Fighting All Alone, With Yourself, With Yourself
So a few days ago I had mentioned to spindlelimbs how I thought Tom Conrad would be the perfect person in fic to have the ability to read minds. Then that lead to him being able to heal himself and I mentioned the idea in my last post and expanded upon it a bit with fragilelips and again spindlelimbs and so I got the itch to write it.
Which I did. It's short and I am not promising to ever make it anything real but I hope you still like it. :D
It's nights like these that Tom wishes the apartment building that he calls home had an elevator. He keeps his hand on the smooth, gray wall; there’s no railing, so this is the best he has to keep himself from falling if he were to lose his balance.
Tom climbs the flights of stairs. His body is screaming in pain as he takes each individual step. The only sounds in the empty hallway are the rough, ragged breathing that’s escaping Tom as he climbs ever higher, and the steady drip-drop of Tom’s blood slapping against the cement steps, no doubt leaving a trail of deep dark crimson behind him.
Tom’s vision swims for a moment as he finally emerges into the hallway that leads down to his apartment. Tom drags his hand along the side of the wall, fingers brushing against the wood of his neighbors’ doors. Tom leans heavily against the cool, dark wood of his and Jon’s apartment door. He could knock; Jon would come and open the door and take care of him.
Tom gives it a try, his scraped-up palm hitting against the wood, too light for Jon to be able to hear.
“Fucking shit,” Tom murmurs, and his hand finds the door knob. It’s not locked and Tom presses all his weight against the door the same time as he manages to turn the knob, and then the door is falling open. It opens much too quickly for Tom to pull away fast enough and Tom winds up collapsing on his knees on the hard wood of their living room floor.
Tom grumbles about the stupid-as-fuck decision of not picking carpet as the flooring in the living room. There’s too much hard in Tom’s life already; at least his floor could be soft. Of course, Jon hears Tom collapsing to the floor, and he comes out from the backroom by the time Tom’s managed to get himself upright once again.
“Dude…” Jon starts. Tom sees him scan the line of Tom’s battered body, take in his bloodied appearance. “You look like shit.” Tom huffs out a ‘No shit, Jon’. His vision has cleared by now, but he still has to lean his back against the wall to keep his balance.
Jon goes and shuts the door, but not before Tom sees him duck his head out, as if he thinks or worries that someone might have followed Tom home. “Tom,” Jon says. “You know you left a trail of blood behind you, right?”
“Yeah, I believe it’s dripping from my forehead, possibly my chest.”
Jon closes the door and comes to stand in front of Tom. Jon reaches out and takes Tom’s hand, the one he had been using to steady himself out in the hall.
“No,” Jon says as he shakes his head. “Your hand is bleeding.”
“What?” Tom raises the hand that Jon’s not holding and swipes at his forehead, catches the sweat and blood before it has the chance to drip down into his eyes. Jon is holding Tom’s hand gingerly, turning his palm up so that it’s facing Tom. Sure enough, Tom’s palm is ripped up and bleeding, not too badly but enough that Tom knows he’s been leaving a trail of blood all along the walls of the building.
“Our neighbors are going to be pissed that I got blood on their doors,” Tom laughs breathlessly. Jon lowers Tom’s hand, and now that Tom’s got a second to rest, he lets himself be still. His body has already started the healing process. His muscles aren’t screaming in pain as much, as he can walk steadily once again.
Jon steps back and Tom shrugs off the black leather jacket he’s wearing. He lets it fall to the ground. His shirt goes next. The thin gray fabric is stained red with blood, and it’s torn and scratched. Tom pulls it up and off over his head, and then that too is joining the jacket on the floor.
Jon’s watching him again and Tom flexes his arms, the muscles in his back and shoulders protesting the action. It’s hot in the apartment, and Tom really should shower, but fuck, he just saved lives tonight, and the last thing he feels like doing is showering. He feels like having a beer, like sleeping for days.
