Archive of Our Own ^beta

There is a darkness that men dare not speak by name. A thing so untouched and inhuman that it would twist the mind over and under itself, in all directions at once, in solemn perpetuity until oblivion is all that can be known. 

You feel it, don't you? You've felt it nipping at your heels from the very beginning. You know it by name, and you know how to call it. You know that it can be touched, and that sometimes, if you let it, it will touch you back.

It feels like coming home, doesn't it?

That quietude, such blissful serenity before the mortal coil calls you back to the sins of the earth. 

Those things… The others. The men that fear. Their very existence rubs salt in your wounds and speaks in a heathens'-tongue that breaks down your marrow and boils your blood.

Those people will never know you. And you will never know them. Because they are more incomprehensible than that which they will not speak of. They are forgettable. Temporary.

Only you know it by name.

And you know it better than anything else beyond it.

Do you ever wonder why?

Do you ever wonder why it dances with you when you join hands, with such earnest understanding?

Why existence's retribution weighs so heavily on your shoulders when you let go of it?

Do you know why that darkness holds you closer than any light you have ever known?

You do. You know why.

That name that you call; the one that no other man dares to, the one that marks a shadow of a bygone era and unquenchable cosmic desire.

One day, it will be your own.

Childe drew in a sharp, ragged gasp of air, instinctively shooting upright and reaching for his hip, where he knew a weapon would be waiting for him.

But there was nothing there. His heart leaped into his throat, and he could practically taste his own racing pulse. Where were his effects? Where was his Vision? His Delusion? What else could he protect himself with? How long did he have? How long-

Where was he?

Despite every fiber of his being demanding him to act, Childe forced himself to take a moment to recollect his thoughts. He felt so disoriented, but he couldn't place why. Something just didn't feel right. He didn't feel right.

He felt like absolute shit.

Taking the time to acknowledge that was all that was needed for his surroundings to fall into place. 

He was back in Snezhnaya, at the palace. He had been for a while. The room should have been familiar, as it was his own personal living quarters, but he traveled so often in the course of official duty that he often felt like a stranger in his more permanent residences. And it seemed like that unfamiliarity had managed to subconsciously creep under his skin as he drifted to a place of half-slumber. He'd been disoriented enough upon waking that it felt no better than coming to in a foreign land. But even to awaken in a foreign land with that sort of urgency was shameful. 

He'd only been trying to meditate, but in his current state, it seemed such a state of inner serenity would be impossible to reach. His mind and body were woefully undisciplined at the present; even if he could manage to get his thoughts to stop wandering and racing, he clearly only ran the risk of only falling into a deep, unproductive sleep.

As his adrenaline began to wane, Childe was left with nothing but an all-encompassing weariness that came as no surprise to him - the sudden twinge pain in his side, however, was new. He hissed through his teeth and immediately threw the covers off of himself, looking to the source of the persistent throb.

The wound on his side was still covered, bandages wrapped around his entire bare torso. But now, a small bloom of crimson was beginning to soak through. Shit. He'd gotten up too fast and managed to open himself back up. Childe grimaced at the sight. With any luck, the damage wasn't too severe. At the very least, the physical pain was more endurable than the severe blow to his pride that accusatory flash of red served him. He carded a hand through his hair, pushing back the messy red locks that clung to his forehead with cold sweat.

He had to pull himself together. Regardless of the circumstances, this was no way for a warrior to behave. Flailing around in a daze like a fish out of water, forgetting where he was, letting his subconscious get the better of him… He was lucky that this time, he'd been alone upon waking. 

He couldn't let something like that happen again. If anyone had seen him like that, it would have brought shame to his status. Shame to the Tsaritsa. Shame to Snezhnaya as a whole; his most beloved homeland.

But it doesn't feel like that yet, does it?

Suddenly, the doorknob across the room clicked open.

Instinctively, Childe quickly threw the covers back over himself, successfully obscuring the creeping bloodstain on his bandages. Maybe that wasn't wise, but it was the first thing he could think of to do. The wound had been nearly healed anyway; if only one or two stitches came undone, he could take care of it himself. There would be no reason to alert medical personnel, and no reason to explain how he'd managed to strain himself on strict bed rest. And if it was more than a few minor sutures…

He'd figure it out. Once he dealt with this intrusion, he'd handle it on his own, one way or another. At the present, he was more concerned with the intruder now pushing through the door. Childe looked up and preemptively furrowed his brow in discontent. The staff overseeing him were to check in only at the specified times he'd ordered so he could ensure he was ready to meet them. This was not one of those times. Who could possibly have the nerve to walk in on him without warning?

As soon as Childe's gaze fell upon the nervy individual in question, however, his dour expression completely fell. He found himself breaking out into a huge grin instead - the first one that had managed to find its way to his face in days. He'd nearly forgotten already; this visit wasn't quite so unscheduled after all.

"Hey!" Childe called out cheerfully. He winced a bit at the sound of his own voice, still hoarse with sleep and uncharacteristically quiet. But even that couldn't manage to dampen his enthusiasm. "You actually came!"

Dottore stopped at the door, hand still resting on the doorknob. Unlike Childe, he was not smiling. He gave Childe an odd twitch of his lips, the mask over his eyes shrouding the exact meaning behind it. He then sighed, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

"You act as if I had any sort of choice in the matter," he said dryly. His words, coupled with his slow approach to the Eleventh's bedside, suddenly made Childe's eyebrows furrow studiously. His smile soon began to wane.

"Oh," Childe remarked, unable to mask his disappointment. "So he sent you here."

Dottore - one of the many artificial individuals to take that title, at least - stopped in the middle of the room, crossing his arms indignantly and setting a scowl on Childe.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" The Segment challenged. "Ungrateful little shit. You're lucky he bothered to send anyone here at all. We all have much better things to be doing than tending to your bedside."

"Ah- No, I'm sorry," Childe backpedaled with a sheepish laugh. Dottore scoffed, continuing his approach anyway. "It's just- I kind of thought he would be making more of a casual sort of visit. With you here, it just… kind of feels more like I'm being nannied."

"Who are you calling a nanny, boy?" Dottore retorted, swiftly raising his hand and flicking Childe's forehead.

"Ow," Childe complained. He rubbed his head with a pout as Dottore pulled up a chair beside the bed, plopping down in it with a huff. "I said I was sorry. I just… feel kind of bad that you're here now."

"As you should," Dottore said matter-of-factly. "If you misunderstood the purpose of this visit, then it's your own folly. Honestly, what were you expecting, given the circumstances?"

Childe pursed his lips dejectedly. 

It wasn't that he necessarily minded being with one of his Segments in Dottore's stead; in most situations, Childe didn't distinguish much between the lot of them. They all had Dottore's face, his personality, his memories, and his absolutely charming way with words. He could even recognize this one as one of the newer builds - so new, he was practically indistinguishable from his creator to all except those that knew where to look. But when medical personnel had informed him that the Second Harbinger would be checking in to oversee his treatment, Childe supposed he held out a little too much hope that it was a gesture of familiarity as opposed to one of obligation.  But the implication that came with Dottore necessitating a Segment for this duty made Childe's stomach turn a bit.

Childe wilted, still rubbing his head even though the negligible sting had long since subsided. 

"I don't know," Childe muttered. "I guess I was hoping for different circumstances."

An awkward silence swathed the room after that. Childe tried not to look Dottore's way, focusing on pushing down the nauseating sense of disappointment. After a while, Dottore chose to break the silence.

"You're reading too much into things," Dottore said with a sigh. Childe caught him out of the corner of his eye waving a dismissive hand in front of his face. "Honestly, the primary reason I'm here is no more than a matter of… social distancing."

It was an attempt to make him feel better, but it was only slightly preferable to the worst-case scenario. Childe still couldn't help pouting.

"So he sent you here in lieu of having to tend to me in a bubble?" Childe sulked. "That just makes me feel like some kind of leper."

"Oh- Please, don't be so dramatic," Dottore scolded. "Were you really that eager to spread your sickness to the closest unsuspecting passerby? He can't afford to catch whatever you've got. I'm sure you would be just as sullen to realize you'd inadvertently put him out of commission for no good reason."

"You know, it's a good thing you're not a nanny. You'd have an awful bedside manner for one, putting me down like this."

"Nobody is putting you down," Dottore groaned in exasperation. "Even I'm not petty enough to imply that catching ill is a product of your own failing. It's only natural; your immune system already would have been compromised if your Delusion was overused, and you were stuck out in the wilderness for two days before medical intervention was possible. I'm just surprised that you didn't manage to catch something worse. These precautions are simply a matter of standard protocol. It's imprudent to take it so personally."

