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kurokoros · 7 years

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Title: Berserk | Chapter Ten

Rated: T (language/violence)

Summary: Berserk. Out of control with anger. This is what Natsu was born to be. A warrior soaked in blood. A murderer. This is what Pergrande turned him into. Taken at a young age by the King, Natsu is a soldier of the Royal Army, a creature of rage and violence—a weapon. Lucy is a thief from Fiore with a price on her head. Natsu is sent to kill her. When they meet it isn’t pretty at all.

Word Count: 5601

{i’ll ask of the Berserks, you tasters of blood}

Lucy runs until she can no longer hear the snarling and snapping coming from the soldiers warring behind her. She runs until the trees have all fallen silent. The Ellyra whimpering as she passes them, low and mourning as they curl in on themselves, more tree than sentient creature. They whisper no more warnings; sing no songs. All she can hear is the rapid beating of her pulse in her ears boomboomboom. And that’s all she needs to hear—needs to hear that she’s still alive.

Her ankle aches beneath her, throbbing with every step she takes, but Lucy doesn’t stop. She doesn’t think she can. Five miles. She only has to run five miles. Even less now. Jorah is close. She can make it. She has to make it. Four miles. Maybe three.

Biting her cheek until it bleeds, Lucy wills herself to move faster and faster, until the Ellyra become a great blur of blood and bones, trees stark and silent in the deep, dark forest. The great, white trees quiver as she passes, leaves rustling lowly as their trunks appear to bend and twist. The shadows play tricks on her eyes, and the trees feel like ghosts. There, but not entirely alive.

A shriek pierces the air, a scream coming from all sides, and Lucy nearly trips, catching herself at the last possible moment, her palms slamming against the ground. The trees cry out, an icy hand drawing a path down Lucy’s spine as she hears the trees around her take up the scream. They’re connected, she knows. They’re all connected. When one tree bleeds, they all do. When the forest creatures bleed, they all do.

She prays that it’s a tree that’s been injured, prays to the Old Gods that it’s not him. Ellyra can grow new limbs and sprout back from the smallest of seeds, but he can’t.

She wills the thoughts away, a heaviness leaving her heart as the trees curl back in on themselves once more, dragging their misery back with them. They love to share with those around them, but she never did want their sadness, not when she has enough of her own.

After that the forest becomes a blur. Blood and bone; blood and bone.

The old shanty comes back to her after minutes—hours—days, the one her mother used to sing to her. She doesn’t know why it comes back to her now, but the words bleed onto her tongue and she feels herself mouthing them without meaning to, feeling the heavy weight of them resting on her lips.

When will my drowned lover—

The words taste like poison on her tongue, thick and sickly sweet. She remembers the same trill to her mother’s voice as she sang—remembers the blood on her mother’s lips as she was ripped apart at the seams, still singing. Always singing. Always smiling. Until the bitter end, her mother always said. Until the bitter end.

Around her, the Ellyra take up a hum, cooing and trilling, her own words echoed back at her.

Come home, come home, come home to me?

Her legs burn and her chest aches, but the mountains begin to grow larger, taller, until they tower over her, so much bigger than she remembers them being only moments ago. She blinks, and suddenly she can see a gate, a black, iron wall nestled in a pass between the mountains. She recognizes the gate, remembers passing through it weeks ago on her way to Đüskell.

Jorah.

A sword at his hip, eyes shinning with glee.

Lucy falls to a sudden halt—lungs screaming, ankle burning, head pounding—and stares down at the black gate and the guards stationed outside. There’s two of them, twice her size and burly, bears on two legs. Northmen, she thinks, from Mithriel or perhaps the sons of men from Mithriel, back from the last great war. The border is blurred, she knows, but the blood is bad. She doubts any man from the Icelands would work for Pergrande, not on their good name.

She shakes her head, fingers curling tightly around her the strap of her bag, willing it to keep it’s secrets hidden should they search her. Suddenly she remembers her last meeting with a guard of Pergrande, how he grabbed her, touched her. Her lips curl back in a snarl, fingers itching for her knives, but she doesn’t take them. She merely tightens her hands into fists, steeling herself as she stares down at the town, gaze calculating as her eyes sweeps across the gate and the guards, the wall stretching across the pass.

