, which vaguely disgusted her for a reason she couldn't quantify. She turned her eyes back down.

Back to Amber. Back to her careful hands stitching the flesh of her abdomen together. Back to the towel covering her legs, because she'd had to strip off her jeans when they got covered in blood. The bleeding had been uncontrollable before Amber and Evan got home, so she had been the centre of a crisis for a few awful minutes. But it slowed down before long, and she insisted that she did not want to go to the hospital. So Amber, well-accustomed to impromptu stitches, took out a kit and with no more than a sigh, sat down to work.

Evan floated in and out, turning on the tap periodically in the bathroom. It had not looked pretty. Both of them had screamed when they saw it. Their panic had cut through even Amethyst's half-conscious state, miraculously.

She whimpered again, the uncomfortable sensation of metal slicing flesh adding to the tyranny on her senses. She was half-lying on the couch, at Amber's insistence. She would've preferred the floor, but Amber laid out a towel and refused to let Amethyst get down.

She would've done the stitches herself, except - it hurt too much. It was bleeding too much. She was shaking. She was exhausted. She'd already tried to do it herself, three times in the past two weeks. The damn thing just kept opening up. Amber had needed to take out her festering stitches before cleaning it up and starting afresh. Amethyst burned with embarrassment the whole time, but once the new stitches started to go in, that feeling shifted to a kind of raw vulnerability.

Amber was so gentle with her. She was clean and precise and methodical, closing the wound with all her years of experience. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done to her body.

A shuddering breath escaped her. Fuck, it hurt. Her hands flexed, one down by her side, the other thrown up by her head. She was squeezing one of the throw pillows, but she didn't know when she'd started doing it. Embarrassed, she let go. Evan was watching.

He sighed, moving around the couch to sit by her. "Sorry," she whispered. For making a mess. For not coming to them earlier. For scaring them. For being so inconvenient. She'd said it all already, so she didn't say it again. Out of the two, Evan's concern came out a lot like anger. And she didn't mind, could hold her own, especially because she knew she was tougher than he was and could hold out a lot longer. But she just didn't like it when he was angry with her.

"It's nothing," he said quietly, dabbing at her forehead with a tissue and pushing aside some stray hair in the same motion. Blood and sweat had stuck some of it to her face, and she hadn't had a chance to clean up. "I'm just glad you stayed at home. And that you called."

She'd forgotten she did that. She'd been… really dizzy. The reassurances went over her head. He said things like that all the time. But then he gave her one of his soft smiles, and she believed him in the same instant. The relief knocked her off her feet, or it would've if she wasn't already lying down.

Instead, to Amethyst's absolute dismay, tears sprang to her eyes. She closed them, but it was too late - one trickled out of her eye and down her face.

"Oh, Ames, hey, hey. You're okay, I got you." He was holding her hand now, doing the squeezing so she wouldn't have to. Not that she wanted to. Except she absolutely did, and she was. She couldn't stop the tears coming now that they'd started and she could tell it was making Amber's job harder so she had a practical reason to stop, not just a prideful one, but her body seemed to refuse to listen to her recently.

"I'm fine," she insisted, but her voice wobbled. Traitorously. "Sorry, I just - is it - "

"Done." Amber pulled away, and Amethyst pulled the towel up to cover herself almost immediately. She was no stranger to being exposed, but she just wanted to hide now.

"Woah, woah, careful - oh, Amethyst."

The sobs were completely silent, but ripped from her body in a way that was almost painful. It was all painful now, she thought. What if this was it? What if she just had to live like this forever?

Well. She wouldn't be alone. If she had to pick a place to spend the rest of her life, it'd be here, with these people who refused to let her remember what loneliness was.

She ended up crying onto Evan's shoulder, draping herself over him as if she was afraid he'd leave. Or disintegrate. People did that to her. More often the first one, but… she was just terrified of losing the first good thing she'd ever had. The first real good thing.

"You're so good to me," she said once she'd calmed down. She had made no attempt to extricate herself however, and could still feel his heartbeat against her chest. "How do you do it?"

He smoothed down her hair. "Sometimes I ask myself the same question."

She laughed. That was why she liked him: he told the truth.

"But… I don't know how. I just do. It feels like the right thing to do. And I like you, Amethyst. I care about you. Maybe that's how."