Every last word, as sound-minded and correct as they may have been, was just another knife twisting in Childe's guts. He knew he was the one being unreasonable now, and that stubbornly digging his heels in would only serve to worsen his mood, but his pride has been wounded far worse than what physically tolled him. It was bad enough to have gotten himself in that situation in the mountains anyway, but to be doubly knocked off his perch by little more than a common flu? If it wasn't for that, he probably could have been back out in the field by now. But everything was dragging him down; his fever had made him tepid and lethargic, his prescribed bedrest was making him antsy and irritable, and being fawned over by others made him feel helpless and weak. So many small things had piled up on his shoulders that he couldn't shake them off quick enough to free himself of the weight. He didn't feel like himself, and it made him sick to know it. He felt like a stranger in his own body. Like he'd lost control. It felt like-

You feel it.

Don't you?

-like he was going to puke.

So unaccustomed to the particulars of suffering through illness, Childe had noticed nearly too late that the nauseating sense of dread churning in the pit of his stomach was simply nausea itself. He scrambled to his feet immediately, without a word, deaf to the blustering this action elicited from Dottore as he rushed for the lavatory attached to his bedroom.

He only barely made it, retching into the toilet while still in the process of falling to his knees in front of it. The contents of his stomach were practically non-existent; just an unsavory cocktail of stomach acid and a tinge of blood, suspended in what little fluids he'd managed to keep down in the last few hours.

Even after his stomach gave up on expelling its meager content, Childe simply stayed in that position, resting his cheek miserably against the toilet seat and letting his eyes go out of focus somewhere ahead of him.

"You're lucky you didn't do that on me." Dottore's voice piped up dryly from the doorway. It actually made Childe wince to imagine that he was nearly sick enough to be vomiting onto others like a child. He didn't bother looking back at Dottore, feeling that perhaps his presence was no longer worth the trouble.

"Just go," Childe muttered. "I don't need to be fawned over. This will pass on its own."

"Are you joking? This is exactly why I have to be here," Dottore replied, sounding annoyed. "You can't effectively monitor yourself in this state. Certainly, a stomach bug isn't going to be the end of you in and of itself; but be that as it may, we don't have the time to let it pass by leisurely. You know that better than I do. We can't afford to have our vanguard indisposed for longer than you need be."

Childe narrowed his eyes in frustration, still unwilling to even lift his head in Dottore's direction. He didn't like it, but he could recognize that he didn't have much choice in the matter. Dottore was right, and he wanted to be back out on the field as quickly as possible. It was shameful to need to be fussed over like an invalid, but having the Second be the one fussing was at least preferable to allowing one of their subordinates to do it.

"Fine," Childe conceded with a sigh. "Do your worst, then."

"Don't give me so much leeway, boy. With that unsavory attitude of yours, I might be inclined to take you up on that offer," Dottore grumbled. "Now get up and get back to bed, and I can get this over with for both our sakes."

"I, uh," Childe began, a rough swallow wreaking havoc on his raw throat and making his nausea resurface. "I would, but I… might not be done. Just give me a minute."

"Ugh. Never mind that, then; there's no point. The sooner we can get you out of this state, the better. Just make sure you keep your head down if you plan on doing that again."

Dottore approached him then, letting out a small sound of disgust before yanking down the pull cord on the toilet, letting Childe's sick flush down the drain. He begrudgingly came to his knees beside Childe, already digging through the patent leather bag he'd brought in with him. Childe finally picked his head up a bit, trying to get a peek at what he was reaching for. It was a little funny; though Childe had always known him as "the Doctor," this was probably the first time he'd ever seen Dottore getting to work with the intention of putting a person back together the exact same way as he found them. Of course, knowing Dottore, Childe couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of nervousness as he fished around for his instruments.

"What are you planning on doing, anyway?" Childe cautioned, eyes glued on the bag to ensure nothing dubious would be thrown in his direction.

"The same thing everyone else has been trying to do. The only difference is that I do not leave jobs unfinished. It will be nothing more than a-" Dottore turned his head then, and his gaze immediately flickered downwards. "Oh, damn you, what the hell did you manage to do?"

The pain in Childe's side served as a nagging reminder of what Dottore was referring to. As if reacting in shame, the throb of his wound seemed to intensify under the Second's scrutinizing gaze. Childe glanced down, and found the spot of blood on his bandages had gotten a bit larger.

"Uh. Yeah," Childe muttered sheepishly. "That… happened while I was sleeping. I don't think it's that bad, though."

Dottore shot him an accusatory look, and Childe couldn't tell if he was fighting not to outright scold him for causing harm to his own person, or if he simply didn't believe the statement at all. It hadn't been quite a lie, of course, but maybe he was rightfully unconvinced that the matter could be as simple as that.

"You-" Dottore started, cutting himself off and visibly attempting to recollect himself. He looked a bit angry for a moment, but reeled it back in with a tight exhale. "Just- Fine. I'll look at that in a moment. Just lift your head a bit more for me."

Childe did as he said, though the action was more of a strain than he would have cared to admit. Getting up and moving around had only exacerbated his fever, and pervasive fatigue threatened to make him wilt all the way to the floor. Dottore brought a glass thermometer from his bag, putting it in front of Childe's lips.

"Open," Dottore ordered brusquely. Childe did as he said, letting the cylindrical object slip into his mouth. After that, his head felt too heavy to continue holding upright. He crossed one of his arms over the seat of the toilet so he could rest his chin on top of it without risking his head drooping entirely into the bowl. He glanced back at Dottore pensively. The Second was avoiding his gaze, looking annoyed as he slipped off one of his gloves. With his hand now bare, he grabbed Childe's other arm by the wrist and prodded two fingers against his pulse point.

After a few seconds, Dottore's lips began to twitch downwards into an odd expression. Childe didn't know what to make of it; he considered asking Dottore to take off the mask covering his eyes, then thought better of it. He would most likely be shot down. But it bugged him, not being able to adequately read Dottore. His eyes were the most expressive part of him, which was no doubt probably why he took to wearing the mask in the first place. Without those expressive red windows to offer him some insight, Childe felt completely left in the dark. Even more so in his current state, almost too infirmed to even probably account for his own emotions.

"What's wrong?" Childe asked, words clumsily tumbling out around the thermometer in his mouth.

"Quiet," Dottore merely grunted in response. Another few beats of silence passed before he finally released Childe's wrist with no additional commentary. As he pulled his glove back on, Childe started to feel a bit anxious.

"So you're just not going to tell me what it is you're doing?" Childe accused.

"Don't talk with that thing in your mouth," Dottore replied, yet again dubiously fishing around in his bag. "I already told you. It's nothing different than what they've already been trying. There's nothing you need to worry about."

With only the barest of glances, Dottore brought his free hand up to pluck the thermometer out of Childe's mouth. He studied it for a moment - got the same odd, unreadable expression on his face. But he yet again made no comments on whatever he was noticing, and Childe began to grow frustrated.

"Why even come here then?" Childe challenged. "You're obviously put out by the fact."

"I am certain that I don't need to explain that to you, Childe, so I'm not going to waste my breath answering inane questions. Use your head."

"What do you mean by that? Ever since you've gotten here, you've been nothing but disagreeable and vague. If I'm causing so much trouble, then maybe I should jus- ah! "

Childe's rant was cut short by a sudden stabbing sensation to his right bicep, a yelp of surprise escaping him. His eyes darted down just in time to see a syringe with a small needle sticking out of it, of course held by Dottore's hand. By the time Childe reacted, whatever had been primed in the pump was already fully depressed, and Dottore promptly plucked it back out. Childe quickly slapped a hand over the injection sight, his fright stirring up the extra energy needed to fix a venomous glare on the Doctor.

"Dottore, what the fuck?" Childe exclaimed. "What the hell was that?!"

"Calm down," Dottore said, almost sounding bored. "It was an antiemetic. It will help with the nausea."

"And you couldn't have warned me beforehand?!"

"Well, I could have," Dottore said. His tone was as severe as ever, but Childe was unsurprised to see a small smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "However, some of the other doctors notated that you experience involuntary spasming of the muscle at potential injection sites. It struck them as rather peculiar, but I did not find it altogether surprising. You're always primed for any sort of conflict, aren't you? Anyway, it would have been more fuss to tell you it was coming."

Childe pouted, rubbing his sore arm. Though it was true that he had cried out more in surprise than pain, and the injection had indeed hurt less than his shots usually did, the sneak attack did nothing to improve his mood.

