For close on a week it's been just like this. Freddie and Cook, tucked up neat in this inexplicable hut, playing at something approaching normal. They lounge and swim in the ocean, and Cook disappears three times a day to fetch them meals he couldn't possibly have made himself. The shower out back is cold but works, and though the world has dwindled, Freddie feels warm and sated, heavy with contentment, his skin sunwarmed and cares far, far away. He hasn't questioned Cook's need to keep him tethered, hasn't yet felt the need to explore further than the glittering shoreline he'd appeared on and the thin strip of jungle between it and their home
( ... )
"Shit," Cook mumbles, mildly startled by Freddie's reaction. If he's honest, he had expected a scolding, that tight-lipped, disappointed look Freddie sometimes got directed at Cook once more. Hell, it would have been welcome at this point (not that it wasn't in some way every other time). But the concern's a little much and given how his head is feeling, the world threatening to tip itself over every so often but righting itself just in time, his powers of comprehension are sluggish.
"Fight," he manages after a pause. Cook rubs at the back of his neck and heads for a pinched bottle full of water. He chugs down half of it and feels better for it before he speaks again. "Crazy fucker stabbed me."
Freddie's mind goes immediately to Foster. There's no place else for it to go, his death still so fresh that he has to work at thinking about nothing just so that he doesn't think about anything. For a moment there, he looks like he might genuinely run, right past Cook and out the door, terrified of being cornered.
For a moment, he has to talk himself out of actually doing it.
"What?" he exhales, but it's just a word, just the first expression of disbelief and terror he latches onto. It doesn't mean anything and he's not expecting an answer.
"We have to get out of here, we can't stay here," he ejects in a rush, and launches at the door, catching hold of Cook's uninjured arm with shaking fingers as he goes. It's too small in here, no back door, no other way out, nowhere to run. They have to get out, and get out now.
"What?" Cook sputters in reply. The bottle falls from his hand and thuds dully on the ground before he can get a hold of himself, get a proper hold on Freddie. He digs in with his heels, leans his weight back to counteract Freddie's forward momentum, and turns to wrap his injured arm, decorated with thin trails of drying blood, around a skinny waist. There's a surge of pain through his weak limb, but Cook grits his teeth and holds on.
"Sarah killed it," he explains hurriedly. Maybe Cook would have expected this, this flight reaction from Freddie, if he had been thinking properly, but when's Cook ever doing that? Now he can only assure his friend that nothing's coming after them in the middle of the night. "It's dead, Freds, it's not coming here."
The fight bleeds out of him with Cook's words, the flailing of skinny limbs tapering to a fine tremble that shakes Freddie's shoulders and breath. He stares, wide-eyed and fearful until he reaches that precipice of comprehension, at which point he all put collapses in on himself, sagging against Cook as he grasps at the back of his soiled shirt with jittery fingers. Breath hitching, ear pressed to the steady thrum of Cook's pulse, he just stays like that for a long moment and waits for the rapid staccato of his own heartbeat to ebb.
“Jesus,” Cook mutters under his breath. It’s not a prayer or a complaint, not tired. Nothing’s going to help them through this, nothing but each other, and Cook will never begrudge Freddie the times he needs to lean on Cook. Fuck knows he’s leaned on Freddie enough times. But it is a sour word, a sigh bemoaning what their life has become. Bloody, broken boys clinging to each other in the middle of nowhere. It’s a sad state of affairs, honestly, that Cook is all that Freddie’s got, but Cook won’t let Freddie think that, not for a minute. He grits his teeth against the sore, aching pain in his arm and holds on tight to Freddie, holds him upright and steady until he can find himself again
( ... )
"Fuck." The word is barely audible, a shuddering and resigned sound sighed out rather than spoken, but it helps Freddie find his feet again, helps straighten his spine so that he can scrub both hands over his face. "I'm sorry." Face pinched with embarrassment, he slants his gaze away, heart still hammering in his thin chest.
