forthedog | (no subject)

It hasn't made things any better. It's keeping him in bed and that's the best he thinks he can hope for right now.

At first he hadn't known what was going on; there had only been a sense of confusion and fear, people running through the halls, once or twice a faint scream. He hadn't know what was going on, and then all at once he'd come face to face with it, one of the doctors stopping and giving him a clipped explanation and then a flurry of panic and trying to get up and then some unknown time later... Chris and Lennox. And what they were carrying.

They'd put her in bed next to him. He had moved as much as he could. His leg is still painful, but moveable at least, if he's careful.

So it's happened before. So last time everyone was fine. So fucking what. This is Eostre and she's pregnant and he's fucking sick of the island doing this to him, making him feel this kind of fear.

He lies next to her and rests his head against her shoulder.

His hand hasn't left her belly in hours. He hasn't slept in he doesn't know how long. He counts his breaths and hers, and measures out the remaining time until he knows. One way or the other.

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There's a part of Hobbes - and by this point, it's a big part - that wants to turn calmly to Chris and explain to him that before the Island, he had been a curler. That was what he did. And that before the Island, Pinocchio and him had been soldiers. Pulling each other out of gun fire and running and stitching each other up and fucking dying for each other was what they did. And if Chris needs to act like Rambo now, that was fine. If you saved someone it was because they needed you. Not because it proved a point.

But instead, he keeps his mouth shut, stewing silently. He shifted on the bed, knowing on some level that saying it would be hypocritical and entirely out of place. He watched his fingers move over her forehead and looked away.

"I doubt she's impressed by all that," he muttered wryly, smirking to himself.

"She's not really impressed by anything," he says, glancing up at Hobbes. He swears he can feel the churning under the surface and he's not sure what to do about that. Maybe it would be good if it actually did explode, in the long run. Maybe Hobbes and Chris should just be locked in a tiny room somewhere and told to work it out between them.

Not that he can do anything about it right now, with the busted leg.

"She definitely isn't impressed by me."

"Well, nobody really is, man," Chris said with a very wry smile as he looked at him. And it was evident by his tone that he was only joking, his hand smoothing down over Eostre's shoulder. "Lucky that has nothing to do with loving you, eh?"

And that was probably the closest he'd get to actually admitting how he felt and why this was as hard as it was. Because he loved Mike. Loved Eostre, too. And no, not in the same way he loved Lennox because Chris seriously doubted there was a single person alive he could ever love like he did Lennox, but it was still love. He still cared. And it was entirely selfish of him to want things to stay as they had been and he knew that, but fuck if he could do anything about that.

But, he was fucking trying.

It was something that while Cutter was trying, Hobbes was now stubbornly done. He got here and Chris had hated him, and, well. That hadn't changed and that was fine. He didn't have to understand it to deal with it. Plenty of people in the Realm had hated him without good reason. If he felt at all bad about it, it was because of the looks that Pinocchio was tossing his way.

So he pulled in on himself at the end of the bed, still quietly sipping his coffee and pretending that he hadn't heard Chris speak.

"Luckily," he says, smiling slightly. "Not sure why people do, to be honest. Not that I'm complaining." Not about this, anyway. He's smiling, but inwardly he's feeling suddenly exhausted, and frustrated, and he would do just about anything in the world to be out of this bed right fucking now.

He just doesn't know what else to do.

"You don't have to stay here," he says quietly, settling back against Eostre again and not looking at either of them, and not trying to clarify who he's talking to. "'M okay."

Well, that seemed like a pretty clear indication of what Mike wanted and Chris had pretty much been headed that way anyway, so he nodded.

"Yeah, I know," he said, his smile slipping as he turned to look at Eostre again.

Taking a slow breath, he dropped his hand to hers, squeezing it gently, his thumb brushing over the curves of her knuckles before he let go again. "Jim's probably waiting for me anyway," he said as he took a few steps back.

Hobbes lifted his head and watched him moving away. Something in his posture became visibly more relaxed and he breathed out.

"He was wondering where you had gone off to," Hobbes said, with the slightest point to his voice. Which was pretty much a lie, if he was being honest. Lennox had only asked in passing earlier in the kitchen. He leaned more comfortably into the footboard, fingers curled less tightly around the coffee mug.

He doesn't quite wince. He's starting to wonder what he though he'd accomplish here. Just give it time, love. Yeah. Right.

"Keep checking in," he calls halfheartedly after Chris's retreating form. "I'll go outta my fucking mind here." And of course if there's any change in Eostre he'll be one of the first to know. But he doubts there will be. Not until Monday. But Monday. Yes. For sure.

"You'll stay for a little?" His eyes slip closed and he wishes suddenly that the bed was a little bigger, that he could feel Hobbes fitted snugly along his other side, that he could fall asleep between them and pretend that everything's fine.

"Yeah, sure," Chris said with a nod, and it was clear that he did plan to come back. If only to occasionally check on Eostre. Not that he doubted Mike would be just fine doing that on his own, but Eostre's... she's Eostre. And the Veggies.

"Take care, okay?"

He didn't wait for a response, though, shooting Hobbes one last quick look before turning to head out again.

Hobbes gave Chris a polite nod to say goodbye but didn't say anything. He couldn't be fucked to bother. He looked down at Mike and at Eostre-and-Mike and forced a grin for Pinocchio, rubbing his good shin firmly up and down.

"Yeah," he says, "Yeah I'll stay 'til you conk out." He swallowed. "Just wake up, yeah?"

"I'll try." He reaches down blindly, looking for a hand to grip, because that's in the back of his mind, too; if he falls asleep he might stay that way, and he needs an anchor.

At least he can sleep at all, now. Now that he knows there's two tiny heartbeats.

"Just give'm a chance," he murmurs, already drifting. "Please. For me."

Hobbes slid his hand into Pinocchio's, squeezing hard. He licked his lips, looking down at Mike's sleepy face, feeling the familiar stretch in his chest at the sight of him so at ease and vulnerable. He really did smile, then.

"...'m trying," he said, and meant 'I already did'. He squeezed Mike's hand again. "Just sleep it off, man. Morning will look better."