Tom digs into the pocket of his jeans and fishes out his crumpled pack of cigarettes. Thankfully, they’re not ruined, and are only smashed just a bit. Tom pulls one of the thin, white sticks out and places it between his lips. He doesn’t have his lighter; he must’ve lost that at one point when he was getting thrown up against brick-walled buildings by villains he still wishes he didn’t know existed.
Jon must be able to read minds, because the moment Tom sits down on the black leather couch, Jon comes in from the kitchen, two beers in his hands. He hands a beer off to Tom, and then sits down on the floor across from the other boy, his back against the recliner.
Tom knows Jon won’t ask about what happened. He always waits for Tom to bring it up first. Tom opens his beer and aims for the window, throwing his bottle cap towards it. Jon turns his head to watch as the bottle cap sails right out the window and down into the street.
Tom drinks from his beer and his cigarette is stuck dry to his lips. Jon fishes around in his pocket before he raises his hand, quirks an eyebrow at Tom and tosses something to him. Tom catches it with ease and when he opens his palm, he finds a lighter there.
“There’s a good reason you’re my best friend,” Tom says as he flicks the lighter to life and finally lights his smoke. Jon laughs a little. The heat from the warm Chicago night presses its way into their apartment. The ceiling fan is on and Tom revels briefly in the mostly quiet state of their apartment, nothing but the steady whomp, whomp, whomp of the ceiling fan running.
Tom smokes his square and sips at his beer, and Jon drinks his and smiles brightly at Tom when they happen to meet eyes.
“I’ll clean the blood up before anyone wakes up,” Jon tells Tom. Tom shrugs. He’d say not to bother, but it will look awfully suspicious if there’s a smudging trail of blood that leads to their door.
“Cool. Thanks.”
Jon smiles again and drains his beer. Tom finishes up his cigarette and kills the already dying cherry by rubbing it into the ashtray on the coffee table.
“You can sit next to me,” Tom says. “I don’t bite, man.”
Jon picks himself up off the floor and goes to sit next to Tom. They’re quiet and Tom closes his eyes and can feel his body closing up the wounds, the light buzzing feeling of his body healing itself.
Tom fucking hates having a superpower.
Which I did. It's short and I am not promising to ever make it anything real but I hope you still like it. :D
It's nights like these that Tom wishes the apartment building that he calls home had an elevator. He keeps his hand on the smooth, gray wall; there’s no railing, so this is the best he has to keep himself from falling if he were to lose his balance.
Tom climbs the flights of stairs. His body is screaming in pain as he takes each individual step. The only sounds in the empty hallway are the rough, ragged breathing that’s escaping Tom as he climbs ever higher, and the steady drip-drop of Tom’s blood slapping against the cement steps, no doubt leaving a trail of deep dark crimson behind him.
Tom’s vision swims for a moment as he finally emerges into the hallway that leads down to his apartment. Tom drags his hand along the side of the wall, fingers brushing against the wood of his neighbors’ doors. Tom leans heavily against the cool, dark wood of his and Jon’s apartment door. He could knock; Jon would come and open the door and take care of him.
Tom gives it a try, his scraped-up palm hitting against the wood, too light for Jon to be able to hear.
“Fucking shit,” Tom murmurs, and his hand finds the door knob. It’s not locked and Tom presses all his weight against the door the same time as he manages to turn the knob, and then the door is falling open. It opens much too quickly for Tom to pull away fast enough and Tom winds up collapsing on his knees on the hard wood of their living room floor.
Tom grumbles about the stupid-as-fuck decision of not picking carpet as the flooring in the living room. There’s too much hard in Tom’s life already; at least his floor could be soft. Of course, Jon hears Tom collapsing to the floor, and he comes out from the backroom by the time Tom’s managed to get himself upright once again.
“Dude…” Jon starts. Tom sees him scan the line of Tom’s battered body, take in his bloodied appearance. “You look like shit.” Tom huffs out a ‘No shit, Jon’. His vision has cleared by now, but he still has to lean his back against the wall to keep his balance.