"So is that why you ended up coming here?" Childe snapped. "To have a good laugh over catching me off guard?"

"Oh, quit that," Dottore chided, his smirk falling into a frown. "You're acting like a child now, taking everything so personally. Now lift your arm back up."

"And what are you going to do this time?" Childe asked, flinching back a bit as Dottore tried reaching out for him. The Second set his jaw in annoyance before merely sighing.

"I'm just going to look at your injury. Is that fine? Or would you prefer to potentially bleed out on the floor unattended?"

Childe still regarded him with suspicion, but raised his arm and propped it up on the toilet seat anyway. His momentary burst of energy had already begun to wane, leaving him feeling more lethargic than before.

"Fine," Childe conceded wearily. "Can you at least warn me the next time you want to stick something in me? And don't laugh at that. I'm not in the mood."

Dottore drew his lips into a thin line, reaching out again with a scoff.

"Childe, this attitude of yours is grating on my nerves," Dottore groused under his breath. Though his tone didn't quite match the movement of his hands and how gingerly they worked to remove Childe's dressings. "I know you're unwell, but I refuse to believe you've grown delirious enough to not understand the position you've put yourself in."

Childe didn't answer him. He groaned quietly as the bandages were eventually pulled off of the site of his wound, sending an especially sharp twinge of pain through him. Dottore's hands briefly stilled at the sound, but when Childe merely upheld his petulant vigil, he continued.

"My sincerest apologies if this isn't the whimsical little engagement you clearly have planned out in your head," Dottore continued sarcastically, "but I would have expected you to behave with a bit more solemnity, given the circumstances. You have to start acting serious about this."

This was met with further silence. Childe let his eyes go out of focus, and as his vision tunneled slightly around the edges, his thoughts darkened with it. He remembered how bright the room had suddenly felt as he watched Dottore walk through the door. Now, there wasn't a speck of radiance to be found.

He felt even further from the light than he had before.

"You're not listening." Dottore's voice cut through his thoughts obnoxiously, with a matter-of-fact, knowing air that he had no right to carry. It finally enticed Childe to respond, if only to prove him wrong.

"I am listening," Childe snapped quickly. "I haven't grown ignorant, and I can see it's a very simple matter. I can read between the lines, Dottore. You've come here to have your fun belittling me and nothing more. If I've become such a burden, then why don't you just keep your mouth shut and finish the task you've been given? Then you can be on your merry way."

Dottore froze at that, just as the last of the bandages were peeled away from Childe's skin. Childe didn't bother watching for his reaction. He fully expected the explosion that was sure to follow such a disrespectful tirade. If he was lucky, it might even encourage Dottore to storm out before finishing the job.

He didn’t need to be here. Childe had faced the darkness alone before. He could do it again.

But when Dottore finally spoke up, his voice was shockingly quiet. A bit subdued, even.

"You're wrong on every count except one," Dottore said. He started moving again, rolling up the old bandages into a manageable ball in his hands. Childe glowered at him from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, yeah?" Childe challenged. "And what count is that?"

"I'm here because it is a very simple matter," Dottore said plainly. He wasn't looking Childe's way. "You lost control of yourself. And as a result, you killed an innocent man. I am here to make sure that does not happen again. It's as simple as that."

Childe simply turned his gaze away.

Oddly enough, the statement hadn't come off accusingly. It was just as Dottore had said; it was a very simple matter that had no need to be over or understated.

But he didn't want to hear this.

After a beat of silence, Dottore stood up. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

Childe heard him step out of the lavatory and back into the main room. Since he said he would return, Childe assumed that he was merely fetching fresh dressings. So it appeared that he had not succeeded in chasing the Doctor off.

Childe should have just told him outright that he was ultimately wasting his time.

Childe let his eyes drift closed, sinking into darkness where he sat. A cold sweat still clung to him, the marble flooring below him and the stark white porcelain he was draped over worsening the fever chills running through his body. It reminded him of not so long ago, when he spent a grueling few days bunkered down in a cave nestled into the crooked hills of the Snezhnayan wilderness. There had been a blizzard. The whiteout conditions outside had nearly driven him mad with its starkness, so he'd spent the majority of his time with his eyes shut, back to the elements and facing the shallow cavern wall in front of him. Instead of the light, he'd sought out the dark. Clung to it as the unforgiving ice had continually clung to his frostbitten skin.

It felt like coming home.

" Please don't fall asleep here."

Childe was forced to open his eyes again, and it felt like a slap to the face. He glanced listlessly back in Dottore's direction just as the Doctor was getting back down on his knees beside him.

"I'd rather not have to drag you back to the bed myself," Dottore continued gruffly. "You're a lot heavier than you look."

Childe looked away without responding. He knew it wouldn't be the end of things, but he wanted to hang onto just a few more seconds of silence if he could. Dottore didn't press any further before starting to redress his wound.

That didn’t last very long, unfortunately.

"Were you really expecting the issue to never be brought up again?" Dottore asked dully. "Because you should have known that wasn't going to happen. I'm not taking the blame for addressing it."

"I didn't know you cared so much about the expenditure of innocent lives," Childe retorted, tone dry but subdued. Dottore was right yet again, unfortunately; he should have known better than to think he'd left his actions behind him.

"I don't. To be perfectly frank, I don't give a damn who may or may not fall into your line of fire. That doctor’s death doesn't concern me. In the context of how it applies to your current condition, however… It does bear discussion."

"He wasn't supposed to engage in any treatments while I was sleeping. He'd already known that."

"You were up. You were talking. The man you didn't manage to sink your mitts into confirmed as much," Dottore said. It made Childe's features twitch in discontent. "What was he supposed to do? Conduct an interview to confirm the validity of your consciousness? That's beside the point, anyway."

Childe walked his fingers along the rim of the toilet seat absentmindedly, watching them with marked disinterest. "And what is the point you’re trying to make?"

"The point is that the men we have at our disposal capable of subduing you in the event that you experience a similar episode are far and few in between. The number of men who can do that in addition to treating you effectively is fewer still. You're an absolutely dreadful patient as is, but considering the additional risk factors we now have to consider… I'm certain why you understand I cannot regard this matter lightly. My being here is an obligation. No one else could be."

"I get it. You're just here because you have to be, and not because you wanted to."

"I didn't fucking say that."

Childe actually flinched at the intensity with which the words were suddenly snapped at him. He finally looked over to Dottore, offering him his full attention. Dottore merely stared at him a bit blankly for a moment before squaring his jaw and focusing back on his work. He seemed flustered. Childe wondered if he hadn't meant to speak that quickly.

"Always putting words in my mouth," Dottore muttered while shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. The only thing that presently does is that your condition is abnormal and, as I've just reiterated to you, devastatingly volatile. If it gets any worse, or even if it simply doesn't improve at all, we'll be forced to consider more drastic interventions for the sake of safeguarding our future operations."

Dottore then lifted his head again, and Childe could feel the intensity of his cautionary gaze even through the mask covering his eyes.

"And I sincerely doubt you'd be pleased with such an outcome," he continued, voice low and tone dire. "So do not misunderstand what's happening here. As far as you should be concerned, this is your last chance to pull yourself together. I'm here to make sure it's a good one. So don't let it go to waste."

Childe felt like a coward for breaking eye contact without a word, but he didn't think he could bear looking any longer. Dottore, at least momentarily satisfied with the words he'd managed to get out, did not prod any further. He just continued re-wrapping Childe's torso in silence as the Eleventh sat miserably with his own tumultuous thoughts.

In all honesty, he didn't feel that bad about it. Certainly not as much as a certain otherworldly comrade of his would have been, or as much as any other people with their affinity towards fragile and fleeting things would have been. It was an unfortunate, meaningless death; but meaningless things happened every day. Things that were cruel and unfair, things that could not be blamed on any party involved, or even on the will of the Gods themselves. That was just what the chaotic inconsistencies of existence so often wrought. Some people died with meaning, and others did not.

But more than that, there was a very simple reason why Childe didn't feel much remorse in regard to the action itself.

He just couldn't bring himself to take ownership of something he could not remember doing.

And he didn't remember killing the doctor that had come in to treat him several days ago. He didn't remember watching him enter and approach his bedside. Didn't remember speaking with him, as he supposedly had. Didn't remember what had triggered his reflexes, or the feeling of Hydro being summoned in his palm, or the way that one could often feel the weight of a man's dying breath through the hilt of their weapon, thrumming with dwindling desperation and wasted potential until finally coming to finite stillness.

