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tampered2006-09-20 04:34 am
natty-boy.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-09-20 04:34 am
Log: Complete
When; Backdated to September 17, post-Macabre Tea Day.
Rating; Strong PG-13 for language.
Characters; Kitty Jones (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kittyjones) and Nathaniel (natty_boy).
Summary; Bartimaeus and Kitty help Nathaniel to the latter's apartment while the former leaves the two alone in search of medical supplies. Kitty is left to tend to the half-conscious magician in the meantime.
Log;
Vaguely, the magician registered that they weren't walking anymore. It felt like forever, the trudge from wherever the bloody hell that fountain was to the flat. There were some exchanged words that didn't quite reach his ears, a bit of shifting around on his part, and then he was lying down. Odd, he thought absently. I was just standing...
He kept his eyes tightly shut. Somehow, he had the sneaking suspicion that if he opened them, Bad Things would happen. Namely, him rolling over (possibly on his bad side, too) and being ill all over the floor. He doubted anything would come up -- he was certain he hadn't munched on anything post-mortem. But nevertheless, he tried not to move; if he did, the room would move. He'd ruin the floor. Kitty wouldn’t like that.
Bartimaeus had left them alone, gone to get something to help with the healing. What it was, Kitty wasn't entirely sure. She had no idea what could be used to fix a hole this big, except perhaps a needle and some very sturdy thread. So for the moment, it was just Kitty and Nathaniel. Just the two of them.
Nathaniel hadn't spoken for a long time, and for a while they'd been worried he'd slipped into unconsciousness – or worse. The djinni had told Kitty to clean Nathaniel up as best she could while he was away. Her flat was, sadly, not really equipped for first aid. So at the moment, the semi-lucid boy was lying on the floor, on the rug, and Kitty was clutching a tea towel, a cushion, and a bowl of water. Hardly impressive tools. Better than nothing, though.
Kneeling down beside him, she tried to be as gentle as possible as she lifted up his head, and placed the cushion beneath it. "Sorry if that hurt," she muttered. He was so pale, but his face was damp with sweat. She took a closer look at the wound, and swore furiously under her breath.
"Listen, Nathaniel? I need to... erm..." Kitty was blushing now, and glad he probably couldn't make it out, "I need to... take off your shirt. All right?"
The young man barely managed to bite back a groan when his head was lifted. Not that it hurt, but more so that it made his thoughts spin – it annoyed him. His eyes were still closed, that was supposed to prevent the whole ridiculous I’m-Going-To-Be-Ill-All-Over-Your-Trousers thing. Automatically, he turned his face away from the sound of Kitty’s voice, just in case that did happen. He dimly recalled what she was like in a temper, and didn’t wish for it to happen at the moment.
Hazily, her voice filtered into his thoughts again, but didn’t make much sense. He only caught the first few and last words, the middle utterly lost to him. He mumbled some sort of affirmative answer, the words jumbled enough to make out, “...s’fine. Whatev...”
Despite his best efforts, Kitty noticed that he had nearly groaned when she had moved him, and cursed again under her breath. I have to be more careful, I have to... But she didn't know how she could be careful. Not when she had to take off Nathaniel's shirt.
When Nathaniel turned his face away from her, she bit her lip. Hard. She told herself it was simply because he was being ill, but there was a part of her... He doesn't want some commoner doing this. Seeing him like this. He...
She shook her head. Told herself to stop wallowing in self-pity. Even if it was true, it didn't matter. If he didn't want her to talk, she wouldn’t. There were more pressing issues. The shirt, for one thing. The bloody shirt, which was still tucked into his bloody trousers. It was slightly loose, slightly stained, but still bloody tucked in. Ever the professional, that magician.
Trying to cause him as little discomfort has possible, she reached out and grabbed the shirt where it was slightly loose on his stomach, and pulled it up, out of his trousers. She was practically glowing red. Then, slowly, she reached out her hand, and began to undo the buttons from the bottom upwards.
He was drifting a little, now. Somewhere between consciousnesses, and it was better than truly being awake. But escaping into that blissfully quiet corner of his mind didn’t stop the sharp stinging in his side, the constant throb in time with his heartbeat. And God, did he have a headache. The kind that he thought could only be caused by the government or Bartimaeus.
