Taste of Iron

Continuation of The Coffee was Almond Flavoured. Here comes the dark stuff. And the spn!AU I promised. whoever doesn't like their characters bleeding and in pain every now and then is obvs too good a person to be a writer right? right
word count: ~2,100

---

   Over the past few months, Magnus has grown used to Chris’ more-or-less regular disappearances. Although he insists, the blonde refuses to find a proper work, claiming to be content to survive on whatever he gains from the odd jobs he does around the city. It’s not that Magnus can’t afford supporting both of them, but bored Chris grows restless, and restless Chris is quite a bother, moping around and trying to find anything to do until Magnus kicks him out of the apartment to fiddle with his ancient bus (‘Honestly Chris, this thing rides on good will and my prayers, get yourself a proper car.’).

   What these odd jobs involve, no one knows, but sometimes Chris comes back bruised or otherwise injured, with clothes dirty and/or torn, which puts a bit of a weight on the girls’ water bill as they picked up the custom of washing his working clothes immediately after he returns home. His trips usually don’t take more than four days, depending on how far he goes and what he is asked to do. Never, however, has he been gone for nearly two weeks in a row without letting them know what takes him so long, or making no contact at all. In such turn of events, Friday afternoon sees Blair and Margaret setting off to find the wayward oaf. If it weren’t for the urgent investigation Magnus is involved in, he would go with them. In the end, he is left with the keys to their apartment and a promise that they will come back by Sunday evening with either Chris or word of him.

   He spends the evening brooding. Over the year they spent together, Magnus has grown inexplicably attached to the younger man, with his ever-present grin and empathy surprising in someone with such outgoing and loud personality. He knows he will never be the same man as before Julia had passed, but Chris taught him to open up for the world again and find joy in life in places that didn’t bring back memories, practically making him a whole new person. They both have secrets and things they don’t want to speak about, and this led them quickly to drawing lines they know better than to cross and establishing boundaries they can work around with each other’s support. Yet though Magnus trusts Chris and knows it is mutual, he feels he knows very little about him and there is a side to him that he deliberately hides. It irks him all the more because the girls seem to be allowed to it; he sees it in the way he turns to them with most problems and always first goes upstairs every time he returns from a job.

   Eventually, he manages to fall asleep. The following day he is summoned to the station as Kurt claims to have discovered some new evidence that demands his immediate attendance. The work is tedious, but fruitful and at the end of the day they narrow the suspects list to three people. Kurt allows the team for a free Sunday, which earns the grumpy policeman several raised eyebrows he doesn’t seem to notice. “Linda’s come”, explains Lisa as the door behind him closes, which does make things clear. Kurt’s relationship with his daughter was a thing which often stood in the way of his work, so he stopped trying to deal with both at the same time.

   This time Magnus falls asleep quickly, tired and weary after whole day at the office.

   He is awoken by the thunder outside, cloudy day’s sky turned into blackest, starless firmament shedding heavy rain and lightning after lightning on the city. The loud crack is followed by a long cannonade of rumbling storm’s growl, ceasing and growing more powerful for long minutes. It is only after it finally dissipates into silence that he realizes the water ramming his windows isn’t the only noise he hears, and with a start he draws his gun out of the bed stand and silently walks out to the corridor.

   No lights are on, but the splashes of water from the bathroom are indication enough.

   Just as Magnus is about to enter the narrow room with the gun pointed at whoever dared enter his apartment at such ungodly hour, he hears a pained groan and a restrained curse and relief washes over him as he recognizes the voice, instantly followed by fear, what the hell happened –

   He opens the door and turns the lights on, and the sight of bloodied clothes in a heap on the floor is no less shocking than Chris crouching in the shower, the water pooling beneath him red, one leg supporting his weight, the other stretched out, long gash on his thigh turning pink as the running water washes all the blood down; his chest blood-soaked from a bullet wound, bullet, the idiot got himself shot, right above his collarbone, his face contorted in pain and shock and fear. “Magnus, shit, I can explain—“

   “The hell will you explain-“ spits Magnus, putting the gun down and rushing towards the other blonde, “-I’m not having you bleed out to death in my shower. What were you even thinking, not waking me up, the girls went out to search for you, you insufferable moron,” he rambles on, tearing the shower head from Chris’ grasp and a small towel to clean the wound on his shoulder and inhales sharply, noticing a flash of metal in it. “I’m getting you to the hospi-“

   “No!” – Chris’ hand closes around his bicep in a stunningly fast motion, cutting him off. “No,” he repeats, taking deep breaths, ”You can’t. I’ll handle this. I’m fine. There’s first aid kit upstairs. In the cupboard above the sink. Bring it. Please.” And those blue, so blue eyes look up with such pleading and trust Magnus can only clench his jaw with a worried frown and oblige. He puts the towel on the wound on Chris’ thigh and places his hand there, squeezing lightly before letting go and getting up without another word.

   He is back in no more than a minute, during which time Chris turned the tap off and somehow managed to get up to his feet, or rather foot, only his uninjured leg supporting his weight.

   “You should have said ‘surgeon’s kit’, there’s everything in there, what do they even need this for,” mumbles Magnus, sliding himself underneath the blonde’s good arm and balancing their combined weight, pulling Chris out of the bathroom. “Let’s get you to the kitchen.”