All Childe remembered was coming into consciousness standing up, staring down a living man cowering at the far end of the room, pinned to the wall by a Hydro blade that had been thrown through his hand in order to prevent his escape. He remembered dully looking down at his feet to see another man dead - with the second Hydro blade sticking straight up out of his neck. Both blades immediately dissolved at that moment, as an overwhelming, delirious sense of exhaustion had overtaken Childe. And the last thing he remembered before slipping back into unconsciousness was merely turning towards the other man, now free but still frozen in terror before him, and calmly telling him that if he could still walk, he should get help. He didn't think he'd be able to stay upright much longer.

He'd been right about that. By the time additional security and medical personnel had arrived on the scene, Childe had already crumpled onto the floor and passed out against the side of the bed. He wouldn't hear about the rest of it until he awoke again several hours later.

So Childe did admittedly find it difficult to feel much remorse over something he simply could not remember. But conversely, the one thing he couldn't shake was the very fact that the event had not made a mark for itself at all. That little absence of space in his memories, paradoxically so much louder and noteworthy than the memory itself would have ever been to him. His obstinance prior to this moment had been an attempt to make it seem like as much a void in space as it was in his mind. But Dottore was right, as much as he hated to admit it. It was something that couldn't be left unaddressed.

Childe didn't know why things had turned out like this. Maybe it was because the location of interest Childe had originally been tasked with clearing out ended up being more than the menial work he'd initially thought it would be. What had started out as a few reports of a handful of Abyss mages poking around some ruins turned out to be a full-scale battalion of Abyss Order forces that had been lying in wait for their next orders. Childe did not have the opportunity to discover what exactly it was that they were planning. By the time his small party of soldiers had been swiftly taken out by the Order, his only concern was sweeping the place out entirely. That was the only way to possibly ensure his survival. And there was, indeed, nothing left of anything once he was through with it. But maybe whatever they were working on had planted the seed of corruption within him.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he'd been stuck in the Foul Legacy transformation longer than he ever had before, which had no doubt led to those inscrutable, dire whispers he’d been hearing more and more. Childe would sometimes hear such voices in the course of utilizing his Delusion normally, but never had they been so clear, and so frequent. Maybe it was simple Delusion sickness, or the Foul Legacy itself doggedly refusing to retreat to its usual dormancy. Maybe the intense isolation he experienced afterward had exacerbated the issue further.

Or maybe none of those circumstances even mattered in the grand scheme of things. Maybe what he was experiencing was simply an inevitable side effect of the oblivion ever-festering within him. Perhaps his loss of control was something that could not be avoided.

A loss of control… that was the one thing Childe couldn't come to terms with. The thing that twisted his stomach into knots and kept him from finding rest, the thing that spoke to him so sweetly yet so cruelly when his eyes would fall closed to think of the ironic comfort of cold and dark.

Childe had no qualms with relinquishing control; not to the Tsaritsa, nor to the Fatui, nor to even his own most primal, ferocious urges. He could be someone's most trusted weapon, or a complicit vessel of war, or even the scourge of the battlefield that slaughtered all others standing in his path. Because even though he was putting his very existence into another's hands, it was still ultimately his choice to make. He offered himself to these things for the sake of his honor, his livelihood, his survival. He was still in control of his own destiny. And just as he so often became a tool of bloodshed, so too did he utilize these things as his own tools in turn - a perfect, chaotic symbiosis, inching him ever closer to the end of his chosen path. The path of a warrior; the road to conquering the world.

But Childe wasn't giving himself to anyone when he closed his eyes and an unknown oblivion softly whispered sweet understanding in his ear. He was not giving himself to anyone when his body acted without mental presence, and his reflexes had taken a life that need not have been taken. The control, in those instances, was not his to give. His control had been lost somewhere in that darkness; it wasn’t anyone’s, anymore. It was merely a concept that no longer held the meaning it once had. A grim shadow cast by a body that no longer existed with any true purpose.

Out of all the sacrifices Skirk had trained him to make during his time in the Abyss, the sacrifice of his own control was the only one he wasn't ready to make. In his own hubris, he'd always assumed that he would have time to adjust to such an outcome. Now, he feared that the time was coming closer faster than he ever could have imagined.

But he intended to keep the secrets he harbored to himself, no matter what the cost. Even if he desired to share the burden he carried, doing so with his colleagues would yield him no rewards. This potential loss of control, if it did indeed persist, could not be helped. The only thing prying eyes and listening ears would do was simply accelerate the process as more and more control was ripped from him. He couldn't afford to be put under a magnifying glass. 

Dottore, of course, did not understand the particulars of what was at stake. But Dottore understood secrets better than anyone else Childe knew. He understood that some secrets were never meant to be shared; so here he was, not knowing what he may or may not have to lose, and not knowing if it was in his best interest, quietly giving Childe a chance to hold onto his own for just a little bit longer.

Childe felt his chest grow tight. So much time in silence had passed that Dottore was already fastening off the end of his wrappings.

"Did it look bad?" Childe piped up quietly.

It took Dottore a moment to reply, perhaps trying to figure out what exactly Childe was referring to. "This? No. One suture was torn. But the injury is nearly healed as it is. It shouldn't lead to any major setbacks. We can check it again tomorrow." 

"Okay," Childe said. He hesitated a long time before speaking again. But the next thought had weighed on his mind so heavily, he couldn't keep himself from asking any longer. "What did I say?"

Dottore fell silent again. This time, he wasn't able to connect the dots. "What do you mean?"

"When the doctors came in. And I was talking to them. Did the other one- Does he remember what I said?"

Childe gave him a plaintive look, too exhausted to be concerned with appearing meek. He knew he must have. But for the moment, he just didn't care. Dottore pursed his lips.

"Nothing of any significance, apparently," Dottore answered. His attention flickered back to Childe's bandages, double-checking his handiwork. "He said you were simply responding to the other man's questions with no real fuss. You sounded a bit groggy; but at that point, they were simply inclined to believe that your medications were doing their job. Now that we know they were not- Well, at any rate, that was what he could recall. If you and the other man exchanged words before it happened, he was not aware of it. He'd already turned away to prepare your next doses."

Childe frowned slightly, not entirely satisfied with the answer. To a certain extent, it almost made him feel worse, to have lost control in such mundane circumstances. He still wondered if the situation had somehow escalated prior to his attack on the closest doctor. But Childe's anxiety was no fault of Dottore's, and at the end of the day, he supposed he should at least be grateful that dead men told no tales.

With that macabre thought, Childe sighed heavily. He straightened out his back a bit, only to lean to the side to rest his cheek on Dottore's shoulder. He didn't exactly know what made the Segments tick, but whatever it was, it almost flawlessly mimicked the qualities of a human body; he was warm. Even though Childe knew in reality that his fever must have made him much warmer, Dottore felt like the first rays of sunshine on a dewy spring morning. Like a newborn sliver of light after darkness.

Childe tried closing his eyes for a moment. When nothing immediately whispered to him, he let out a gentle exhale of relief.

Dottore let all this pass without comment, though he had stiffened a bit at the first point of contact. After a moment though, his shoulders relaxed. He pressed his fingers to Childe's spine lightly, right between his shoulder blades. From there, they began to trace comforting circles onto his skin.

Childe opened his eyes eventually, staring listlessly ahead of himself as Dottore stroked his back.

"So what now?" Childe finally asked roughly, his throat still feeling raw.

Dottore sighed gently, sounding tired. "Just give that last injection a few more minutes. After that, you need to take in some fluids, and then we'll move onto your next doses. But since you haven't been able to keep anything down, the main concern at this point is to ensure you won't vomit again."

Childe gave a half-hearted grunt of understanding. His stomach already felt a lot better, but he would concede to Dottore's judgment above his own. He rubbed his cheek against Dottore's shoulder to comfort himself. He was looking down at both their laps, and silently grabbed Dottore's free hand to hold between the two of them. The Second complied without a word, even letting Childe remove his glove and set it on the floor beside them. Once that was done, Childe flipped Dottore's hand over palm side up, cradling it in his own palms as he gently pressed both his thumbs into the center of his palm.

"I missed you," Childe said after a while, nonsensically tracing along all the lines written into Dottore's palm. At this point, he could probably memorize all the mounts and plains within it. And perhaps he already had. Childe could remember being back in the blizzard, caught in between stark white and pitch black, when even the tantalizing whispers of a dark entity were not enough to keep him awake. In those moments, when searching for something else to cling to, he would see something between light and dark. Something without a face, but something that he could nearly reach out and touch. He would move his numb fingers around the image with no conscious understanding of why he was doing it. But it was something to do in the worst of times, and something that felt oddly comforting to reach for. It was familiar, in a way. Almost as familiar as the tracks of his fingertips followed now.