He supposed that the only reason he hadn’t felt the full effects of his injury before now was because at the time, he and Bartimaeus were one and the same. The djinni had probably blocked the pain from him, prevented it from distracting him from the task of...
He could feel a wry smile twitching the corners of his lips, though outwardly, his expression didn’t change. Bartimaeus had prevented it from distracting him from the task of being a stupid hero. From dying. Though, now that he thought about it, a distraction would be truly welcome at this point. Being mortal’s a pain in the arse...
Suddenly, he felt fabric dragging across the wound, and he didn’t manage to catch the whimper that escaped from his throat, didn’t manage to stop his hand from flying out to grab Kitty’s wrist. His grip eased almost immediately, however, when he realized who it was, and he let his hand drop away with a mumbled apology.
When he grabbed her wrist, Kitty couldn't help but gasp, couldn't help but tense up in automatic defence. But when he whimpered... she felt...
"It's all right, Nathaniel. It's fine."
But it wasn't fine. She rolled her wrist in circles for a moment. It had been a hard grip, as only a man in agony can grip... but was his strength the reason she felt like her wrist was on fire? Shaking her head, she continued to unbutton his shirt, and couldn't hide her reaction when she saw the wound in all its bloody (literally) glory.
"Bugger."
Cautiously, she lifted his head again, trying her utmost to move him as slowly as possible. She knew it was probably going to hurt, but she needed to... Splaying her fingers underneath her his hair, she lifted the bowl up to his lips, pressing it gently against them.
"Open up. You need to drink something." It was abrupt, but she was feeling utterly mortified at the moment. Nathaniel was practically lying with his head in her lap. His hair in her hands. She could only imagine what he had to be feeling.
It hurt to form sentences. On some level, he could hear Kitty, could think of answers to her words. But there was something that prevented coherency between his brain and his mouth and he remained silent, concentrated on carefully breathing, the mild stretch of his abdomen with every inhalation a faint sting.
That faint sting escalated to several jabbing needles when his torso was lifted, his stomach muscles protesting loudly at the movement. Mentally, he growled at them to shut up. He didn’t need more than one voice yelling into his ear, and... God, was he really thinking about that? I’ve gone mad, he thought blandly. I’m arguing with my stomach, for God’s sake.
Presently, he felt the touch of cool liquid against his lips and he hesitated for a long moment, recalling the blood in the fountain, in people’s tea and coffee. He couldn’t smell the metallic scent of blood, however; he was all too familiar with that. Tentatively, he took a sip. When he didn’t taste the coppery tang of blood, he began to drink greedily, pushing his chin up to the bowl.
After she placed to bowl in front of him, she held her breath. Wondering whether he was even aware of it. Wondered if he could tell what going on. Wondered if he could summon up the strength to...
Drink.
Apparently, he could still drink.
She let him gulp the cold water down for a moment, but then after a while, when he was still swallowing fast, she snatched it away from him. "Slow down! It's not going to disappear or anything! Small sips - don't rush it!" Not wanting him to choke, she began to slowly tilt the bowl towards him, then away again, until bit by bit the contents were drained.
Without a word, she lay him down on the cushion again, and then quickly rushed to refill the bowl, and soak the towel. As she walked back, she couldn't stop staring at the wound. It glared out at her, huge and gaping and red against the young man's pale chest. She needed to clean it, but was afraid he would... when he had whimpered before, she had felt...
"This might sting a little." Taking a deep breath, she picked up the damp cloth, and was about to press it gently against his side, when she suddenly decided a distraction might be a good idea. So she went with the first thing that came into her mind.
"I'm sorry I slapped you. You deserved it, because you were acting like a stubborn twat, but..." Not being able to think of anything more to say, she gently placed the cool, damp rag upon him.
Kitty pulled away the bowl just as he was in mid-swallow; abruptly, he began to cough as the water went down the wrong pipe. Eyes fluttering open for a brief moment, he turned his head away from her again as he tried to swallow against the tightness in his throat, to catch his breath. Much too late with that lecture, Kitty, he thought dryly as his body’s attempt to hack up a lung eventually subsided. Carefully, he took a deep breath and tipped his head back to the bowl of water, obediently sipping at the water now until it was gone.
