forthsofar | and we can weather the great unknown

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nick

and we can weather the great unknown

With Sabrina still recovering from all she'd had to do to save everybody, they set up a bit of a rotation in her stead, the two of them; quiet and watchful and dedicated, making sure that Nick's not left alone until she can be at his side. Rosie gets to the apartment as soon as she can, letting Charlie go to see Sabrina or head home to Newt and Kavinsky, and he does the same for her, letting her check back in with Neil. It works, because it has to.

When she arrives, Nick's sleeping--or maybe drifting, dosed up with the pills they'd given him at the hospital. Rosie checks on him, just to make sure, then busies herself with things she knows are just helpful distractions: washing the dishes they'd dirtied already; separating out the few real pieces of mail from the junk and advertisements that had piled up in what she carefully thought of as Nick's absence; staring at the book she'd brought with her and managing only to read the same two sentences, over and over again. She's putting on water for tea when she hears him start to stir. Carefully, she goes down the hallway and stops in the doorway to his room, looking in on him lying on the bed.

Something about the juxtaposition feels familiar, if distantly, a connection her mind tries to grasp and can't. She'd done this a few times already since Nick had come home, after all; that might be all it is.

"I'm here," she says, smiling faintly. "The kettle's on, if...there'll be tea, soon."

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He doesn't open his eyes - everything hurts, even the light - but he does smile, a little, when he hears her voice.

"Tea would be good," he says, his voice still raw and ill-used. "I thought I dreamed that you were here."

"I've been and gone," she explains. "Charlie and I have been switching every few hours. You were still pretty woozy the last time I was here, so I suppose it would've felt a little like dreaming."

Taking his smile for the invitation it seems to be, Rosie moves closer to the bed, taking a seat in the chair in the corner. She'll be able to hear the kettle when it's ready, but that's some minutes off. "Hopefully the reality won't be too disappointing."

"Couldn't be," he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not when it's you." He shifts his weight in the bed, wincing a little. "Still kind of burns."

"Fair enough," Rosie says, briefly glad his eyes are still shut as she feels her face grow a little warm at the almost-compliment.

Her smile shifts to something more concerned, hearing what he says next and seeing the discomfort flicker across his face. She hesitates a moment, not knowing why, then gets up from the chair and approaches the side of the bed. "They stitched you up at the hospital, once we were able to get you there," she says. "Is it that, or...something more magical? Maybe it doesn't matter, if it hurts either way."

"I think it's possibly a combination," says Nick, his voice still rough, though he's smiling when he says it. "Of being stabbed, and the fact that what I was stabbed with was a holy relic." He huffs a rough laugh. "Why do you look like I'm making you nervous, Rosie?"

"A holy relic dreamed up by one of Charlie's guardians, no less," she says. "There's elements to that I'm not sure I'll ever quite get my head around."

Rosie goes quiet for a moment, uncertain--and, briefly, exasperated that Nick's injury had done nothing to dull his powers of observation. She could lie, she knows, could make something up or shift the focus of her concern. There's enough to be worried about: that they'd had to fight the devil, for one; that Nick had been injured and confined to bed for the time being; that Sabrina had brought herself to the brink such that she's still in no fit state to come see him. She could blame it on any one--or all--of those things, but she owes it to Nick, and to their friendship, to be honest.

"It's not you, it's..." She sighs, looking away. "Do you remember anything? From when you...when you weren't yourself." Rosie makes a face at the euphemism, everything about it sounding weak and feeble. "From when Lucifer was pretending to be you, I should say. It was never really you."

"I know, right?" he says, smiling wanly. "It's like no kind of magic I've ever seen. I am totally going to need to talk to him about it once I'm up again." He shakes his head. "Not much? Flashes. I remember Sabrina crying."

"She did a lot of that," Rosie says. "All of us did, I think, once we...but Sabrina especially. Obviously."

That he doesn't entirely remember comes as both a surprise and not; a relief and a worry all at once. Most of all, it makes continuing to talk to him now--about the things she remembers along with the edges of what her mind keeps pushing itself away from--easier and harder at the same time. It had never been him, doing that, saying that, being that, she reminds herself, then takes another deep breath.

