#thread:wynne

Asking Emilio to deliver his apology had been the plan. It had been a decent plan, as far as plans meant to make up for tearing someone’s neck out went. So if it was a decent plan, why was Zane at the hospital, asking for Wynne’s room number? The other nurses didn’t ask questions, most likely thrown off by the haunted look in his eyes but the whispers as he left the desk were hard to miss. He couldn’t blame them - taking a sudden sabbatical and then showing up to visit someone recently interrogated by the police? Zane would have been curious if he’d been in his coworkers’ position.

Standing outside the designated door made it overwhelmingly clear just how bad of an idea this was. Why would Wynne even want to see him? They probably didn’t care about an apology, most likely just wanted to be left alone and never see or hear of another vampire again. “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, thankful for the sudden clarity. 

“Oh, hey, Zane.” He blinked. Sure enough, the door he had been awkwardly lingering in front of had swung open, revealing a nurse he knew and, behind her, Wynne in a hospital bed. “You can go in, I was just checking their vitals, which are all good. See you in a few hours, Wynne.” The nurse smiled and trotted off to her next task, leaving Zane standing outside the open door as if passing over the threshold would make him burst into flames. 

“I can leave,” he finally spoke after what felt like an endless silence, trying not to let his eyes linger on the bandage on Wynne’s neck, on the IV hooked up to their arm or the dark circles under their eyes. 

— 

The nurses were nice. Wynne tried to remember that: the nurses were nice and they just wanted to help. And they did, most of the time, even if they sometimes wanted to hide from their looks. Even if most of them were plenty good at pretending that there was nothing strange about the situation. One of them was merry and kind, and Wynne liked her best: she made them feel very normal and cared for — even if those two feelings didn’t often overlap for them.

As today’s nurse checked their pulse and temperature and blood pressure, Wynne tried to be as present as possible. It seemed good praxis to be polite to the people extending care to you. And at least there wasn’t going to be a change in bandage until later tonight, which was the part they liked least. All in all, they were looking forward to her being gone so they could close their eyes and try to sleep. Or, if that didn’t work, use their phone to message Ariadne.

They said goodbye to their nurse, watching her open the door and then their breath got stuck in their throat. Their eyes remained stuck on him, growing in size as their mind returned to that basement. They didn’t remember him stepping forward to point out the wrongness of the situation. They didn’t remember his apologies, nor the way he’d refused. Just the sharpening of his teeth, the reddening of his eyes and that feeling of his teeth crashing into their neck. 

Wynne wanted to scramble back in their bed, to push themself against the headboard in the hope that it would swallow them whole. This was nothing but instinct, but it overtook them all the same. They forgot to answer the nurse and just looked at him, silent and wide-eyed. “You’re here already.” Wouldn’t it be worse if he left now? He knew where they laid — wouldn’t they start wondering if he’d come back? “What do you want?”

—

It still felt unreal, just like it had that night back at the barn. Being looked at like that, with eyes widened by fear - of what he was, what he could do. What he had done. Wynne had every right to carry that expression now, to freeze in the face of someone who had hurt them, but even so it made Zane’s already tepid blood run colder. They finally spoke and surprisingly enough, didn’t scream at him to get out. Did that disappoint him? Had he wanted to be confronted with anger and in return, be instantly done with this moment? He definitely deserved to get shouted at, that much was sure, so the quiet question felt much, much worse. 

“I don’t… really know,” he answered honestly, still lingering in the doorway, still hesitant. It wasn’t until more people passed in the hallway that Zane finally stepped inside to clear the way, moving slowly, his own face probably mirroring the terror on Wynne’s. “I wanted… needed to see that you were alright.” A pause. “Not alright, obviously, just… alive. I guess.” The bandage on their neck was no longer seeping through with blood but it probably had been those first few days. It hadn’t been a pretty bite, a combination of force on Alma’s side and inexperience and terror on his. It would leave a nasty scar. They would have to carry this around forever. 