Dottore didn't reply at first. He rarely ever did. Childe never expected him to in these situations, so he was caught by surprise when he felt the Doctor take a deep breath inwards.

"I-" Dottore cut himself short abruptly, as if the word had caught in his throat. "I'm… very pleased to see you back. Regardless of the circumstances."

Childe managed to crack a smile, but it was quickly swept away in the face of sudden remorse. The fact that Dottore had mustered up the courage to say something like that at all was already impressive, but even still after all the callous things Childe had said to him? He didn't want to take that for granted.

"I'm sorry for the way I reacted when you came in," Childe said solemnly. "I really do appreciate you being here."

Dottore scoffed lightly, and Childe's head bobbed with the shrug of his shoulders. "It's no matter. It's only natural to wish to seek counsel directly from the source, so to speak. I take no offense to such reservations. I merely work around them."

"But that's not fair to you. Or him." Childe bit the inside of his cheek. "And I don't usually think of you all like that. I just- urgh, I don't know."

Childe didn't know how to properly express himself. There he went again, feeling like his own control was slipping through his fingers. He squeezed Dottore's hand instinctively at the thought, as if it was the only thing still holding him down to earth.

"I just haven't been able to think straight since I got back," Childe confessed. "Everything feels so vague and far off. And after what happened here, I- I don't even remember any of it. It doesn't feel like it could possibly be real. None of it does. And I just…"

He trailed off, almost losing track of what he was saying. But he swerved back to it, if only to feel like he was getting at least a sliver of his control back in the process. If he couldn't put his feelings into words, then what hope did he have for anything else? What had he been wishing for? What was he missing? When the answer finally came to him, he swallowed roughly.

"I think I really just needed… something real," Childe finally said. It came out as a croak, cracked at the edges and flimsy enough to have been swept away by an errant breeze. But the air was still, and the room was silent. The statement simply settled in around them with nowhere else to go.

Dottore didn't reply. Childe didn't expect him to. It was an admission too small and irrational to possibly warrant addressing, and he knew that. Childe understood that his journey was only his own; even a roadblock as seemingly insurmountable as this one must be conquered by his own will alone. Perhaps the medications the medical team was giving him were healing his physical form - though Childe had been overexaggerating the extent of their efficacy, knowing that most traditional medicines had little to no effect on his body - but in the end, these silly little reservations and the sensation of encroaching darkness were a product of his ailing spiritual self. That, he couldn’t rely on Dottore to fix. But Childe could still be grateful for his listening ear. And he was. More than could possibly be described by his fever-addled mind. Childe sniffed loudly, his sinuses suddenly feeling swollen and irritated. He was content to brush it off as a byproduct of his illness.

"Hey, Dottore?" Childe called out, eager to change the subject.

"What is it?" Dottore asked. His voice was uncharacteristically soft.

"You said you're here because you can't get sick, right?"

"That would be an accurate statement, yes."

Childe picked up his head then, forcing a small smile to his face and trying to come off as more playful than he felt. "So a little kiss wouldn't hurt anything, would it?"

Dottore returned his gaze with a closed-mouthed grimace.

"Just because you can't transfer germs to this body doesn't mean I have any desire to slurp up the remnants of whatever you just expelled," Dottore droned. "If anything, do we have to do this in front of a toilet?"

"I didn't say it had to be on the lips," Childe argued lightly, jutting out his lower lip in a pout.

Dottore groaned in exasperation, but his hand soon came up to pinch the peak of his mask between his fingers. He lifted it up partially - just enough to lean in and press a kiss to Childe's temple. That was a little disappointing; Childe would have wanted to see his face, but he was too tired to press his luck. It was still nice, though. He let his eyes flutter closed with no apprehension of what might meet him on the other side. That alone made the whole thing worthwhile.

Dottore leaned back then, making sure his mask was reaffixed firmly to his features, letting out a sigh.

"Better?"

"Mm hm," Childe hummed. He leaned against Dottore's shoulder again, only to be gently urged back upright.

"No, sit back up," Dottore instructed. "You need to drink a little, then we can move on to your next doses. The sooner we can get you back in bed, the better."

Childe simply let him go, knowing his reasoning was sound. Soon, Dottore had scoured up a glass of water for him. Childe was able to rinse his mouth out before greedily gulping down the rest of the glass, not realizing how thirsty he was until he’d done it. He asked for more, but Dottore urged him to wait; they still had to be careful with his stomach. Childe was now soothed enough to simply take his instruction in stride, and remained quiet as Dottore settled back in to finish the job.

There were two more injections. According to Dottore, one was an antiviral treatment, and the other was a light sedative to help with his pain. It was as he’d said before; nothing different than what had been given to Childe before. His previous treatments just hadn’t gone over quite as well due to the issues with his stomach that he pointedly tried not to bring up to medical staff, though it had grown too severe to hide after a while. But since the incident with the deceased doctor, Childe had declined any further injectable treatments from any staff not also extensively combat trained - none of them, of course, met the qualifications in Childe’s eyes. He supposed he was kind of a terrible patient, now that he thought about it. He just didn’t like being poked and prodded so much. And though he could never be sure if that sort of thing was what had set his reflexes off during his unconsciousness, he wanted to play it safe. Now that Dottore was here, though, he no longer had any excuses to not at least play along. Childe didn’t have very high hopes though; he had already steeled himself for the eventuality that the treatment would be as ineffective as it had been before. Maybe it would do something , sure - but the most challenging part of his recovery would be up to him.

Thankfully, these two injections could not simply just be shoved into him with reckless abandon; Childe could see it all coming, watching Dottore as he worked to find a vein on his forearm. It took a while, with how dehydrated Childe was, but he eventually found a good spot.

Now that he'd calmed down a little, it was actually relaxing to see Dottore doing this sort of thing. He was intently focused on what he was doing, not even looking up between the first and second injections. His jaw was squared, and now more than ever Childe felt tempted to ask if he could see his face. He always looked especially handsome when he poured himself into his work. And maybe he had an awful bedside manner, but it seemed that Dottore was surprisingly good at caretaking when he wanted to be - when it was something that truly mattered to him.

Childe's eyelids drooped a little. He really was tired. Trouble was, he doubted he could get a restful sleep even if he wanted to. There were too many unknowns that came with full unconsciousness now. He would have to settle for quiet meditation to get his strength back for the time being. That usually got him through well enough in a pinch. Even though it had been well over a week now since Childe had gotten a good night's sleep… It would have to do for now. He didn't want to take any more risks.

Dottore finished the last injection, wrapping the site off tightly to discourage it from bleeding. But his hands seemed to ghost so gently across his skin, Childe could barely even feel them. He honestly wouldn't have guessed that Dottore could be this careful. It was so soothing, Childe could feel his eyes growing even heavier.

It was… odd. The realization hit him rather suddenly, albeit dully. Childe wasn't one to relax this much in the presence of another. Even someone he was as intimately close with as Dottore. It just wasn't like him. He was… always primed for conflict, just as Dottore said. But not now. Not anymore. Something had changed.

Something… had changed.

No. Something was…

Childe realized he couldn't think straight. Everything felt muddled. As he watched Dottore slowly putting everything back into his bag, Childe tried lifting his hand up to his head, as if to hold his thoughts still by hand.

It felt like an impossible task. As he made the gesture, his arm felt both overwhelmingly heavy and impossibly light. It felt like he barely had any control over the motion whatsoever. Even as he successfully brought his hand up to his face, his fingers merely brushed against his cheek listlessly before falling back to his side. As it did, his previous thought suddenly concluded itself with a distant, vague sense of dread.

Not right.

Something… was not right.

Childe could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as rising alarm forced itself through his mental fog. He tried to sit up straighter, but the motion only made him a little dizzy. Through sheer willpower alone, Childe put two and two together. His eyes fell on the bandage wrapped around his forearm, where a loosely-defined substance had just been injected into him. Then, he looked back up to Dottore.

"Dottore, what-" Childe groaned as he realized what a tremendous effort speaking had become. His words were slightly slurred. "What the hell… did you give me?"

Dottore didn't look at him immediately. He simply sighed as he closed up his bag.

"It was exactly what I said it would be," the Second said lowly. He looked back up then, his features fixed into a somber frown. "The first one was an antiviral dose. The second one was a sedative. The same exact sedative you've received before - except this time, at a dosage nearly high enough to take out a Sumpter beast."

Enough to… what?