He was lying down again. Bewildered, he cracked an eye open a slit, one bleary, dark eye scanning the room quickly. He spotted Kitty as she walked back to him and closed his eye again with an inaudible sigh. But then he heard her speak, and the words finally registered. And unluckily for him, he didn’t hear the rare apology that came from the ex-Resistance ringleader. His heart began to speed up with dread.
Not. Good.
Nathaniel tightened his jaw against the blinding pain that suddenly tore across his side, but the action wasn’t enough to stop the agonized groan that tumbled from his lips. His nails dug into the rug, and his breathing hitched, back arching slightly against the sensations. Passing out right about now would definitely be welcome.
"Bollocks!" When Nathaniel started, she jumped herself. When he groaned and arched at... bollocks. "Hell. Sorry, sorry, Nathaniel, I didn't... I'll be gentler. Sorry."
Fuck, she swore mentally at herself, I have no idea what I'm doing.
She tried to remember a time when she had been ill. What her mother had done. Her mother... Not much love lost there now. But there had been a time... when Kitty had been young... when she had been sick with a cold or the fever... her mother would always manage to calm her down.
With a touch so soft it almost wasn't there at all, she laid one hand on his sternum. His bare skin was so hot, but her own quite cool. Slowly, delicately, with feather-light touches, she stroked his skin in small circles. "Hush," she murmured softly as she continued to dab at his wound with her other hand, "calm down, Natty boy. It'll be over soon. Then you can pass out whenever you want."
He didn’t like this at all. This was wrong. He was John Mandrake, Minister of Internal Affairs, pride of the government and master of - damn, that hurt! He still had his pride underneath it all, but it was damn hard to keep a hold of. Nathaniel crumpled to the rug again, shifting restlessly with each touch to his injury, feet sliding against the floor as he made half-hearted attempts to move away. His hands grasped at air, searched for a hand. He couldn’t find one.
“Mrs. Underwood...”
His eyes stung, but refused to spill tears as the name drifted from his lips. The mother he almost had. He was dead, she was dead – she should be here, shouldn’t she? She’d take care of him, she always had...
There! A touch. So faint that it could have been imagined. But it wasn’t, he was certain of it. Slowly, he began to relax under the hand, flailing subsiding at the soft words, chest heaving for breath. The sharp pain in his side was fading, it was numb again. He finally quieted, though his eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, looking blindly for Mrs. Unde –
No, not her. Not her, he realized. Someone else. Was she still there?
“Kitty...”
When Nathaniel spoke that name, Kitty almost dropped the towel in shock. Who the hell is... Underwood? She'd never heard of an Underwood before. Not amongst any of the magicians of the government. Maybe she was... his mother? But no. His name was Mandrake, not Underwood. Or had it...
"Who are you talking..." But then, she realised with a gulp, he'd stopped moving beneath her, stopped tensing at every touch on his side. He lay still and calm. My hand... he's... She was so red, she could probably have been mistaken for a giant post-box. She wanted to move away from his chest... But do you really?
Then he was speaking again. Her name this time. How was he saying her name? What kind of voice was... She lifted her palm from where she had splayed it flat against his chest, and went to his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Quiet, Nathaniel. Don't waste your energy." The wound on his side was mostly clean now, caked blood washed away to reveal the gaping mark in all its horribly glory. She turned her attention elsewhere. His face was... smudges of dirt and dust and blood. Sweat glistened on his brow.
Rinsing the worst of the blood from the now utterly ruined material, she brushed away a few errant strands of hair, and began to dab it clean.
His expression flickered at the touch to his hand, and at first, he almost pulled away. But it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t clawed, feathered, or the size of a child’s – and therefore, not Bartimaeus who was trying to be an utter idiot. Nathaniel’s hand flexed in Kitty’s, then hesitatingly, cautiously, he squeezed back. Tighter. She was an anchor at this point, and his clutch was bordering on desperate when he heard her words.
“No... no, please. Just... promise not to... don’t go. Don’t go.”
At the touch of the cool cloth against his face, the magician’s expression eased again, a soft sigh fluttering from his lips. She wasn’t going to go. He knew that now. He let his hand relax in hers, though he dared not pull away. If he did... maybe then she’d disappear. He wouldn’t let that happen.