"He wasn't--I mean, to say he wasn't nice sounds so stupid, of course he wasn't nice, he's the devil. Was the devil, I guess, since he's..." Rosie shudders, recalling the scene in the bar, then moves to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed. Just so she can get up easily, when the kettle goes.

"We'd made plans to get coffee, the day after everything ended with David, do you remember that?" she asks. "You...or he, it was him at that point, he never showed up. I only saw him when I was on the way home. I thought maybe I'd gotten the time wrong, maybe it was my fault."

She sits on the edge of the bed and he shifts to accomodate her, just a little, reaching out his hand to brush against hers. He nods.

"I remember that I was supposed to meet you," he says. "I'm...guessing he showed up instead."

"He did," she says. When Nick's fingertips graze against her own, she turns her hand, linking her fingers gently with his. "Or rather, I saw him on the street, and...and then we went back to the cafe, then the boardwalk." There's still something a little hazy about it even now; Rosie chews on her lower lip for a moment, trying to recall the details. "I was still so upset over everything with David, I didn't think about how strange you were acting. Indifferent, sometimes. Implying that I'd been the one to mishear instructions, getting the time wrong for when we were meeting, or...he told me I was pretty, like it was the most important thing about me."

Knowing now who'd been the one saying those words makes her ill; she swallows hard, fighting back a wave of nausea.

"I thought it was strange, but...it felt like maybe it was just me. Like I'd made a mistake, that nothing was really wrong, it was just me being stupid."

She takes his hand and he squeezes her fingers.

"He can do that," he says. "With everyone, but I suppose...mortals like you might be particularly susceptible to it. His influence." He worries his lip with his teeth for a moment, stroking his thumb against her skin. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Rosie."

"Oh, well, isn't that wonderful," she says, quiet and slightly furious. She looks down, focusing on his hand in hers and the gentle trace of his thumb along the ridges of her knuckles, slow and regular and calming. It helps, more than she might have thought.

"That wasn't the only...I went to see you," she continues, after another moment of silence. "Him. After he broke up with Sabrina. Even if it wasn't going to do any good, I had to come yell at you. For being an idiot, for hurting Sabrina, for being cruel and upsetting her. Give you my very best nasty look, all of it." Her stomach twists again, and she shudders faintly. "I don't...I remember coming here, a-and I remember leaving, running, absolutely terrified. But nothing in between."

It's out now, said aloud, and she looks back up, away from their joined hands so she can meet his eyes. "And neither do you, do you?"

"You really thought I'd treat her like that?" he asks, tilting his head on one side for a moment, looking at her, trying to ignore the way that his heart aches in his chest. He frowns.

"I don't remember of that. He...did he..." He swallows. "Rosie, did he hurt you?" Did he make me do it?

"No, he didn't," she answers immediately, her voice as steady and firm as she can make it despite the ache in her chest and the way she can already feel her hands starting to tremble. "Not...not in any way you might be thinking. I sprained my shoulder somehow, maybe in running away, but nothing more than that."

She goes quiet again, moving to take his hand in both of hers, rather than just one. "I think...I think the worst thing he did was muck about in my head, make me doubt myself, doubt my own mind, how I was feeling, a-and wear your face while he was doing it. And I know it was worse for you, it was longer, and more frightening, and you were in there screaming and helpless and you got stabbed, I know a-all of that, and anything that happened to me doesn't compare, but--"

Rosie turns her head at the sound of a whistling coming from the kitchen. "That's the...I should take care of that, I have to..." Reluctantly, she pulls her hands away from his, getting up from the bed with another soft series of apologies as she turns and leaves the room.

More than anything, he hates that he can't get up and follow her right then. It's all he wants. He wants her go though, and then he can't do anything but wait until she comes back with the tea, worrying what she's just said over in his head.