   Chris grunts as he is being dragged out of the tiny bathroom and into more spacious kitchenette separated by an island counter from the living room, but allows Magnus to help him sit by the sink. His mind flows as if drunk from blood loss as he watches his friend rummage through the kit’s contents. The dim streetlight seeping in through the rain-soaked windows casts his face in dark shadows and elusive half-lights, bringing out an odd beauty Chris never noticed before. Then it hits him that his flatmate is beautiful, not just ordinarily handsome (but that, too), yet with an eerie sort of grace to his features and behaviour, every gesture neither overly confident nor shy and nervous.

   He keeps his eyes on Magnus’ face when he turns on the halogen lamps installed beneath the cupboards to see what he’s working with. Chris’ gaze traces the lines of pillow print on his cheek and dark circles under his eyes. “You haven’t slept enough again,”, he slurs.

   Magnus gives him a sharp look. “Of course I haven’t. You disappear into thin air for weeks on end without a word and I’m supposed to sleep soundly? Tomorrow I’m buying you a cell phone. Why do I even bother with you.” His tone is harsh, but Chris doesn’t fail to note the desperate hint in it and can’t help but wonder why exactly does Magnus care at all, too.

   He stifles a groan as Magnus cleans the wound on his thigh with an antiseptic, the sting of it somewhat sobering him, sending the contemplative thoughts away. Soon after Magnus lets out a small whiff, eyeing the wound with worry. “There’s not enough anaesthetic for both wounds. And I need to stitch you up.”

   “I’ve gone through worse. Do without.” Chris’ voice is rough, but sure enough. He leans against the cool tiles on the wall behind him, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter. After that, Magnus does a quick work of preparing the needle and suture. His hands are shaking a little, but as he gives Chris one short look – as if asking if he’s okay – he steadily pierces skin on both sides of the gash and ties the knot with nimble fingers.

   Chris shuts his eyes, concentrating on breathing as one stitch after another is tied, trying not to give away how much pain every tug, however gentle, deals. He only realizes Magnus is finished when a gentle hand wipes the involuntary tears from his cheeks away and a strangled ‘I’m sorry’ is muttered.

   “Don’t be.” He rasps, unclenching his jaw and opening his eyes. His hand moves up to catch Magnus’ wrist where he keeps his fingertips pressed to Chris’ face, about to withdraw, and lets his thumb slide over the pulse point and into the dip of his palm, squeezing softly.  

   Their eyes meet and suddenly an awkward tension settles in. Magnus’ lips part, as if to say something, but he swallows it quickly. Something like hesitation flashes across his face and Chris realizes neither of them know what to make of this. For a second he considers – he isn’t even sure what, as his gaze trails down to his friend’s mouth. Instead, he tightens his grip on Magnus’ hand and grins. “What would I do without you.”

   Magnus actually lets out a chuckle, wrapping his hand around Chris’ thumb. “Probably bleed out in some dirty hole.” He squeezes hard. “Don’t ever dare do something like this again. It drove me crazy. And then you come back, in the dead of the night, bleeding like carnage-“ his eyes trail to the bullet wound and he breaks the contact and reaches for the anaesthetic. “-for me to stitch together. I should kick you out here and now.” He looks him in the eye and Chris sees all the unspoken worry, relief and affection in the man’s weary, but bright blue-green-grey eyes. “Here, spread this.”

   Chris takes the small, nearly empty tube of anaesthetic and smirks. “Why don’t you?”

   “You really want me to lose sensation in the hands that will patch you back together? How bad did they hit you on the head?” Magnus’ voice is betraying only a slight scowl, drowned out by the somewhat bitter amusement. Chris watches as said hands disinfect forceps and shivers involuntarily as he is reminded that the bullet is still in the meat of his shoulder. He applies the cream quickly and messily after cleaning the wound. In a matter of seconds his fingers go numb; a while later he doesn’t feel anything above his left collarbone. He groans and relaxes as the pain dissipates. Yet he feels a sharp flash of it as Magnus carefully grabs and pulls out the bullet and his partially numb hand squeezes hard what he realizes is Magnus’ elbow. He lets go with a start to allow him to staunch the bleeding as the fresh trail of blood trickling down his chest registers.

   Soon there’s a bandage over the wound and Magnus urges him to get down from the counter and leads – well, practically carries - him to the couch, where Chris collapses like a dead weight. His vision begins to swim and mild panic overtakes him when Magnus disappears from his side, only to be silenced when his head is being lifted and a glass of sweet juice is pressed to his lips, Magnus’ arm supporting his back.

   After that, he lays there limply, half-aware of his surroundings, concentrating on the pain radiating from his thigh and the sounds of the other man’s shuffling around, content to let go of all the stress he has been in for days. A warm hand rests on his forearm and he focuses his wandering gaze on Magnus’ eyes. He says something, but Chris doesn’t seem to be able to compute it, overcome with sudden relief that it’s Magnus, here, with him, safe. – If he only knew what terrors were lurking out there, threatening, waiting. But not now. Now we’re safe. Magnus makes to rise and leave, but Chris’ hand stops him. “Stay,” he pleads, and a strange, vulnerable undercurrent in his voice makes the slighter man oblige, the bloody heap of clothes in the bathroom be damned. He lifts Chris’ upper body and sneaks under him, letting his head rest in his lap. His long, thin fingers twine in Chris’ hair almost as an afterthought. It isn’t long before they both are fast asleep, more soundly than either has had a chance to be in what feels like months.