His chin tipped up as her fingertips brushed over his forehead, and his expression flickered again, his mouth shifted to form still-born words. Then his eyes fluttered open. They were dark, glazed, bright with fever. He stared silently at Kitty for a long moment, and for a split second, he was back at the Glass Palace, saying his farewells. She was glowing, she was so beautiful... her aura took away the pain. It was almost the same now.
Carefully, he raised his free hand to touch her cheek, trembling thumb stroking over the skin, face characteristically intense, serious as he studied her, made sure she was there. Satisfied, he allowed himself a faint, content smile and let his hand drop away. He closed his eyes.
“Stay,” he murmured. “Stay.”
When he squeezed so tightly at her hand, Kitty thought it was going to be like before, when he had grabbed her wrist out of fear and pain. But it wasn't. Not at all.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
"Nathaniel, I... I..." Her voice was cracking, words getting caught in her throat, her eyes were full of... "Of course I'm not going, you prat," she blurted out. And then, softer, "I promise I'm not going anywhere. You wouldn't be able to survive without me."
A promise. Promises. Promises like the one he had made to her. I'll see you both outside, she'd said. Promise? And then he... he had... She was cleaning his face, washing away the dirt to show his skin in all its pallid glory, but this face was the face of a dead man. A dead man who was here, who was talking to her, and asking her...
She coughed lightly, but it wasn't a cough. It was her choking back a sound, a cry... a sob. Nathaniel is dead.
And then suddenly, he was touching her. Touching. Her. Her face, his hands, him looking at her with those fever-filled eyes, ohGodohGodohGod. Her lips were dry, parted slightly. And then he... he closed his eyes... and...
Stay.
What could she say? What could she... except... "I'll stay," she whispered, just loud enough to be heard, "don't worry about it."
Again, she found her hand drawn to his hair, and gently brushed it backwards, trying to somehow tame the errant mess. And then she found that she... that she was moving towards him... her face above his... so close... his lips...
HELL, she screamed at herself as she snapped back up again, NO. Now is NOT the time, Miss Jones. NO. But she was still stroking his hair gently, watching him as he lay so peacefully.
His breathing came easier now, slow and even as he allowed himself to relax fully against the rug. The pain had subsided into a dull throb again, mirroring the beat of his heart and the pounding in his head, but they were distant distractions. They retreated to the back of his mind, and for the moment, he was quiet. At the edge of consciousness, he heard a sound, sad and restrained. Who was...? The young man made a soft, anxious sound of inquiry, turning his head to Kitty, trying to trace the sound, but then she spoke.
Nathaniel’s lips twitched into a faint smile, reassured by her words. He wasn’t alone now, and at the same time, he was. No one could see him. Not the government, not Jane Farrar, not Lovelace, Underwood or Devereux. Not Bartimaeus, even. It was Kitty, and that... He was alright with that. Better than alright. It felt right. The night of his death was possibly one of the best and worst of his life. It was when he realized...
A touch to his hair. Soft, soothing, gentle. No one would see him here.
He let himself drift to sleep and unconsciousness, for once perfectly content.
When he closed his eyes, and fell asleep, Kitty let out a deep sigh. He was calm. He wasn't in pain. And she found herself wanting to stay like this, him sleeping, her stroking his hair. Where he wouldn't disappear. Where he wouldn't break his promises. Where they could just... be.
And yet, she was worried. Worried he might wake up at any moment. And worried that when he did… what would he do? Smile again, like he had smiled just a moment ago, a smile that had made her heart do a backflip? Or would he gasp in pain and fear? Or... glare, and ask her what the hell she was doing to him. Recoil away from her stupid, common hands.
And which one was she more worried about?
She fingered his hair one last time, drawing her hand down across his smooth cheek. Then, moving away from the sleeping magician, she went to her bed and pulled off the blanket, carrying it back to where he was lying on the floor.
Trying not to disturb him, she gently pulled it up to his shoulders, and smoothed down the creases. There was nothing more she could do. But even when it lay completely flat upon his still body, she continued stroking it, smoothing it, as though a perfect blanket could heal his wounds and make all of this go away.
She heard movement outside the door. Bartimaeus had, it seemed, returned. With more reluctance than she had ever felt before, Kitty stood up, took up the bowl and towel, and walked away to the kitchen sink. As she scrubbed away the worst of the blood, she found herself wishing they could let Nathaniel sleep a while longer. And that while he was sleeping... she could watch over him.