Once she's out of the room--out of his sight, she thinks, before she can stop herself--she scrubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, clearing away the tears that had been on the edge of falling. She turns the stove dial, cutting off the kettle mid-shriek, then takes a pair of mugs out of one cabinet, a box of teabags out of another. As she pours the water, her hands are only slightly unsteady.

After the mugs are filled, she stands there for another few minutes watching them steep, then finds a small tray and arranges everything on it; mugs, a pair of spoons and a small dish for the teabags, a plastic bottle of honey. Taking another breath, she picks up the tray and goes back down the hallway to Nick's room. When she gets to the doorway, she makes sure to meet his eyes, offering him a smile that's a little wobbly, but still there.

"There's honey," she says, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "For your throat. I tried to find a lemon, too, but there weren't any in the fridge."

"I haven't had time to go to the store," he says, and he's smiling when he says it. "I..." He studies her face as she fusses over the mugs, putting the tea together. "Rosie, please," he says. "Stop...I...we clearly need to talk about this, okay?"

She'd been arranging things on the tray, rearranging things, all small and useless gestures, but when he speaks, her hands still and she nods. "Okay."

Moving back to the bed, Rosie sits; not the hesitant perching from before, but something a little closer. Catching her lower lip in her teeth, she looks over at him and at the concern in his face. There's another ache in her chest then, knowing she's the one who put it there, but she doesn't let herself look away.

"You're one of the most important people in the world to me, Rosie," he says, quietly. "I don't have a family other than the one I've found here. I...can't bear to have you looking at me like that."

She makes a soft, miserable sound--not quite a sob, but nearly--and nods her head. "You're important to me, too, Nick," she says. "Not just because of Sabrina, or Charlie, or...you came to find me, back in June, back in that castle. It was such a risk, all of the times you came to visit me, but you did it. And you got us out, and kept us safe."

Rosie thinks of that brief moment of suspicion she'd had at the first sound of his voice in the dark, so many months ago now; how she'd wondered if it was a trap, some goblin illusion or disguise meant to break her spirit all the further. In the end, it was another devil entirely who'd almost managed to do that, and the thought makes her ill all over again. But, she realizes a second later, it had only been almost. For all the harm Lucifer had caused, very little of it was completely irreparable.

"It's why the fact he pretended to be you, or tried to, it's why it's so horrible." His hand is still resting on the blankets; carefully, she reaches out, taking it in hers again. "Because you're so important to all of us." Rosie pauses, a slight pink flush rising to her cheeks. "To me."

The faint flush of colour in her cheeks distracts him, for a moment, but then her hand is in his and he threads their fingers together, squeezing her hand gently.

"I'm always going to come for you, Rosie," he says, gently. "If you need me, I'm always going to find a way to be there."

"That seems like an awfully big promise to make, Nick," she says, but she's smiling as she says it, more steadily than any of the others she'd managed thus far. "But...I believe you."

She looks at him, and he at her, and for a moment it almost feels like there's something passing between them with the way their hands are linked. A deepening of their connection, maybe, the same kind of renewed strength that they'd found after escaping from Kagura--an escape that had led them here, just as they were now. Whatever it is, it eases some of the tension in her chest, soothes a bit of the ache.

"Not just believe, honestly," she adds. "I trust you."

Whatever happens in that look is enough to make Nick's cheeks flush too, and he looks away, grazing his thumb along the length of hers.

"Good," he says. "I hope I deserve that."

"You do," she says, and right then it seems that nothing's ever been truer.

She notices the blush, but holds herself back--with no small amount of difficulty--from asking about it. Instead, she simply squeezes his hand once more, letting out a quiet breath at the sweep of his thumb along her skin.

It feels like something is happen here, something beyond what's been between them before and Nick clears his throat, taking his hand away reluctantly, but only so that he can reach for a mug of tea.

"Can you stay for a while?"

He coughs gently and takes his hand away, and Rosie has a brief, odd moment of concern; one that fades as she sees him do nothing more than reach for the mug. She picks up her own, fishing out the teabag and adding a bit of honey before taking a sip.

"Yes, of course," she says. "I'll stay as long as you need me to."