For a moment, she considers scaling the wall, but brushes the thought aside, knowing a fool’s errand when she sees one. Shaking her head, Lucy sucks in a deep breath through her teeth. Her eyes lock on the gate and the guards and without a second thought she steps forward, her bow a comforting weight on her back. Her ankle still aches as she walks, but it’s dull, not nearly as sharp as it was the first time.

When will my drowned lover—

Without realizing it, she’s neared the gate, legs moving without her permission. The trees disappear around her, their constant presence gone from her sides. She feels bare without them, uneasy. Though no more than pale bark and bloody leaves, the trees felt more like a friend than anything else. Constant, there when she needs them, silent when she doesn’t. For the first time in days, Lucy is truly alone once more.

She steels her nerves, locking eyes with one guard as she nears. Both men straighten as they see her, gazes trained on her. Lucy lifts her head high, stalking towards them. She forgets to appear small and unthreatening, forgets to curl in on herself as she passes, despite remembering what happened the last time she neared a guard. What she does remember is breaking fingers and the taste of blood on her tongue.

Her fists tighten, muscles tense.

When she passes through the gate, both men nod, letting her pass.

Come home, come home, come home to me?

Lucy smiles.

She walks blindly through Jorah for hours, long enough for her feet to ache and for the sun to sink into the horizon, deep shades of violet and red bleeding across the sky. The stars aren’t out yet, but Lucy knows it won’t be long until the town goes dark, the moon and stars the only source of light to be found. She’s been pacing, waiting for Natsu, hoping—praying—that he’d stroll through the gates at any moment, alive and unharmed, and give her that crooked grin he sometimes does.

But he hasn’t; she’s beginning to think he won’t. The sky is darkening and the streets are growing thin, most people turning in for the night. She knows that a fight between Berserkers can last for hours on end, days even, if the opponents are well matched. While she wants to think he could defeat anything, she knows that’s not possible. Natsu is strong, she knows that very well, but there’s only so much he can do. And he was already hurt before the fight.

He’s not dead though. She won’t believe that. Not until the other Berserker finds her and rips her to pieces. If he finds her, then she’ll know that Natsu’s not coming back.

Lucy sighs and shoves her hands deep into her pockets, staring out through the gate just as she has been for the better part of the afternoon. They close at midnight, she was told by a kind older woman several hours earlier, open again at six. There’s still time. She fidgets nervously with a loose string in her jacket, winding it around her finger absentmindedly. It confuses her, how attached she’s grown to him in such a short amount of time. It’s only been a week, less even, but the thought of leaving him behind leaves a bad taste in her mouth—makes her heart lurch in her chest.

Shaking her head slowly, Lucy twists on her heel, turning her back to the gate and the forest. Away from what’s not there. She makes it a step before a heavy hand falls on her shoulder, fingers curling around her injured arm. Lucy hisses, reeling back as the bite on her shoulder flairs with pain, and whirls back around, meeting the gaze of one of the two guards from earlier. The other isn’t far behind him, gaze curious as he peers down at her.

Immediately, she takes another step back, fingers slipping from her pockets and edging towards her knives. The older of the two guards notices, his lips pressing into a thin line, but the younger simply smiles, expression friendlier than she anticipated.

“Can we help you, Miss?” the younger asks, genuine concern brewing in his eyes. Lucy glances between the pair, gauging their expressions. Her eyes slip passed them suddenly, drifting beyond the gate once more.

She inhales sharply, ripping her gaze away. “Sorry,” Lucy murmurs, “I’m just—” she cuts off suddenly, swallowing down the growing lump in her throat. “I’m just waiting for someone.” The older guard peers down at her, dark eyes locking with hers. Lucy shifts, wetting her lips as she turns her eyes away from his, suddenly feeling more nervous than she was expecting.

The man—who couldn’t possibly be any older than forty, behind his bushy beard and his wise eyes. “Well,” he rumbles, voice deep, an accent thick on his tongue. Mithrien. “It’s getting’ dark,” he tells her, casting a glance up towards the sky, the sunset bleeding into darkness. “You may want to get a room for the night before they’re all booked.” He hums in thought, pursing his lips. “Wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you to be stuck on the streets all night.”

For a moment, she bristles at the comment, but his expression is more concerned than anything else, so she lets it slide. “I didn’t think many people passed through Jorah,” she responds as casually as she can. No one leaves Pergrande. That’s what Natsu told her.