Anger rose in Childe's breast, but it felt too far away to harness. He could only half-heartedly, drunkenly grit his teeth at Dottore, slurring, "Are you… fucking crazy?"

Dottore's mouth twitched in discontent. "In a sense, yes. That is the other reason why my specific intervention was required, unfortunately; it was expected that you would not approve of such methods. None of our staff wanted to be the ones to go directly against a Harbinger's orders… or be the one that gave a Harbinger a potentially lethal dose."

"So you wanted to do that?" Childe hissed in reproach.

"No, Childe. The point is, the dose would be lethal given to any other man. But the same concerns need not apply to you, should they?" Dottore shook his head then, almost in disbelief. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But I couldn't have waited for you to offer your consent. You wouldn't have anyway, and this is for your own good. Your fever has maintained an unprecedented peak since it broke. Your heart rate is through the roof. You shouldn't be able to function like this. You shouldn't even still be alive ."

Childe cringed at the statement, struggling to keep himself upright as Dottore finally stood up beside him.

"Knowing you, I don't suspect you would ever willingly disclose to anyone how this could possibly be the case," Dottore continued. "Which is exactly why it was necessary to mislead you. I don't know what's going on with you, but one thing is abundantly clear: if your condition does not improve, in the best-case scenario, your own metabolism is going to eventually eat you alive. Worst case scenario… Well, at this juncture, I suppose only you would know."

Childe wanted to defend himself, but the words wouldn't come out. Maybe even in his haze, on a certain level, he knew Dottore was right. Or maybe he was so pissed off that he just couldn't properly dictate his ire. Regardless of the reason, the feeling and logic behind all these things were simply sliding down his back. Every emotion was dull and fleeting. Now, more than ever, nothing seemed real. Did any of this even matter, if he’d allowed himself to be caught off guard so easily?

But something like instinct kept Childe upright, even as his vision began to tunnel. He was vaguely aware that Dottore was now helping him to his feet. He was saying something else. Childe missed the first half of it before having to consciously pull himself back into the present.

"...-ithout knowing more, this is the only option left," Dottore continued. He slung Childe's arm over his shoulder to help keep him upright, and Childe could see him purse his lips in concern. "A veritable hard reset of the system isn't much of an option, but… As I said, this is the last chance I'm able to offer you. You may not like this, but I can guarantee you'll like it a lot more than what will follow if this doesn't work."

Childe could barely make sense of anything anymore. He was fighting to stay awake, and quickly losing. Dottore was now practically dragging him across the room toward his bed, his legs kept giving out from under him every time he tried taking a step forward.

No. This couldn't happen. It didn't feel right. He didn't feel right. His body didn't feel like his own. He was losing… he was losing control again. 

Dottore didn't understand. He didn't understand what Childe stood to lose like this. It was all going to fade away. He was going to fade away.

Not like this. Not like this. Oh, Archon, not like this.

Childe wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs, but he couldn't muster up the emotion to let it loose. His anger and betrayal already felt a long way left behind.

"Fucking… asshole…" Childe slurred. It was the last bit of defiance he was holding onto, and as soon as he said it, that too seemed to empty out of him as if he were a sieve.

Soon, the only thing left was fear.

Childe vaguely registered being eased down onto the bed. Dottore was speaking again, but he wasn't hearing all of it. He could barely see or hear anything now. He wasn't even entirely certain if his eyes were still open.

"...-st need to sleep. That's…"

No. No. Dottore didn't understand.

"...-ear me? Don't figh-…"

What if he didn't make it out this time?

"...be fine. Just go to…"

What if this time, the darkness wouldn't let go?

"...be right here."

Childe couldn't fight it any longer. An unnatural, medicated unconsciousness soon overtook him.

It felt like falling again.

Childe could remember what it felt like to still have light in his eyes.

It wasn’t something one realized in the moment - not anything that could be described by any language known to man, or even by those that man could never speak. But it’s something that one can feel on some complex, incomprehensible level. Something that makes you. Something that drives the very meaning of the existence you were granted.

And you don't know it until it's gone.

But he remembered that feeling now, in the throes of a formless and empty dreamscape, and remembered that he still felt it the moment long ago that his heavy eyelids had fluttered open from where he lay on the floor. Black met black; there wasn't much for scenery in the Abyss. It was always like that. But as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he soon found Skirk, his master, watching over him.

He had been fighting off a ferocious entity long before this as part of his training. And he'd won; but the battle had been so arduous, he'd lost consciousness the moment his adrenaline had faded.

When he awoke, Skirk immediately informed him that they had been ambushed by a second beast as soon as he drifted off. She'd fought it off herself, and brought them both to safety.

She then told him that a warrior must never lose consciousness on the battlefield, no matter how desperately the body fights to shut down. Because as a warrior, every choice you make in battle is a dire one; it decides whether you live or die, and whether or not you do so honorably. And even losing consciousness was a choice all warriors made for themselves. You could either give into the urge, and doom yourself to a helpless, dishonorable demise, or you fought through it tooth and nail. Foght with honor - even if you were only fighting for your final breath to be one breathed in righteous defiance.

She told him that if he ever passed out in battle again, she would not come to his aid a second time. She told him that if it happened again, she would kill him herself. She would do so out of mercy; for if he willingly made that choice a second time, it would be known that he didn't have what it would take to make it out of the Abyss alive. She would end his suffering right then and there. And just like that, his tempestuous trials would be for naught.

He supposed that was why he had been so apprehensive to fall back into a deep sleep after the incident with the doctor. Even though he had long since left the battlefield, losing control made him feel like some unseen war was being waged within him. So he couldn't afford to take rest. He couldn't afford to go back to that place. If he did, he would be making a choice; he would be choosing to let himself fade away. And even if he awoke from such a slumber with his body and mind healed, maybe he didn’t rightfully deserve to be awake.

Maybe it would be more fitting to sink into the mercy of eternal dark.

Hah… How contradictory, now that he thought about it. He’d been so afraid of making the choice of passivity, he was blinded with the fear. Too blind to realize that the path he was treading was the most passive of them all. Of course he would have been unable to regain control if he did not give his body what it needed to heal. Rest, medicine, comfort - he’d had none of these things in the dark of the Abyss. So why would he seek such intervention now?

But he supposed that things merely looked different in the light than he did in the dark. He struggled with that idea still. Though he still wanted to make her proud, the path he was on now was different from the one he once walked with Skirk. What was once passive then was not a fixed point in time; it was ever changing, and ever evolving along with his own abilities.

But that still begged the question: if the right choices were constantly shifting before his eyes, then where would the warrior’s road eventually lead him? What would happen when he got there?

What would the right choice be, when the darkness threatened to drag him down for the final time?

It cannot yet be comprehended what is sought. These silly mortal riddles are mere distractions to keep the beasts at bay. Such deliberations mock that which guides you forward.

So he was just thinking too hard about it? How anticlimactic. Childe almost felt a bit disappointed by the results. Though a certain nagging voice in his ear certainly didn’t help matters, you know.

Do not speak lightly of that which encroaches. You know nothing of the shadows you cast, that which will one day cast you in turn.

If it simply wasn't his time yet, it could have just said that from the very beginning.

Insignificant drivel. You act as if your misactions have any stake. You are not a storm to be superseded by solar thermals from the east. You are the eye of it. An absence of space defined only by the torrential reckoning which surrounds it. You survive by the chaos it breeds; not the other way around.

Ouch. No need to hit below the belt.

Aggravating boy.

But that meant that he'd still have to lose himself one day, didn’t it? Maybe not here, maybe not now… but someday.

You muse too frivolously over the inevitable.

He knew that.

He knew.

He'd known from the very beginning.

But… at the very least, if he was presently in the clear, could it least try not to fuck with him for no reason? All that squabbling in his ear was what made it so hard for him to relax.

You call its name, and it will answer.

Yeah, but it's been answering back for a little too long now. Somebody's not very good at taking a hint…

Does your impudence know no bounds, child?

It matters not. The connection will fade once more as your mind and body recover. This too is inevitable.

Inevitable this, inevitable that. He got the point. Now if it didn’t mind, a little time to really recuperate sounded like heaven right about now. He could worry more about everything else later.

Worry? So you still choose to fear it?

So what if he did? Maybe he was tired of pretending not to fear it. Maybe making the choice to fear it was better than making no choice at all.

…You are a fool. But do what you will. Your futile rationale has no effect on that which will one day come to pass.

He knew that. No need to tell him twice.

Just go. And good riddance.

You are the one that called.

And you're the one that overstayed your welcome.