Stay, he had asked her. And she had promised...
"I'll stay, Nathaniel. I'll stay."
Rating; Strong PG-13 for language.
Characters; Kitty Jones (
kittyjones) and Nathaniel (natty_boy).Summary; Bartimaeus and Kitty help Nathaniel to the latter's apartment while the former leaves the two alone in search of medical supplies. Kitty is left to tend to the half-conscious magician in the meantime.
Log;
Vaguely, the magician registered that they weren't walking anymore. It felt like forever, the trudge from wherever the bloody hell that fountain was to the flat. There were some exchanged words that didn't quite reach his ears, a bit of shifting around on his part, and then he was lying down. Odd, he thought absently. I was just standing...
He kept his eyes tightly shut. Somehow, he had the sneaking suspicion that if he opened them, Bad Things would happen. Namely, him rolling over (possibly on his bad side, too) and being ill all over the floor. He doubted anything would come up -- he was certain he hadn't munched on anything post-mortem. But nevertheless, he tried not to move; if he did, the room would move. He'd ruin the floor. Kitty wouldn’t like that.
Bartimaeus had left them alone, gone to get something to help with the healing. What it was, Kitty wasn't entirely sure. She had no idea what could be used to fix a hole this big, except perhaps a needle and some very sturdy thread. So for the moment, it was just Kitty and Nathaniel. Just the two of them.
Nathaniel hadn't spoken for a long time, and for a while they'd been worried he'd slipped into unconsciousness – or worse. The djinni had told Kitty to clean Nathaniel up as best she could while he was away. Her flat was, sadly, not really equipped for first aid. So at the moment, the semi-lucid boy was lying on the floor, on the rug, and Kitty was clutching a tea towel, a cushion, and a bowl of water. Hardly impressive tools. Better than nothing, though.
Kneeling down beside him, she tried to be as gentle as possible as she lifted up his head, and placed the cushion beneath it. "Sorry if that hurt," she muttered. He was so pale, but his face was damp with sweat. She took a closer look at the wound, and swore furiously under her breath.
"Listen, Nathaniel? I need to... erm..." Kitty was blushing now, and glad he probably couldn't make it out, "I need to... take off your shirt. All right?"
The young man barely managed to bite back a groan when his head was lifted. Not that it hurt, but more so that it made his thoughts spin – it annoyed him. His eyes were still closed, that was supposed to prevent the whole ridiculous I’m-Going-To-Be-Ill-All-Over-Your-Trousers thing. Automatically, he turned his face away from the sound of Kitty’s voice, just in case that did happen. He dimly recalled what she was like in a temper, and didn’t wish for it to happen at the moment.
Hazily, her voice filtered into his thoughts again, but didn’t make much sense. He only caught the first few and last words, the middle utterly lost to him. He mumbled some sort of affirmative answer, the words jumbled enough to make out, “...s’fine. Whatev...”
Despite his best efforts, Kitty noticed that he had nearly groaned when she had moved him, and cursed again under her breath. I have to be more careful, I have to... But she didn't know how she could be careful. Not when she had to take off Nathaniel's shirt.
When Nathaniel turned his face away from her, she bit her lip. Hard. She told herself it was simply because he was being ill, but there was a part of her... He doesn't want some commoner doing this. Seeing him like this. He...
She shook her head. Told herself to stop wallowing in self-pity. Even if it was true, it didn't matter. If he didn't want her to talk, she wouldn’t. There were more pressing issues. The shirt, for one thing. The bloody shirt, which was still tucked into his bloody trousers. It was slightly loose, slightly stained, but still bloody tucked in. Ever the professional, that magician.
Trying to cause him as little discomfort has possible, she reached out and grabbed the shirt where it was slightly loose on his stomach, and pulled it up, out of his trousers. She was practically glowing red. Then, slowly, she reached out her hand, and began to undo the buttons from the bottom upwards.
He was drifting a little, now. Somewhere between consciousnesses, and it was better than truly being awake. But escaping into that blissfully quiet corner of his mind didn’t stop the sharp stinging in his side, the constant throb in time with his heartbeat. And God, did he have a headache. The kind that he thought could only be caused by the government or Bartimaeus.
He supposed that the only reason he hadn’t felt the full effects of his injury before now was because at the time, he and Bartimaeus were one and the same. The djinni had probably blocked the pain from him, prevented it from distracting him from the task of...