The guards exchange a glance, the younger looking away first and instead fiddling with a strap on his armor, the polished gold worn and dusty. The older turns back to her. “You’re not wrong, Miss,” he admits lowly, as if it’s a secret. “We’ve ‘ad a sudden influx of soldiers from the capital. King’s orders.”

“Aye,” the younger tacks on, rubbing a hand against his clean shaven face. He bites his lip for a moment, casting a glance around them. “The king’s men have been crawling around for days.” He spits it like it’s something vile, his lip curling as he mentions the King.

Lucy frowns, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Are you not the King’s men?” she asks them, eyeing their armor and swords. The Centari crest is brandished across both.

The younger man snorts, lips curling at the edges as if it’s funny, but he says nothing in response to the question. “If you’re looking for a room,” he tells her, “I’d suggest stopping at the Blue Moon. Peg’s always got room to spare, right, Bard?” He nudges the other guard with his elbow, receiving a sharp nod in response.

“Thank you,” she says after a long moment, glancing between the pair slowly. “I’ll do that.” Lucy hoists her bag higher on her shoulder, giving the men a quick nod before turning around once more, heading back towards town.

She remembers seeing an inn called the Blue Moon, she just hopes she can find it again in the dark. Lucy glances up, worrying her lip when she realizes the stars have come out, the moon high in the sky, round and full.

“Miss.” Lucy pauses, glancing back to see Bard staring back at the gates. He doesn’t look at her as he speaks. “I hope your friend doesn’t keep you waitin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the darkness. His gaze slides to the side, meeting hers. “There’s a storm brewin’.” He doesn’t spare her a second glance as he heads back to the front gates, back to his post. The younger man follows without a work, leaving Lucy alone in her silence.

She stares after them for a moment, then simply walks away.

Lucy doesn’t know how long she walks around in the darkness, it takes her more than a few minutes to gather her thoughts and search for the inn the guards mentioned, but she finds the Blue Moon easily enough. It’s not hard to spot, with it’s large sign, a ghostly moon painted in a soft blue. Lucy hesitates before entering, silently wondering if this is some sort of trick. She has no reason to trust the word of two guards she’s only just met.

Though, she also has no real reason not to.

If they had wanted to get her alone somewhere, they had the perfect opportunity to do so earlier.

Lucy huffs, shaking her head before shoving the door open without a second thought and stepping inside. The main room is dimly lit, only a small lantern hung in the center of the room, casting shadows along the walls. It’s magicked, she thinks. There’s no flicker of firelight, only a soft, steady glow. A blessed object, maybe. Or perhaps a glowing firestone from Minstrel. They’re expensive though, from what she’s been told.

Brushing the thought aside, Lucy steps further into the room, catching the attention of a small, older woman sitting behind a desk that practically swallows her from sight. The woman smiles when she sees Lucy, calling out a quiet greeting in Përn. Lucy forces her own smile.

“Hi,” she greets softly, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt absentmindedly. “I’d like to rent a room.” She meets the woman’s—Peg, she guesses—eyes wearily. “Please,” she tacks on at the end, trying for another smile, but it feels stiff on her face, mechanical.

“Just for the night?” the woman asks in a thick, rolling accent, far different from the one she heard back in the capital. Gruffer, she thinks, harsh as the frigid winter winds. It must be because of the border, how close Jorah is to Mithriel.

The question echoes through her mind and her pulse quickens. One night. What if Natsu isn’t back before morning? Lucy bites her cheek, teeth gnawing at the skin until she’s afraid it might bleed. She doesn’t want to leave him behind, not after what he did to keep her alive, but one night is about all she can afford. One night is all that’s safe. She would be a fool to think the King only sent one Berserker after the two of them. She doesn’t have time to waste in Jorah, not if there’s a chance Natsu won’t—Lucy shakes the thought away, not wanting to think about him being hurt but knowing that it’s inevitable. She doubts anyone could make it out of a fight with a Berserker without being hurt.

Her left arm gives a sore ache in response to her thoughts, a bitter reminder.

A shuddery little breath leaves her, spilling out before she can stop it.

There’s a chance he won’t ever be coming back.

“Are you all right, Dear?” A hand reaches out, fingertips just barely brushing against Lucy’s shoulder before she jerks back in surprise. Her eyes snap up, gaze wild before she suddenly remembers where she is. The woman stares back, eyes concerned—kind. She’s never seen eyes more kind. Gentle and green.