—

When had they ever been the type to tell people to leave? Wynne wasn’t sure how to guard their boundaries and never had been. At home they had been like a saint among humans and thus people had demanded their limited time, beckoning them close and asking for favors. They had not said no. Here in Wicked’s Rest it was easier to give into instinct (which was to say, retreat into themself) but only because people demanded less of them. Still, they were ill-equipped, seemingly unable to tell Zane to just get out. To be angry. That too, was something they were not good at.

This was happening. He was showing up and they would quietly let him, even if an instinct inside them wanted him to turn around and leave. “Oh.” They nodded as if that made total sense, then winced a little at the motion. “Yeah. I’m alive.” He looked so tentative, and now Wynne was starting to remember more of it. His initial refusal. The force with which he’d been brought down to break their skin — not out of choice, but because someone with authority had forced his hand – or well, head. “I know …” They swallowed. “I know you didn’t want to.” Did it make a difference? It had to, right? It had to. Their gaze drifted away, images flashing in their mind of Zane, covered in their blood, apologizing as they looked at him.

—

Waiting for Wynne to speak, to think and comprehend the situation, was hard. It was taking every bit of strength not to continue babbling, to launch into a long winded explanation and apology but Zane knew that was self serving. Coming here in the first place was selfish, the least he could do now was not make this whole thing about himself. When they finally spoke and once again, didn’t demand that he leave the room, Zane finally dared to close the door behind him. Not fully, leaving a small gap in the hopes that it provided some comfort. A sign that he wasn’t here to do anything to them. 

“I really didn’t,” he replied, voice barely a whisper, eyes trained on Wynne as they looked away. “But it happened anyway and I am so-” His voice cracked, betraying him in his mission to not make this about himself. Clearing his throat, Zane made a second attempt. “I am so sorry.” His gaze turned to the ground, shoes scuffing against the sterilized floors as he continued. 

“I know it doesn’t matter. Whether I wanted to or whether I’m sorry. You got hurt either way - traumatized and I… what I guess I also wanted to say is that if you need anything, at all, I’m here. If not, I’ll do my best so you never have to see me around again.” He should have thought this through, should have practiced something beforehand. Words were just spilling out now, like a desperate attempt to stem an arterial bleed there was no way of stopping. He knew that no amount of sorries could make this better but doing nothing still felt inherently worse. 

—

Their remained diverted, staring at the red-rims of their wrists. It was hard, now, not to think of home, where not wanting to do something had never been good enough reason either. At the end of the day, all Wynne had been able to do against the threat of their death was run — not say no. If they had stayed, they would have forced them on that altar even if they’d said no. They would have been like that vampire woman, who’d forced Zane’s head down and held him there. 

And he apologized. Nobody at home ever apologized. No one ever would. If Wynne were to return now, they’d dig their fingers in those same wrists they were staring at now and drag them back. They’d demand an apology. But Zane apologized, because he had hurt them and that was what people were supposed to do when they’d hurt someone. A bare minimum that had never been met until they had left home.

“It matters,” they said quietly. “It does. She … made you do it. I know that. It matters.” And there were other things Zane could have done, perhaps sooner and perhaps more effectively but he had done something. Maybe their standards were low, considering all those that had simply stood idly by and watched for most their life. But Zane had said no. Wynne looked at him. “Thank you for apologizing.” They shook their head. “I don’t know if I want anything from you.” Because there was a gnarly wound on their neck, and he had drank so much of their blood all the same. It was not something they could move past just yet. 

—-

Wynne’s reply, after what felt like eons of them mulling it over, washed Zane with immediate relief. Selfishly, their words had managed to put a giant dent in the weight he’d been carrying around ever since that night. Emilio had said as much but that had only felt like a few pebbles removed off the burden compared to this. It felt, metaphorically, like he could breathe again. The fact that their words sounded genuine meant the world. He hadn’t expected them to take the whole of the situation into consideration, was almost impressed that they did, considering what they had gone through. “No, thank you,” he breathed, feeling wobbly now that his body wasn’t being pulled taut with anxiety and guilt. Not as much, at least. 