He could feel a wry smile twitching the corners of his lips, though outwardly, his expression didn’t change. Bartimaeus had prevented it from distracting him from the task of being a stupid hero. From dying. Though, now that he thought about it, a distraction would be truly welcome at this point. Being mortal’s a pain in the arse...
Suddenly, he felt fabric dragging across the wound, and he didn’t manage to catch the whimper that escaped from his throat, didn’t manage to stop his hand from flying out to grab Kitty’s wrist. His grip eased almost immediately, however, when he realized who it was, and he let his hand drop away with a mumbled apology.
When he grabbed her wrist, Kitty couldn't help but gasp, couldn't help but tense up in automatic defence. But when he whimpered... she felt...
"It's all right, Nathaniel. It's fine."
But it wasn't fine. She rolled her wrist in circles for a moment. It had been a hard grip, as only a man in agony can grip... but was his strength the reason she felt like her wrist was on fire? Shaking her head, she continued to unbutton his shirt, and couldn't hide her reaction when she saw the wound in all its bloody (literally) glory.
"Bugger."
Cautiously, she lifted his head again, trying her utmost to move him as slowly as possible. She knew it was probably going to hurt, but she needed to... Splaying her fingers underneath her his hair, she lifted the bowl up to his lips, pressing it gently against them.
"Open up. You need to drink something." It was abrupt, but she was feeling utterly mortified at the moment. Nathaniel was practically lying with his head in her lap. His hair in her hands. She could only imagine what he had to be feeling.
It hurt to form sentences. On some level, he could hear Kitty, could think of answers to her words. But there was something that prevented coherency between his brain and his mouth and he remained silent, concentrated on carefully breathing, the mild stretch of his abdomen with every inhalation a faint sting.
That faint sting escalated to several jabbing needles when his torso was lifted, his stomach muscles protesting loudly at the movement. Mentally, he growled at them to shut up. He didn’t need more than one voice yelling into his ear, and... God, was he really thinking about that? I’ve gone mad, he thought blandly. I’m arguing with my stomach, for God’s sake.
Presently, he felt the touch of cool liquid against his lips and he hesitated for a long moment, recalling the blood in the fountain, in people’s tea and coffee. He couldn’t smell the metallic scent of blood, however; he was all too familiar with that. Tentatively, he took a sip. When he didn’t taste the coppery tang of blood, he began to drink greedily, pushing his chin up to the bowl.
After she placed to bowl in front of him, she held her breath. Wondering whether he was even aware of it. Wondered if he could tell what going on. Wondered if he could summon up the strength to...
Drink.
Apparently, he could still drink.
She let him gulp the cold water down for a moment, but then after a while, when he was still swallowing fast, she snatched it away from him. "Slow down! It's not going to disappear or anything! Small sips - don't rush it!" Not wanting him to choke, she began to slowly tilt the bowl towards him, then away again, until bit by bit the contents were drained.
Without a word, she lay him down on the cushion again, and then quickly rushed to refill the bowl, and soak the towel. As she walked back, she couldn't stop staring at the wound. It glared out at her, huge and gaping and red against the young man's pale chest. She needed to clean it, but was afraid he would... when he had whimpered before, she had felt...
"This might sting a little." Taking a deep breath, she picked up the damp cloth, and was about to press it gently against his side, when she suddenly decided a distraction might be a good idea. So she went with the first thing that came into her mind.
"I'm sorry I slapped you. You deserved it, because you were acting like a stubborn twat, but..." Not being able to think of anything more to say, she gently placed the cool, damp rag upon him.
Kitty pulled away the bowl just as he was in mid-swallow; abruptly, he began to cough as the water went down the wrong pipe. Eyes fluttering open for a brief moment, he turned his head away from her again as he tried to swallow against the tightness in his throat, to catch his breath. Much too late with that lecture, Kitty, he thought dryly as his body’s attempt to hack up a lung eventually subsided. Carefully, he took a deep breath and tipped his head back to the bowl of water, obediently sipping at the water now until it was gone.
He was lying down again. Bewildered, he cracked an eye open a slit, one bleary, dark eye scanning the room quickly. He spotted Kitty as she walked back to him and closed his eye again with an inaudible sigh. But then he heard her speak, and the words finally registered. And unluckily for him, he didn’t hear the rare apology that came from the ex-Resistance ringleader. His heart began to speed up with dread.