Her mouth opens, then closes again. Lucy wets her lips, swallowing down the lump growing in her throat. “Sorry,” she murmurs back, shaking herself slightly. She hesitates, glancing towards the door and the dark clouds forming overhead, promising rain. “Just the one night,” she whispers, wincing, “for now. Thanks.”

Peg nods slowly, still smiling, then turns to a row of keys on the wall, brushing a finger along them until she comes across one she likes. “Anytime, Mishka.” Lucy doesn’t know what that means, but it sounds warm and almost parental, so she forces another smile, because Peg is being nice, though it may only be her job, and Lucy is too tired and scared to deal with anyone else tonight. Peg holds out the key to Lucy, dropping it in her palm. “Second floor. Third door to the right. Have a nice evening!”

Lucy wants to thank her, but the words catch in her throat, so she merely nods instead, turning towards the stairs a few paces away and dragging herself up the flight. It doesn’t take her long to reach the room she’ll be spending the night in, but to Lucy it feels like hours. She’d hadn’t realized earlier how much she aches until just now. She’s drained: physically, mentally, emotionally. She doesn’t think she can handle anymore surprises tonight.

Her bag drops to the ground. A moment later, her bow follows. Then the knives. Hands trembling, Lucy shrugs the jacket from her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. Lucy kicks off her boots, mindful of her ankle—still sore, but no longer aching with every move she makes. Her fingers still against the hem of her shirt, only briefly, but then she pulls the dirty, stained shirt over her head, dropping it to the ground without a second thought. A chill creeps over her exposed form, the window opened just a crack, but she doesn’t mind.

Stooping, Lucy reaches for her bag once more, fiddling with the straps for a moment before burying her hand inside. She pulls out a fresh shirt and a new roll of bandages she bought while she was out, knowing that she would need them. Swallowing, She kicks the bag away gently, making her way to the bed tucked against the wall in the center of the room. A little table sits beside it, a bowl filled with clean water resting on top.

Dropping silently onto the bed, Lucy unclips her socks from her belt, wriggling the belt off from under her shorts, but leaving her socks untouched. She glances down at her arm, frowning at the bandage curled around her upper arm. Tugging her glove down slowly, Lucy is relieved to see that the black veins haven’t traveled further down her arm, all of them covered, bandage coiled around her arm from shoulder to elbow. She won’t be able to hide it for much longer. Not that she should be hiding it anyway.

She’s still going to tell him. If he does come back. She doesn’t know if it’s poison or an infection, but she’s hoping he might know.

Lucy rips off the other glove and tosses it to the floor beside the other, then wriggles the clean shirt over her head. The room is dark and quiet, and Lucy simply sits on the bed for several long seconds. She stares at the wall, watching the moon cast a shadow from the window.

Settling onto her side, Lucy doesn’t bother to slip under the sheets as she lies down on the bed. She curls in on herself, guilt beginning to eat at her insides. She shouldn’t have left him—shouldn’t have run away like a coward. She should have stayed and done something. Anything. If he doesn’t come back…

She sucks in an angry breath, hissing through her teeth. If he doesn’t come back, she’s going to carry that with her for the rest of her life—how she abandoned him there. She won’t forgive herself for it, not if he dies. She’s only known him for a week, but he’s been her constant for that week, hardly straying from her side unless he needed to.

He matters to her, more than she ever would have anticipated. Despite the circumstances, despite the memory of his teeth sinking into her skin, she doesn’t want him to die—doesn’t want him to bleed out alone in the dark. Lucy wants him to come back, alive. One week is not a lot of time to become familiar with someone, yet here she is, waiting, praying. Praying is something she hasn’t done in a long time. The Old Gods never listened.

Lucy prays to Djehl, their fire god. If anyone could protect Natsu, it would be Djehl. She hopes he hears her, if not for her sake than for Natsu’s. He doesn’t deserve to die for her mistakes.

Her thoughts fall quite after some time, but Lucy doesn’t sleep. She can feel it pulling at her eyes, her mind, but she doesn’t close her eyes. Lucy stares at the wall across the room, at the door, and at her things scattered across the floor. She lies there for what must be hours, until moon has risen so high that she can no longer see its light streaming through the window. The open window has left a chill through the room, and the cold pricks at her skin, but she ignores it, curling tighter around herself.