"What does that feel like?"

He pulled back a little to look at her, expression quizzical. "Caring about you? It's… crazy. It's the feeling I got every time I wanted to quit med school. When everything seemed hopeless, I just thought… if I can help one person. If one person in the world lives, or has a better life, because of me, then it's worth it. Maybe you're that person."

"And all the patients you see every day are just extra?"

God, it was sometimes physically overwhelming to see Evan lovesick. "Yeah, maybe."

Amethyst gave a wry smile. "That's sweet. I need to shower."

"And nap," he added, letting her lean on him to stand up.

"I hate those. I don't need to sleep."

"I know. And I know. I'm telling you to nap. Your body needs to rest."

"My body -" Amethyst didn't have a way to finish the retort. She didn't know what her body needed. And she really couldn't argue with the doctor. She was outnumbered in that regard. Amber would be on his side, she had a feeling.

"Fine."

"Need me to help you shower?"

She shot him a look. "Creep." And then she asked Amber.

"You know she's older!" He wasn't really protesting, and she wasn't actually disturbed. Her comfort came from the fact that she could bleed half her blood volume out onto the bathroom floor and demand to be stitched up on the sofa then cry harder than she'd ever cried in recent history, and they could still make stupid jokes with each other. Nothing changed.

—

She did take a nap. She hadn't been sleeping well, but the sleep after Amber helped her to shower and washed her hair was the deepest and calmest she'd ever had. Amethyst didn't often dream, and if she did, they made her wake up sweating and panicked. She never remembered them, and this one was no different. But it was different, in every way.

She was healed. Not unblemished, but the wound had scarred over. And she had her wings. Four off-white downy things, two smaller ones wrapping around her torso and two larger ones spread out behind her. She was on top of a cloud. In it? No. She was pretty sure she was on top of it. Cirrus, but it was iridescent. Amethyst reached out and touched it, and where the rainbow met her skin, ice shards stuck to it like jewellery. She shone. It was bright, but she had the feeling that she was shining.

She wasn't alone.

"This is nice," she said without much feeling. "Can I go home now?"

She felt, as if music was being played with the muscle of her heart, the answer. And the laugh.

Of course. This is always here for you.

Amethyst hummed, spinning lightly in the air. The wings felt nice. But the ice was cold against her hand, and the smell of ozone was so different to Evan's eucalyptus and Amber's peony.

"Thanks. I'll - be in touch."

---

The ground is littered with corpses. Mostly WALKERs, thank g—well. Thank someone. Atlas sits down hard in the middle of 'em, carefully avoiding looking too hard at the few not in uniform.

Their heartbeat slows and slows until it's barely there. There's still something pulsing in their chest, though. Atlas rubs at it absently, then pulls their hand away, wincing. Their hand ones away bloody, because they're hit and didn't even notice.

Weird that it hasn't started healing yet, though. Atlas pulls their shirt out of the way and squints at the wound, prodding at it experimentally and wincing at the burning pain. And there's—

There's something in there still. It glints in the light, silver and sharp against the bone and blood.

intrusion invasion poison pumping pain and corruption, the Rot sings, buzzing with emotion. get it out get it out getitoutgetit—

Atlas winces, pressing bloody knuckles into their eyes until their head quiets.

Their head swims as the light creeps back in, their clothes now sodden with blood.

Tweezers, Atlas thinks firmly, pushing the image out through the haze of pain and their tunnelling vision. Their powers stir in their chest, just behind the stab wound. It hurts even more than normal, like something freezing or burning or tearing apart and their hand trails aimless and grasping through empty air—

The tweezers sear their skin as they grasp them from Elsewhere, from Nowhere. Atlas locks their attention on that sting and the smell of meat, clenching their fist to chase it and chase away that creeping unconsciousness.

"Focus," they whisper to themself. Their Maker hums in agreement.

They don't have the energy to pull anything else to them, so they grit their teeth and pray their Watcher can keep infection at bay.

Atlas clamps a hand over their mouth and digs the tweezers into their wound. They cry out against their hand, bite the skin until it breaks. They feel more than see when they find the broken bit of knife—it's lodged in one of their ribs and touching it lights their whole chest up with new agony.

Pulling it out is worse. They swear they feel it slice into them the whole hours-long second it takes.

And then it's out and it's done and it's over.