Jon goes and shuts the door, but not before Tom sees him duck his head out, as if he thinks or worries that someone might have followed Tom home. “Tom,” Jon says. “You know you left a trail of blood behind you, right?”
“Yeah, I believe it’s dripping from my forehead, possibly my chest.”
Jon closes the door and comes to stand in front of Tom. Jon reaches out and takes Tom’s hand, the one he had been using to steady himself out in the hall.
“No,” Jon says as he shakes his head. “Your hand is bleeding.”
“What?” Tom raises the hand that Jon’s not holding and swipes at his forehead, catches the sweat and blood before it has the chance to drip down into his eyes. Jon is holding Tom’s hand gingerly, turning his palm up so that it’s facing Tom. Sure enough, Tom’s palm is ripped up and bleeding, not too badly but enough that Tom knows he’s been leaving a trail of blood all along the walls of the building.
“Our neighbors are going to be pissed that I got blood on their doors,” Tom laughs breathlessly. Jon lowers Tom’s hand, and now that Tom’s got a second to rest, he lets himself be still. His body has already started the healing process. His muscles aren’t screaming in pain as much, as he can walk steadily once again.
Jon steps back and Tom shrugs off the black leather jacket he’s wearing. He lets it fall to the ground. His shirt goes next. The thin gray fabric is stained red with blood, and it’s torn and scratched. Tom pulls it up and off over his head, and then that too is joining the jacket on the floor.
Jon’s watching him again and Tom flexes his arms, the muscles in his back and shoulders protesting the action. It’s hot in the apartment, and Tom really should shower, but fuck, he just saved lives tonight, and the last thing he feels like doing is showering. He feels like having a beer, like sleeping for days.
Tom digs into the pocket of his jeans and fishes out his crumpled pack of cigarettes. Thankfully, they’re not ruined, and are only smashed just a bit. Tom pulls one of the thin, white sticks out and places it between his lips. He doesn’t have his lighter; he must’ve lost that at one point when he was getting thrown up against brick-walled buildings by villains he still wishes he didn’t know existed.
Jon must be able to read minds, because the moment Tom sits down on the black leather couch, Jon comes in from the kitchen, two beers in his hands. He hands a beer off to Tom, and then sits down on the floor across from the other boy, his back against the recliner.
Tom knows Jon won’t ask about what happened. He always waits for Tom to bring it up first. Tom opens his beer and aims for the window, throwing his bottle cap towards it. Jon turns his head to watch as the bottle cap sails right out the window and down into the street.
Tom drinks from his beer and his cigarette is stuck dry to his lips. Jon fishes around in his pocket before he raises his hand, quirks an eyebrow at Tom and tosses something to him. Tom catches it with ease and when he opens his palm, he finds a lighter there.
“There’s a good reason you’re my best friend,” Tom says as he flicks the lighter to life and finally lights his smoke. Jon laughs a little. The heat from the warm Chicago night presses its way into their apartment. The ceiling fan is on and Tom revels briefly in the mostly quiet state of their apartment, nothing but the steady whomp, whomp, whomp of the ceiling fan running.
Tom smokes his square and sips at his beer, and Jon drinks his and smiles brightly at Tom when they happen to meet eyes.
“I’ll clean the blood up before anyone wakes up,” Jon tells Tom. Tom shrugs. He’d say not to bother, but it will look awfully suspicious if there’s a smudging trail of blood that leads to their door.
“Cool. Thanks.”
Jon smiles again and drains his beer. Tom finishes up his cigarette and kills the already dying cherry by rubbing it into the ashtray on the coffee table.
“You can sit next to me,” Tom says. “I don’t bite, man.”
Jon picks himself up off the floor and goes to sit next to Tom. They’re quiet and Tom closes his eyes and can feel his body closing up the wounds, the light buzzing feeling of his body healing itself.
Tom fucking hates having a superpower.