A shadow moves across the wall, humanoid and tall. Behind her, she hears a creak as the window is forced open further. Lucy stills for a moment, wondering if it’s only her eyes and ears playing tricks on her, the darkness and sleep pulling at her mind. She doesn’t move for a long moment, confused and sluggish, but the room suddenly drops in temperature, a chill sweeping through the small room.

The shadow on the wall moves then, and Lucy both watches and hears as someone slips through the window, landing softly on their feet. She almost doesn’t hear it. Almost. The person sighs, unsteady on their feet, and takes a step further into the room.

Lucy moves then, snapping up and rolling off the bed onto her feet. She curses herself for not keeping her knives on her, but she can still get to them before this stranger gets to her. Judging by the way his shadow sways, he won’t be able to move faster than her.

Something makes her pause, however, before she can lunge for her knives. A tug in her gut anchors her in place, willing her to turn around—to look at the man that’s entered her room. And she does.

It takes her a moment to peer through the darkness, but she catches sight of golden armor glinting in the moonlight, dirty with dirt and blood. Scarlet fabric hangs from the man’s hips. Her gaze slides higher, over a familiar chest, bloodstained and bruised. Green eyes meet hers in the dark, unnaturally bright and warm. Blood leaks into his eyes, but Lucy thinks she would know them anywhere.

She sucks in a shaky breath, eyes wide as she simply stares for several long seconds. “Natsu,” she breathes, his name heavy on her lips. He’s alive. Beaten and bloody, but alive. Lucy gives him a once-over, gaze skating across his form. There’s blood everywhere, his hands, his face, his chest.

He’s alive.

Natsu smiles when she says his name, a familiar crooked grin. It’s more strained than usual and doesn’t meet his tired eyes, but it’s a smile nonetheless. He takes another step towards her, his own eyes taking her in, making sure she’s okay. Green eyes lock with her’s once again, holding her gaze. She finds relief there, and something softer, warmer.

“Found you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and throaty. He takes another step, nearly stumbling. “I found you.” His smile widens, though only slightly.

Lucy lets out a breathless little laugh before launching herself at him. Her hip rams into the bed frame as she stumbles through the darkness, sending a flair of pain up her leg, but Lucy doesn’t care. She presses up on her toes, arms winding around his neck as she pulls him to her. He smells of blood and sweat and she can feel blood, both dried and wet, sliding against her skin. He’s alive though, and that’s all that matters.

A pained sound tumbles from his throat as she squeezes too tight, but before Lucy can pull back his arms are winding around her waist, holding her tighter to his chest. He sucks in an angry, relieved breath, nose pressed to her hair, and squeezes her gently around the waist, as if she might just disappear.

His breath fans across her throat and Lucy sucks in a shaky breath, one hand playing with the hairs at the base of his neck, the other slipping down his back, until she can feel his heart beating through his skin, steady and strong.

A relieved little sob tears from her throat, and she feels him murmur something against her hair, but doesn’t understand the words.

Lucy pulls back as best she can with their arms wound so tightly around each other, just enough to look at him. There’s blood on his face, but he’s smiling at her, eyes bright and relieved. Her hands slide around to cradle his jaw, thumbs stroking along his skin. He leans into her touch, the tension slipping from his shoulders like water. “You’re okay,” she murmurs. Alive. He’s alive.

His hand is firm on her back, holding her steady against him. “I’m okay,” he promises, voice barely a whisper in the darkness. His smile turns wry, gaze turning hard for only a moment. “It takes more than one Berserk to kill me,” he tells her, thumb tracing gentle circles along her spine.

She sends him a sad smile, lowering herself back to her feet and stepping away. He lets her go, arms slipping back to his sides. Lucy gaze drifting back to his chest, to the bloody mess it’s become. She winces.

“You’re hurt,” she murmurs. It sounds stupid when she says it, but she can’t keep the words from tumbling out. The sight of him almost makes her sick, he’s so covered in sticky blood, too much blood.

He only smiles, expression gentle. “A little,” he agrees, eyes alight with amusement.

Lucy reaches for his hand, noticing for the first time how much bigger it is than hers, and slips her palm into his. One of his fingers is bent oddly, bruising around the knuckle, and she thinks it might be broken. His fingers curl around her hand, and Lucy gives him a small tug forward, pulling him from the window slowly. He follows her, allowing her to walk him around the bed, closer to the door. She almost slips over her boot in the darkness, not paying attention to her feet, but his hand holds her steady, not letting her fall.