When he looks back to Cook, though, he swallows it all back- Or tries to, a fine tremble still in his fingertips where they've fallen next to his thighs. "You need a doctor," he says, tone brooking no argument (although he's certain Cook will argue regardless). Stabbed, he'd said. They've no first aid here, absolutely nothing but soap and water.
"What, this?" If Freddie is going back to playing it cool, then Cook will too. There's only so much heart to heart talk he can take in a normal day without feeling broken, like he's vulnerable and weak. And today isn't normal, not with the amount of blood that has seeped from him. Not enough to damage him, but enough that he just wants to sit his ass down and forget this ever happened.
"It's just a flesh wound," he says airily, all swagger and no care. Cook pats Freddie on the shoulder and moves towards the bed. His movements are steady at first glance, but they're disguising his weakness, the soreness. "Clean up a bit, catch a snooze. I'll be fine. But, mate, you should see the other guy."
"Cook," Freddie begins, tone instantly beleaguered. He clenches his fingers and then shakes them out again, as if doing away with a panic attack is as simple as that. "You can get cleaned up, but after we're going to the clinic or hospital or whatever it is they have here."
The real issue is bigger than that, of course. At some point this had to happen, and they both know it. Freddie'd not planned on it being today, but just now getting out of the suddenly stifling space of the hut seems a better and better idea. He makes an aborted reach for Cook as he passes and settles his shaking hand against the back of his neck instead.
"I've got to get out of here, mate," he admits as he pulls fitfully at the hair at the nape of his neck. "And you not getting proper care for a stab wound is only going to make it worse. I don't want to play this card, but I will. Don't argue with me about it, not about this."
Cook freezes. His back turned to him, Freddie can't possibly see the way Cook's expression changes at his words. Fear creeps into his eyes, a lost look as the hard lines of his face soften with worry and doubt. Freddie's not the only one damaged by what happened. He knows it's fucking stupid, but Cook can't help it. Can't help how his heart clenches up at the thought of Freddie wandering away, getting lost, getting into trouble, getting caught up in some mental fit. Maybe it's irrational, but Cook would never admit as much. All he knows is he lost Freddie once and he's not going to fucking let it happen again
( ... )
Freddie has known James Cook for most of his life. He understands well enough what has just happened, even if the subtler nuances of why remain a mystery. They've been here before hundreds of times, in hundreds of ways, all of it part of the rhythm of their friendship. Just now, though, it grates. And for one brief, white hot moment, Freddie wants to take hold of Cook by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattle.
It passes.
It always passes.
"Right," he mutters, and scoops a towel from the end of the bed, throws it at Cook's chest and sulks his way out the door with his own.
Anger is better than fear. That's one of those mottoes that James Cook has stuck to for most of his life. Fear made you weak and vulnerable, made it possible for other people to hurt you and let you down. But anger, that's simple. It's a solid wall built up around your heart to protect it. He rather see Freddie angry right now than afraid
( ... )
Freddie keeps his eyes fixed on anything but Cook, although his reasons have more to do with sheer stubbornness than any more profound emotion. That it's those deeper feelings which pull his gaze back rather than keep them averted is just one more fundamental difference between the two of them. Sometimes, Freddie can hold onto that feeling of frustration long enough to make a point; since his arrival on the island, it seems impossible to hold onto it at all.
Resigned, he throws towel and clothes over the top of the little wooden stall and steps in beside Cook. This ought to be as simple as it sounded when he agreed to it, but like so much with Cook, it isn't at all. The water is cold, and he shivers briefly when he tips his forehead to rest against the back of Cook's shoulder with a sigh.
His body tenses up against the cool water and doesn't relax, even when Freddie touches him. It's a point of warmth, where skin meets skin, but it doesn't help. He feels cold all over, a sensation that refuses to let go. When he's fighting, drunk and belligerent, acting like he's got nothing to lose, Cook can fool himself into believing, for a short while, that that's true. That he has control in the chaos and the fire pumping through his veins is what life's supposed to feel like. But that all fades away in these quiet moments. It's just him and the mountain of things he has to lose and it's so fucking terrifying.