Letting himself sink into the chair next to him, still careful to keep his distance from the hospital bed, Zane nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. Not sure what I’d even have to offer, anyway, but…” He trailed off, rubbing at his face, trying to compose his thoughts. “I know you’ve been feeding Emilio,” he finally said, the realization hitting him that they had at least one thing in common other than the harrowing experience. 

“I’m not much of a chef but I could sneak him some takeaway until you get home.” Probably best not to mention that he’d brought the slayer a bottle of alcohol. “Or bring you anything, if you need it. I’m… taking a few days off work so I’m free literally anytime.” He paused, eyes once again flickering to the bandaging on Wynne’s neck. “Does it hurt?” The question slipped out before he could stop it, words meek and tainted with fear of the answer. 

—

Something seemed to wash over the other, something like relief. Wynne wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Did he deserve relief? Did they want to be the one to give him that? Shouldn’t they be more mad? It was confusing, the way they felt they were coming up short even as they extended some level of sympathy. They didn’t want to verbalize the ways they understood, after all, but it was impossible to look away from the similarities between what had happened in the barn and might have happened at home. Alma and Siors were both fierce and violent leaders. Zane and Wynne mere followers.

And now none of it remained for either. As the topic shifted to Emilio, they grew a little easier. This they could handle. “Yeah, that would be good. He doesn’t —” They frowned. “Well, you know. He doesn’t have time to cook. So if you could do that for me that would be nice.” Strange, to accept favors from the vampire who’d drained them, but he’d be doing it for Emilio rather than them, anyway. “I don’t know if he’ll take it, though.” They shook their head. “I don’t need anything.” Not from him, at least.

Eyes blinked slowly at him upon that question, as if they were trying to catch up on his words. But it had been a short sentence. Wynne wasn’t sure what to say. The truth? What good would it do? Lie? It wouldn’t do any, either. They opened their mouth to answer, took a second too long before finally speaking. “Yes. But the painkillers help.” They didn’t want to think about that ugly wound, about the way they had stared at it in the bathroom mirror of their hospital room, crying at that ugly wound. It was ugly. Brutal. Animalistic. Zane didn’t seem like either of those things right now. “It’s …” They shook their head. “It’ll be fine. Just an ugly scar. It’ll be fine. It hurts but it’ll be fine.”

—

It was out there, the words hanging so unbelievably heavy between the two of them. What kind of a question was that? Of course it hurt, probably in more than one way, in more than just the superficial kind of pain. By his own accord or not, Zane had violated the other, hurt them and made them feel unsafe. Of course Wynne stared at him like he’d grown an extra head but against all odds, they finally replied. 

They weren’t lying, not really, but… holding back was maybe the right word for it? Whether for his benefit or theirs, Zane wasn’t sure. Once the word ‘fine’ had been repeated three times in the span of less than ten seconds, he was convinced that it was anything but. “It doesn’t need to be fine, you know?” he finally said, voice quiet, forcing himself to look at Wynne as he spoke. “Not right now, at least. It’s…” Zane sighed, trying so very hard to puzzle words together in his frazzled mind. He’d done this a million times before, talked to people during the worst and hardest moments of their life but never had he been the perpetrator. 

“You’re allowed to be angry. Or sad or furious or just feel like the whole world is unfair. At least for a little bit. And, uh, that’s not me giving you permission or anything, just saying that… you don’t need to be fine right away.” Had that made sense? Zane honestly had no idea, feeling a little like he’d blacked out for the last few seconds. “Sorry, I’m usually a bit better at this…”

—

They weren’t fine, they knew that. It was just a word people used, and for once Wynne understood a social convention. This one had existed at home, too — there was nothing else to be but fine there. Sure, there was room for certain levels of melancholia and euphoria, but true disruption of a steady mood was not desirable. They look at you, Alys had said once, and if you panic, they all panic. You can inspire us, so inspire us to be content, mindful and serene.