You say such things with an overabundance of confidence… But have you not been listening this whole time? Silly blustering child, speaking to himself in riddles. 

That name you call… One day, it will be your own.

And on that day, not even fear will remain.

"...marked improvement. I suspect…"

The darkness seemed to slowly subside.

"...-eave now."

But Childe could still not open his eyes.

"...advise against this."

He heard a voice.

"...-n't believe I asked for…"

Very faintly.

"...may go now. Your pr-...."

Not the whispers of oblivion, this time, though the tone was just as hushed.

"...not even going to wake up."

Nor could it be attributed to anything from the blinding brightness of day.

"All the more reason not to que-..."

It was something without a face, but something he could nearly reach out and touch.

"...-isks have already been..."

Neither light nor dark.

"...don't care."

But something in between the two.

"...You know what is best."

Childe awoke to a feeling of warmth.

It was the first thing he registered as his eyelids fluttered open, and the only thing he had to cling to to help him reach conciousness. But when his eyes were finally open, he didn't know what to make of what he saw. It was a vague assortment of shapes without edges, and the room was completely dark. His eyes would need time to adjust to the lack of light. Before that happened, however, he somehow innately recognized the source of warmth anyway. It was centered on his forehead - a pair of lips pressed gently against his skin in a kiss. He could also feel a hand in his hair, smoothing his fringe back from where it had been covering his face. There was also a dip in the mattress at his side where someone else was sitting.

Dottore pulled back from him, and immediately froze as soon as he was met with the Eleventh's bleary gaze. Then, his face twisted up in discontent.

"Shit," Dottore said quietly.

Childe squinted his eyes at him. Even though he was looking right at his face, which was now completely bare of any mask, Childe was having trouble focusing on what he was seeing. The image felt too distant. What his eyes captured inexplicably wasn’t making sense in his mind. "Dottore?"

"How the hell could you possibly be awake? That's-" Dottore cut himself off with a vague shake of his head. He'd been muttering it, more to himself than Childe, but decided to abandon his bewilderment for the time being. "Just go back to sleep, alright? You shouldn't be up already."

"Dottore?" Childe asked again, furrowing his brows and bringing a hand to his own face. He pressed his palm to his eye socket as if he thought it would clear his head. Something wasn't right. Why couldn't he make sense of what was right in front of him? Everything felt… weird. "I don't- Something's wrong. Something doesn't make sense… You're- It's not making sense."

"You're still heavily medicated," Dottore said quickly, seemingly unfazed by Childe's failing attempts to express himself. "You've just never been effectively sedated before. But if you're experiencing a sense of unreality, that's perfectly normal."

Childe was listening, but it was taking too long for the words to fully process. He brought his other hand up, rubbing both his eyes now. Medication… Sedation… It was very slowly all coming back to him in mismatched bits and pieces. That was right. He'd been sedated. For real, this time. It was the first time he'd ever felt something like this. It was almost like being drunk, but… worse. Much, much worse.

"I don't-" It was still somewhat of a struggle to speak, and he kept tripping over his words. "Shit. I don't… like this."

Childe felt less apprehensive than he had when he passed out - though at that point, he did not understand why - but the feeling of being so heavily medicated still set him ill at ease. It was too floaty; unsettlingly incorporeal. And yet at the same time, his entire body seemed to be made of lead. He didn't think he could have stood up even if he tried. He was still rubbing his eyes incessantly, but now it was simply because that was where gravity was pushing down on him. The very thought of trying to move his arms again exhausted him to his core.

Thankfully, at that moment, Dottore grabbed onto his wrists lightly and set them at his sides for him. 

"Don't do that,” he urged. “Just go back to sleep. You'll feel better once it's completely out of your system."

Childe opened his eyes again, and his vision was saturated with little white spots. Even in his inert state, he was so disoriented that the ceiling seemed to start gradually tilting to the side. Childe could feel his pulse begin to pick up, and he swallowed roughly.

"Oh. I don't like this." His voice sounded so small and foreign to his own ears, but he didn't care.

"I know. I'm sorry," Dottore replied gently. If Childe had been in his right mind, he might have been struck by how genuine the apology sounded. Now, however, those little details were coming and going too quickly to keep track of. "Just close your eyes."

Childe did, simply because he couldn't think of anything else to do. His eyelids were still heavy, and they nearly snapped shut the moment he allowed them to. Childe tried to take a deep breath inwards, but it came up too shallow. His heart was still fighting to race against whatever medicine was currently trying to keep it in check.

Suddenly, Childe felt Dottore shifting his weight around. His eyes flew open, and he blindly shot his hand out to catch the Second by the wrist before he could even register why the movement had caused him to panic in the first place. "No! No."

"Childe, just- Shit, loosen up a little," Dottore hissed quietly. Childe didn't understand what he meant until he started trying to twist himself out of Childe's hand with great difficulty. Childe practically had him in a death grip. He was able to muster up the composure to keep his strength in check, but he could not allow himself to let go.

"Okay. Okay," Childe said, though his voice had gone shrill with panic. He was taking in desperate, clunky gasps of air with every word. "Just- You're not leaving, are you?"

"I'm not going. Just calm down."

"Okay. Okay. Please don't go."

"I won't. I'm right here. You need to calm down, sweetheart."

Childe's grip finally wore itself out. Dottore was able to slip out, only to readjust himself so he could hold onto the Eleventh's hand firmly. As he squeezed the center of his palm, he brought his other hand back to Childe's face, smoothing his hair back against his head with gentle petting motions.

Eventually, Childe was able to get his breathing under control. Oh, Archon, this was terrible. This was exactly why he hadn't bothered telling anyone that the drugs they had been pushing into him weren't doing anything. A little pain and sickness were ultimately nothing to him, and the lack thereof didn't outweigh the uncomfortable, distant feeling overtaking him now. He might feel a bit differently once all this passed, but in his present mind, he'd simply traded one misery for another.

But at least Dottore was there. In the back of his mind, Childe was a little surprised how easy it was to fall into the position of being cared after by him. That wasn't usually something he allowed himself to do, and it certainly wasn't in Dottore's nature to be overly nurturing. But Childe was too delirious to even consider letting his pride ruin this one source of comfort. And against all odds, Dottore felt like the sturdiest, realest thing he had to hold onto.

His mind started wandering at an odd pace; foggy memories of the last moments he could remember before slipping into deep sleep, played all out of order and starting and stopping in irreverent places. He remembered telling Dottore he had missed him, and Dottore - in his own way - returning the sentiment.

It had been a long time since they last saw each other. They were both so busy, there weren't many opportunities to simply be in one another's company. And for all that time to pass, only for Childe to show up broken and bent after an excursion most men wouldn't have made it out of… Childe hadn't even considered the idea that Dottore might have been worried about him. Dottore didn't say things like that, of course. But for as well-spoken as he was, his actions usually spoke more volumes than his words ever could.

Another memory suddenly resurfaced, one that made Childe's heart clench in regret.

"I called you an asshole before I fell asleep," he blurted out suddenly, eyes still numbly fixed to the ceiling. He looked at Dottore then, who seemed a little perplexed by the random outburst. 

After a moment, though, the Second merely snorted in amusement. "You certainly did."

Dottore was smiling now, but Childe could only frown.

"I'm sorry," Childe said quietly.

"Don't be," Dottore said, chuckling. "It's just an astute observation."

Childe bit the inside of his cheek. Dottore was jovial enough about it, but it didn't make him feel any better. For as questionable as his methods may have been, Dottore had done everything in his power to try and do right by him - and even flying by the seat of his pants, he'd managed to do just that.

Dottore would probably have the most to gain from dragging out the secrets Childe kept. And Childe didn't doubt that the man probably had at least an inkling of a suspicion that this would be the case. But he still went out of his way to ensure that Childe could have a chance to make it out of this without any drastic, prying intervention. And Childe had fought him almost every step of the way. 

"No…" Childe tried to protest. "You-"

Dottore just hushed him before he could continue.

"It's fine, Childe. Really," Dottore insisted. He sighed then, momentarily taking his hand off of Childe's head to run it through his own hair wearily. "You should really go back to sleep now."

Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, Childe fought the urge to argue. He doubted he could properly express himself in this state anyway, still tripping over every other slurred word he could manage to eke out. And at the very least, he knew that since Dottore had done right by him, he now had a responsibility to do the same. There wasn't much he could do like this, but if all Dottore needed to be put at ease was to see him through a good night's sleep, then the least Childe could do was follow his instruction. He still felt a little keyed up, though. His uneasiness hadn't quite abated.