"Come get comfortable with me," he says, shifting against his pillows as he sips his tea. "I've been indulging in some really, really bad TV."

"Do I dare ask how bad?" she laughs, going around to the other side of the bed and letting him stay exactly where he is. "Don't tell me you've started to see the merits of those awful worm movies Sabrina loves."

Slipping off her shoes, she gets into the bed, moving to sit as close to Nick as she can without crowding him.

Wincing slightly, Nick lifts his arm, giving her room to settle in against him if she wants, aware as he is that he's shirtless except for the bandages swathing his middle. "It's a show about a coven of teen witches."

"Oh no," she says, wide-eyed and playfully dramatic--though her expression shifts into something more concerned as she sees him wince. "From the way you said that, I don't suppose they get anything right at all about being a witch."

Rosie hesitates a moment, more out of a desire not to hurt him than the fact that he's wearing very little--though she'd noticed that, too--then nods and settles gently against his side.

"They do wear a lot of black," says Nick, more than aware of what his closet looks like. "But there's a lot more sacrificing small animals than I've ever seen at the academy."

"I suppose that's a mark in the Academy's favor," Rosie says dryly. She leans her head against Nick's shoulder, still careful even as she sinks into the closeness of the way they're sitting.

"Let's watch it, then, and...if you wanted, you could tell me how all of it's supposed to be." She smiles, and once more it comes to her with far more ease than it might have previously. "I want to know everything, or at least as much as you want to tell me."

She settles in against him and Nick lets out a soft sigh, getting more comfortable with her against his side, his mug resting in the puddled blankets in the hollow of his hip.

"Where do you want me to start?" he says. He already knows he'd tell Rosie anything she wants to know. He can't imagine holding things back from her.

Rosie had expected him to turn on the program he'd just been talking about, to start with whatever episode was next and explain things--or correct things, more likely--as they happened, so the question surprises her for a moment. There's almost too many places to begin; too many things she's curious about and too little that she knows already.

She thinks for another minute, then smiles, something faint and a little shy. "Start with...start by telling me about your favorite thing you've ever learned," she says. "Not necessarily the thing you're best at, or the most impressive, or anything like that. But the thing that makes you happiest to know how to do. And tell me why."

She turns her head a little, looking up at him--at the line of his profile and the tangle of his dark hair. Again, there's that sense of something warm sparking deep within her, a sensation that's confusing but pleasant even so.

He thinks about that for a moment, lifting his mug to hand a sip of his tea.

"I love knowing how to astrally project," he says. "Knowing that you can go anywhere, as long as your body is safe and you stay ahead of the psychopomps."

Rosie had spent far too many hours daydreaming about adventures in foreign places, traveling as far and as often as she could and seeing everything the world had to show her. In that respect, Nick's answer is more perfect than anything else she might have expected him to say.

"That sounds wonderful," she says, grinning against the edge of her own mug before she takes a drink. "That's...that's how you got that manuscript for Sabrina, isn't it? From the bottom of the ocean?" She frowns a little recalling the last time she brought that up, only a few days prior; how she'd tried to keep him focused and present despite the pain of his injury. At least this time, their surroundings are more comfortable, more safe and secure.

"And you're definitely going to need to explain what a psychopomp is."

"It's not, actually," he says. "That was translocation, with a bathtub full of water as a gateway. I was physically there for that. With astral projection, it's just that...a projection." He takes another swallow of his tea. "Psychopomps are like...guardians. On that realm. They come after you if your soul is out of your body for too long."

"Oh, it was translocation, forgive me," she says, her tone just on the edge of sarcastic and teasing--even as she drinks in everything he's saying with genuine interest. "So astral projection is just...watching, for the most part? Going where you like, certainly, but only for so long and only as an observer. If you need to actually be somewhere, you translocate."

Rosie's eyebrows lift briefly in concern when he mentions psychopomps going after people. "Goodness. I suppose it makes sense, if they're guarding things, but...that makes it sound awfully dangerous."

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and we can weather the great unknown

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