But they weren’t fine, they hadn’t been for maybe over a decade, and this recent development had only made them less fine. “I’m not fine.” When they said it, it was almost a confession — but it was also just something annoyed, something exhausted. “And it isn’t fine. What – everything that happened there wasn’t fine. They took us – they put us in a cage.” Wynne wanted to bite their tongue, but wasn’t this what Zane had asked for. “You refused and she —” 

They ripped their gaze away from the vampire, and the movement made their neck sting. Wynne stared at the ceiling angrily. “How is that fine? You didn’t want to, but choice —” It was getting too close to home now, wasn’t it? They didn’t want to draw parallels to that woman in the basement and the people back home, though. “It’s not fine. I don’t know what it helps to say that, though.”

—

Hands folded in his lap as Wynne finally spoke the truth, that they weren’t fine - obviously. Maybe making them relive that night, those nights, was a bad idea. They were getting riled up, words spilling out and as much as it hurt to listen to, Zane did. He leaned forward, giving Wynne his full attention, eyebrows furrowed in worry. Until they cut themselves off, the word choice now echoing between the two. He remembered thinking about choice right at that moment, back in the basement, the fact that he didn’t have any. Maybe never had, maybe never would. The word seemed to be poison to Wynne, too. 

“I don’t know that it helps,” Zane finally responded, throat dry and scratchy. “But it’s the truth. Just like how for a moment I… I wondered if it would be easier to just go along with everything. Fit in somewhere even if it meant hurting people, if it meant pretending. Last time I didn’t pretend, I lost everyone and for a moment, I did think about just shutting up and doing what I was told.” Zane clamped his mouth shut, reigning it in. Stop making this about you. 

“Sorry, not like it’s your problem, it’s just… you mentioned choice. I didn’t have it at that moment, otherwise I never would have…” Eyes flitted unwillingly back to the covered scar and then to the floor. “But I had a choice to call Emilio. To… take care of Alma. I have a choice to feel horrible about what happened to you.” Zane risked a glance back up at Wynne, still wondering if he was just making everything worse simply by being here. “You didn’t have a choice in getting dragged into this but… everything else is still your choice. Is what I guess I’m trying to say.”

—

They could dream this ceiling by now. They could close their eyes and recreate it by voice alone, every ceiling tile described in minute detail as they had observed every square inch like they were a scientist. As Zane spoke, Wynne went over every bit again, the same way they would have at home. The ceilings had been wooden there, but they had served the same purpose. Distraction, something to hold onto to keep oneself from raging or crying or breathing too heavily.

Because the things Zane were saying were hitting home. The desire to go along with the non-choice you were handed to make things easier, to simply fold and do what was desired because then — then you would be loved, and worthy, and something with a place. Wynne had sat comfortably in passivity for years, denying themself the sheer idea of choice until it was nearly too late, and then they had chosen and they’d done so with no going back. “I get it. It’s fine, I get it. Where I’m from, there wasn’t … a lot of choice either. And then I lost everyone too.” 

They ripped their gaze from the ceiling, feeling like they had laid too much bare already. Wasn’t it enough that Zane had ripped open their skin — why were they now spilling their past out, too? “I’m glad you called Emilio. That was the right thing to do. I didn’t know you did that.” Wynne wondered if it would be easier to hate the people that hurt you, but they felt wholly incapable of it. They nodded. “Yeah. We both have a ton of choice now, right?”

—-

Maybe some small part of him still wanted Wynne to be angry, made him disappointed when even his admission to being a weak coward didn’t do the trick. It wouldn’t make anything better but Zane still felt like he deserved it, like he’d gotten off too easy from all of this. Wynne was a mess, Arden had a broken arm, Emilio had gotten stabbed, everyone’s heads were messed up and he was just supposed to get off scot free? Instead, he’d inadvertently given Wynne something to bond the two of them. 

“I’m sorry you get it,” was all he could reply, heart aching further for them even though he hadn’t thought it was possible at this point. There was obviously so much he didn’t know about Wynne but even from that vague admission, Zane couldn’t help but feel the faintest touch of kinship between them. They’d both lost everyone, both lost their choice, even though only one had ended up hurting people. “I’m glad I called him, too.”