Not. Good.
Nathaniel tightened his jaw against the blinding pain that suddenly tore across his side, but the action wasn’t enough to stop the agonized groan that tumbled from his lips. His nails dug into the rug, and his breathing hitched, back arching slightly against the sensations. Passing out right about now would definitely be welcome.
"Bollocks!" When Nathaniel started, she jumped herself. When he groaned and arched at... bollocks. "Hell. Sorry, sorry, Nathaniel, I didn't... I'll be gentler. Sorry."
Fuck, she swore mentally at herself, I have no idea what I'm doing.
She tried to remember a time when she had been ill. What her mother had done. Her mother... Not much love lost there now. But there had been a time... when Kitty had been young... when she had been sick with a cold or the fever... her mother would always manage to calm her down.
With a touch so soft it almost wasn't there at all, she laid one hand on his sternum. His bare skin was so hot, but her own quite cool. Slowly, delicately, with feather-light touches, she stroked his skin in small circles. "Hush," she murmured softly as she continued to dab at his wound with her other hand, "calm down, Natty boy. It'll be over soon. Then you can pass out whenever you want."
He didn’t like this at all. This was wrong. He was John Mandrake, Minister of Internal Affairs, pride of the government and master of - damn, that hurt! He still had his pride underneath it all, but it was damn hard to keep a hold of. Nathaniel crumpled to the rug again, shifting restlessly with each touch to his injury, feet sliding against the floor as he made half-hearted attempts to move away. His hands grasped at air, searched for a hand. He couldn’t find one.
“Mrs. Underwood...”
His eyes stung, but refused to spill tears as the name drifted from his lips. The mother he almost had. He was dead, she was dead – she should be here, shouldn’t she? She’d take care of him, she always had...
There! A touch. So faint that it could have been imagined. But it wasn’t, he was certain of it. Slowly, he began to relax under the hand, flailing subsiding at the soft words, chest heaving for breath. The sharp pain in his side was fading, it was numb again. He finally quieted, though his eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, looking blindly for Mrs. Unde –
No, not her. Not her, he realized. Someone else. Was she still there?
“Kitty...”
When Nathaniel spoke that name, Kitty almost dropped the towel in shock. Who the hell is... Underwood? She'd never heard of an Underwood before. Not amongst any of the magicians of the government. Maybe she was... his mother? But no. His name was Mandrake, not Underwood. Or had it...
"Who are you talking..." But then, she realised with a gulp, he'd stopped moving beneath her, stopped tensing at every touch on his side. He lay still and calm. My hand... he's... She was so red, she could probably have been mistaken for a giant post-box. She wanted to move away from his chest... But do you really?
Then he was speaking again. Her name this time. How was he saying her name? What kind of voice was... She lifted her palm from where she had splayed it flat against his chest, and went to his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Quiet, Nathaniel. Don't waste your energy." The wound on his side was mostly clean now, caked blood washed away to reveal the gaping mark in all its horribly glory. She turned her attention elsewhere. His face was... smudges of dirt and dust and blood. Sweat glistened on his brow.
Rinsing the worst of the blood from the now utterly ruined material, she brushed away a few errant strands of hair, and began to dab it clean.
His expression flickered at the touch to his hand, and at first, he almost pulled away. But it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t clawed, feathered, or the size of a child’s – and therefore, not Bartimaeus who was trying to be an utter idiot. Nathaniel’s hand flexed in Kitty’s, then hesitatingly, cautiously, he squeezed back. Tighter. She was an anchor at this point, and his clutch was bordering on desperate when he heard her words.
“No... no, please. Just... promise not to... don’t go. Don’t go.”
At the touch of the cool cloth against his face, the magician’s expression eased again, a soft sigh fluttering from his lips. She wasn’t going to go. He knew that now. He let his hand relax in hers, though he dared not pull away. If he did... maybe then she’d disappear. He wouldn’t let that happen.
His chin tipped up as her fingertips brushed over his forehead, and his expression flickered again, his mouth shifted to form still-born words. Then his eyes fluttered open. They were dark, glazed, bright with fever. He stared silently at Kitty for a long moment, and for a split second, he was back at the Glass Palace, saying his farewells. She was glowing, she was so beautiful... her aura took away the pain. It was almost the same now.