"I will. Just-" Childe started, trying to parse through his muddled thoughts. He didn't want to worry Dottore more, so he tried to think of something hopeful to say. "I-I think I'm fine now."

"That's… probably a bit of an overstatement," Dottore replied with an awkward scoff. "But your fever is already coming down. I'm sure by morning, you'll already be back to trying to cause trouble."

"...Yeah." Childe let out a forced, humorless laugh. It made his blurry vision shake. "I'm… I guess I'm okay now."

He furrowed his brows in unrest. That should have been true. He didn't feel that overwhelming pull to some dark place anymore. He didn't feel quite as lost. But it felt like a lie. A lie he didn't want to tell.

"Well-" Childe narrowed his eyes pensively. "No."

Dottore raised an eyebrow at him, the shadows on his face spelling out concern. "What's wrong?"

"I'm- I'm not okay," Childe admitted. No. That wasn't quite right either. His features scrunched together from the sheer effort it took just to even think of where to start. It was so difficult to express himself like this. "I am, but I'm not. I'm not okay, but- I'm here."

The final statement seemed to fall back onto him as soon as it left his lips. It sat square on his chest and made his heart ache.

"I'm here," Childe repeated in a whisper. Lowering his volume did not make it any lighter to say. Nor could it discourage the natural conclusion that he hadn't yet realized was weighing so heavily on his mind. "For now, at least."

Silence fell over the room. As Childe sat there with a troubling revelation he did not currently have the capacity to process, he nearly forgot Dottore was sitting beside him.

"Childe?" Dottore called gently, reminding him of his presence. Now he actually sounded concerned. Of course Childe had managed to screw up not worrying him.

But maybe for once, Childe actually wanted someone to be worried for him.

"I don't-" Childe's voice cracked. Little pinpricks of hot discomfort began to sting at his eyes. "I don't like this."

"I- I know. You just have to-"

"I'm scared."

That made Dottore stop short of urging Childe back to sleep again. For a while, he clearly didn't know how to respond. The hand holding Childe's twitched slightly in surprise, and for a moment, Childe was afraid he would let go of it.

But he didn't. He soon readjusted his grip, until he was holding his hand even tighter than before. Then eventually, he just asked, "Of what?"

Nothing that Childe could put into words, least not when words were so hard to come by. Nothing that wouldn't give away secrets that should never be told, especially when those secrets would only drive a wedge between Childe and the person currently keeping him safely battened down to earth.

Nothing that wouldn't happen anyway, no matter how much Childe feared it.

He knew. He'd known from the very beginning.

It was senseless to spend any time at all dwelling on it. That was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

But Childe didn't have much sense left to hold onto at the present. 

"Dottore?" He found himself calling out to him, as if Dottore could have managed to drift off somewhere in the short time that Childe had fallen into troubled silence. He had not, of course. He squeezed Childe's hand gently, as if to prove this was not the case.

"Yes?"

"Do you…" Childe trailed off. He was faintly aware that his eyes were welling up with tears, but he didn't bother to stop them. "Do you ever think about what you're doing this all for? And you know it's what you want, and you know it's right, and you know it's what needs to happen. But- Even when you know it's what you want... A-and you know it's the only way to get it- Do you still worry that by the time you get there, there's not going to be anything left of what you started out as?"

Later, when the day would be new and his mind would be crystal clear, Childe would know that he shouldn't have asked.

Because amongst the Harbingers, he was far from the only one of them that harbored secrets.

Nor could he be the only one at risk of becoming lost in the shadows he cast.

But despite this, he would also find himself grateful that he had wound up asking it anyway.

But now, none of these revelations could be seen through the delirious fog of despair or the tilting ceiling that seemed ready to cave in around him. When he was met with a deafening silence, he didn't think well enough to see what kind of expression Dottore had on his face now, or to retract his words as the nonsense they were. He simply let the quiet linger until it was too much to bear.

"Dottore?"

"Yes."

His response was clipped, but not harsh. It was merely small. But the smallness was lost on Childe, as were all the other small details - the way he squeezed Childe's hand just a little too tightly, and how the hoarseness of his voice made him sound older than he should have been. The only thing that Childe could truly recognize was a somber sense of validation.

"Yeah," Childe said dumbly. He'd already run out of half-finished things to say. He felt tears begin to fall from his lashes and stream down his temples, but he felt disconnected from them. "Yeah."

Another few moments of silence passed between them before Dottore broke the stillness. Without a word, he pulled his legs up into the bed, readjusting until he was finally facing Childe head-on. He laid down beside him, and Childe used what little will he had remaining to move his boneless body to make room. Dottore snuck one arm under him for Childe to rest his head upon, and draped the other across his chest, pulling him close. 

Childe didn't even have the energy to turn over on his side, and vaguely registered that it might not be a good idea to do so with his injury, so he simply turned his head to the side to at least get a look at him. Their faces were close enough that their noses brushed - Dottore's eyes, blissfully, were the only thing he could focus on.

Childe sniffled as Dottore started wiping away the tears still freely flowing from his eyes. His thoughts were wandering again; but finally, it felt like they were wandering towards something more peaceful. His eyelids were growing heavy, and now that he was wrapped up in Dottore's arms, his body felt less liable to float away on the wind. It made him conjure up a notion that was too abstract to properly grasp, and yet he felt compelled to say it nonetheless.

"Maybe- Maybe it can be a little better," Childe remarked drowsily. "Maybe if somewhere, there were… something left of us at the end, then that can be good enough. You can hold onto something of me. And I'll hold onto something of you. And… no matter what happens… that way, we'll both be there."

Dottore looked at him with something in his eyes that Childe couldn't presently find the words for. But it was warm. It was real.

"I'd like that," Dottore replied quietly.

Childe wanted to say more, but his train of thought quickly drifted off track. He couldn't remember what exactly it was that he wanted to give Dottore; that theoretical part of him that would be guaranteed to make it to the end of his journey regardless of whatever else happened.

Whatever it was, he was sure Dottore already had it. Maybe he even had Dottore's as well.

But as Childe lets his eyes fall closed one last time, he wasn't concerned about figuring it out. It wasn't something that needed to be worried about just yet.

For now, they were both here.

Though Dottore had gone by the time Childe had woken up the following morning, the Eleventh was eventually able to run into him a few days afterwards at the palace. By that time, Childe had finally made a full recovery. Upon seeing the Segment that had been at his bedside in the courtyard, he approached him with a chipper attitude and boisterous rancor.

After apparently startling the Segment half out of his skin with his noisy approach - which Childe considered odd enough on its own, as neither Dottore nor his Segments startled easily - he noted that the clone was exceedingly curt and irritable with him. Not only that, but his reactions seemed just a bit slower than they usually were, and he was having trouble focusing. This naturally led Childe to ask him what was wrong, which the Second’s proxy initially brushed off.

After a bit of goading, however, the Segment then almost vindictively admitted that he was not operating at maximum efficiency - his external directives were temporarily suspended to prevent overclocking the compromised cognitive network. After the explanation was met with nothing but a blank stare, he phrased the issue in a different way.

The Segments were currently running on pure autopilot. Though it was possible for them to operate thusly, their intended purpose was to act as active proxies for their creator, and as such a certain degree of constant psychic intervention was necessary to keep them running smoothly.

Unfortunately, Dottore had mysteriously ended up coming down with a minor illness, which left him in no condition to effectively maintain a stable telepathic connection with the Segments. For the time being, his duties were suspended, and he was to remain on strict bed rest until his recovery.

The Segment simply told Childe to do with that information what he would - and that if "he" wanted to keep the whole thing under wraps so badly, "he" shouldn't have insisted on butting in in the first place. He stormed off in a huff, leaving an extremely bewildered Childe to put together the pieces on his own.

But eventually, Childe thought back to the night Dottore had overseen his own recovery. Heremembered waking up in a dizzying, drug-addled state, and being immediately met with a presence that had indescribably puzzled him. He was only able to brush it off after quick and careful insistence from the other party - but it had felt strangely like he was looking at a different person than the one he'd been looking at just before falling asleep.

Childe smiled to himself in the middle of the courtyard.

He didn't have any new assignments yet. It would be a perfect opportunity to pop in on the Doctor and try to brighten up his day a bit. The Eleventh certainly didn’t have as much to offer in the way of medical intervention, but perhaps he could at least fix up some soup while he was there, if Dottore was feeling up to it. If not, he could at least spend the day in bed with him. Childe wouldn’t mind just being there - he’d have nothing to worry about, as far as potentially falling ill from sharing close quarters.

He probably wouldn't be catching what he'd already had, after all.