Cook reaches back and cards his fingers through Freddie's hair, his thumb brushing over the warm skin at the nape of his neck. "Don't say that," Cook tells him, sounding finally as weary as he feels. "You'll fucking jinx it."
"Think we've already been well jinxed, mate." Jinxed by their parents, by Effy, by Foster. Jinxed by each other, maybe. Jinxed by the fact that they can be so thoroughly opposed, so completely divided and still come back to this.
Whatever this is.
Another sigh pushes out of him as he nuzzles instinctively against Cook's hand. "I reckon we wouldn't know what to do if we weren't jinxed," he admits, despite that there is still a small part of him with lofty hopes for something better. Something that just stays good for awhile.
His fingers flex as the urge to grab hold of Freddie, hold him tight again and not let go this time, washes over him. Cook steels himself and forces it to pass, but his fingers still itch with the need. They let go as he turns and find new purchase, both hands cupping Freddie's face and forcing his gaze
( ... )
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"Fight," he manages after a pause. Cook rubs at the back of his neck and heads for a pinched bottle full of water. He chugs down half of it and feels better for it before he speaks again. "Crazy fucker stabbed me."
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For a moment, he has to talk himself out of actually doing it.
"What?" he exhales, but it's just a word, just the first expression of disbelief and terror he latches onto. It doesn't mean anything and he's not expecting an answer.
"We have to get out of here, we can't stay here," he ejects in a rush, and launches at the door, catching hold of Cook's uninjured arm with shaking fingers as he goes. It's too small in here, no back door, no other way out, nowhere to run. They have to get out, and get out now.
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"Sarah killed it," he explains hurriedly. Maybe Cook would have expected this, this flight reaction from Freddie, if he had been thinking properly, but when's Cook ever doing that? Now he can only assure his friend that nothing's coming after them in the middle of the night. "It's dead, Freds, it's not coming here."
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When he looks back to Cook, though, he swallows it all back- Or tries to, a fine tremble still in his fingertips where they've fallen next to his thighs. "You need a doctor," he says, tone brooking no argument (although he's certain Cook will argue regardless). Stabbed, he'd said. They've no first aid here, absolutely nothing but soap and water.
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"It's just a flesh wound," he says airily, all swagger and no care. Cook pats Freddie on the shoulder and moves towards the bed. His movements are steady at first glance, but they're disguising his weakness, the soreness. "Clean up a bit, catch a snooze. I'll be fine. But, mate, you should see the other guy."
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The real issue is bigger than that, of course. At some point this had to happen, and they both know it. Freddie'd not planned on it being today, but just now getting out of the suddenly stifling space of the hut seems a better and better idea. He makes an aborted reach for Cook as he passes and settles his shaking hand against the back of his neck instead.
"I've got to get out of here, mate," he admits as he pulls fitfully at the hair at the nape of his neck. "And you not getting proper care for a stab wound is only going to make it worse. I don't want to play this card, but I will. Don't argue with me about it, not about this."
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It passes.
It always passes.
"Right," he mutters, and scoops a towel from the end of the bed, throws it at Cook's chest and sulks his way out the door with his own.
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Resigned, he throws towel and clothes over the top of the little wooden stall and steps in beside Cook. This ought to be as simple as it sounded when he agreed to it, but like so much with Cook, it isn't at all. The water is cold, and he shivers briefly when he tips his forehead to rest against the back of Cook's shoulder with a sigh.
"'M not going to go anywhere, you know."
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Cook reaches back and cards his fingers through Freddie's hair, his thumb brushing over the warm skin at the nape of his neck. "Don't say that," Cook tells him, sounding finally as weary as he feels. "You'll fucking jinx it."
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Whatever this is.
Another sigh pushes out of him as he nuzzles instinctively against Cook's hand. "I reckon we wouldn't know what to do if we weren't jinxed," he admits, despite that there is still a small part of him with lofty hopes for something better. Something that just stays good for awhile.
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