Carefully, he raised his free hand to touch her cheek, trembling thumb stroking over the skin, face characteristically intense, serious as he studied her, made sure she was there. Satisfied, he allowed himself a faint, content smile and let his hand drop away. He closed his eyes.
“Stay,” he murmured. “Stay.”
When he squeezed so tightly at her hand, Kitty thought it was going to be like before, when he had grabbed her wrist out of fear and pain. But it wasn't. Not at all.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
"Nathaniel, I... I..." Her voice was cracking, words getting caught in her throat, her eyes were full of... "Of course I'm not going, you prat," she blurted out. And then, softer, "I promise I'm not going anywhere. You wouldn't be able to survive without me."
A promise. Promises. Promises like the one he had made to her. I'll see you both outside, she'd said. Promise? And then he... he had... She was cleaning his face, washing away the dirt to show his skin in all its pallid glory, but this face was the face of a dead man. A dead man who was here, who was talking to her, and asking her...
She coughed lightly, but it wasn't a cough. It was her choking back a sound, a cry... a sob. Nathaniel is dead.
And then suddenly, he was touching her. Touching. Her. Her face, his hands, him looking at her with those fever-filled eyes, ohGodohGodohGod. Her lips were dry, parted slightly. And then he... he closed his eyes... and...
Stay.
What could she say? What could she... except... "I'll stay," she whispered, just loud enough to be heard, "don't worry about it."
Again, she found her hand drawn to his hair, and gently brushed it backwards, trying to somehow tame the errant mess. And then she found that she... that she was moving towards him... her face above his... so close... his lips...
HELL, she screamed at herself as she snapped back up again, NO. Now is NOT the time, Miss Jones. NO. But she was still stroking his hair gently, watching him as he lay so peacefully.
His breathing came easier now, slow and even as he allowed himself to relax fully against the rug. The pain had subsided into a dull throb again, mirroring the beat of his heart and the pounding in his head, but they were distant distractions. They retreated to the back of his mind, and for the moment, he was quiet. At the edge of consciousness, he heard a sound, sad and restrained. Who was...? The young man made a soft, anxious sound of inquiry, turning his head to Kitty, trying to trace the sound, but then she spoke.
Nathaniel’s lips twitched into a faint smile, reassured by her words. He wasn’t alone now, and at the same time, he was. No one could see him. Not the government, not Jane Farrar, not Lovelace, Underwood or Devereux. Not Bartimaeus, even. It was Kitty, and that... He was alright with that. Better than alright. It felt right. The night of his death was possibly one of the best and worst of his life. It was when he realized...
A touch to his hair. Soft, soothing, gentle. No one would see him here.
He let himself drift to sleep and unconsciousness, for once perfectly content.
When he closed his eyes, and fell asleep, Kitty let out a deep sigh. He was calm. He wasn't in pain. And she found herself wanting to stay like this, him sleeping, her stroking his hair. Where he wouldn't disappear. Where he wouldn't break his promises. Where they could just... be.
And yet, she was worried. Worried he might wake up at any moment. And worried that when he did… what would he do? Smile again, like he had smiled just a moment ago, a smile that had made her heart do a backflip? Or would he gasp in pain and fear? Or... glare, and ask her what the hell she was doing to him. Recoil away from her stupid, common hands.
And which one was she more worried about?
She fingered his hair one last time, drawing her hand down across his smooth cheek. Then, moving away from the sleeping magician, she went to her bed and pulled off the blanket, carrying it back to where he was lying on the floor.
Trying not to disturb him, she gently pulled it up to his shoulders, and smoothed down the creases. There was nothing more she could do. But even when it lay completely flat upon his still body, she continued stroking it, smoothing it, as though a perfect blanket could heal his wounds and make all of this go away.
She heard movement outside the door. Bartimaeus had, it seemed, returned. With more reluctance than she had ever felt before, Kitty stood up, took up the bowl and towel, and walked away to the kitchen sink. As she scrubbed away the worst of the blood, she found herself wishing they could let Nathaniel sleep a while longer. And that while he was sleeping... she could watch over him.
Stay, he had asked her. And she had promised...
"I'll stay, Nathaniel. I'll stay."