She settles him onto the bed gently, taps a meaningful finger against the armor plate on his abdomen, then turns back to her bag on the floor. He shifts behind her, and she can hear the sound of a belt unbuckling, heavy metal clanking against the floor. Lucy manages to pull a cloth from her bag, as well as the healing paste she carries with her, fingers shaking slightly as thinks of all the blood.

When she turns back to him, his armor is gone, settled across the floor, the red fabric around his hips gone as well. Her eyes slide down his abdomen briefly, gaze sweeping over the newly bared skin, but they don’t linger.

His eyes are on her as she comes back to him, on the cloth in her hand and on her face, curious. She sends him a watery smile, heart heavy, and he returns the look, tired and melancholy. When Lucy reaches his side, she nudges him closer to the headboard, closer to the table and the large bowl of water settles on top. Natsu seems to understand, shifting in place and making room for her at his side.

Lucy settles against him, keeping on foot on the ground, her right knee pressed tight against his thigh as she leans over him. Natsu watches her as she dips the rag into the water, his eyes following her as she rings out the water before turning back to him.

She starts with the blood on his face, dabbing carefully at the cut above his brow. He holds still for her, not moving a muscle as she slides the cool, wet along his brow, his cheek, his chin, revealing clean, tanned skin, mottled only by the bruising along his jaw.

Water drips down his throat and Lucy’s throat tightens as she sees the bruising. Finger shaped marks mar his throat, deepening in color with every second. For a moment, she remembers the feel of his hands around her throat, squeezing and growing tighter and tighter.

A sob wells in her throat, but she swallows it back, running a gentle finger over the bruises before pulling back to ring out the water.

The cut above his bow has clotted, but she thinks it might need stitches. She doesn’t trust herself to do them, not now. It’ll have to wait until morning.

She’s just started to clean the bloody mess on his chest when he starts to speak.

“I killed him,” Natsu tells her lowly, voice quivering as he speaks. She glances up from his chest, locking eyes with him. They’re wet, she notices, and there’s something like guilt there, something she’s grown far too familiar with. He swallows thickly, fingers settling against her bare thigh gently, almost a ghost. His fingers are warm against her bare skin, and when she doesn’t protest or pull away his grip grows firmer, simply holding her to him. “He was going to kill me,” he continues. “And then he would have killed you.” His hand tightens on her thigh as she dabs at his chest, clearing away enough blood to see the wound clearly. “I just—”

She slathers the green paste on his chest as he cuts off, hissing slightly as the paste burns at his open wounds. She hushes him gently, soft fingers trailing over his ribs. “You did what you needed to do,” she whispers back, reaching for the bandages on the table.

He’s silent for a long time as she winds the bandages around his chest, his fingers drawing nonsensical shapes against her thigh. “I don’t regret it,” he tells her as she drops the bandages back to the bed. Her hand still over the water bowl, the water tinged red and the rag soaking in it. “Does that make me a monster?”

Lucy wets her lips, ringing out the rag once more and shifting, peering down at his left arm. She wipes the blood away. “Why would that make you a monster?” she asks him.

“I killed him,” he murmurs as Lucy cleans the blood and dirt from his arm, her touch gentle. He stays quiet as she works, and then, “I almost killed you.” It comes out choked, thick, as if it hurts him to say it aloud.

She pauses in her work, the rag falling against her thigh with a wet slap. Bloody water soaks into her sock. Her eyes lock with his, gentle as she meets his gaze. “That wasn’t you,” she reminds him, glancing down at the bruises around his neck. A shiver runs down her spine.

His jaw locks in place, eyes ripping away from hers. “It was my hands,” he growls back through clenched teeth, angry, though not at her.

With a sigh, Lucy cups his face once more, gently tilting his head up to meet her eyes. Her thumbs brush against his jaw. “It was my hands that did this,” she reminds him softly, one hand trailing down his chest to rest against the bandages wound around him. Guilt pulls at her chest, welling in her throat, but she swallows it back. “We do what we need to,” she tells him.

His hand comes up to cover on of hers, holding her palm against his cheek as she pulls the bloody rag from her thigh. She turns to his right arm, carefully running the cloth across his skin. Her blood runs cold as the blood is wiped from his bicep, revealing a bloody bite mark against his skin. She inhales sharply, a finger ghosting over the mark. He doesn’t flinch at her touch.

She wants to ask, to mention the mark on her own arm, but they’re both exhausted, and Natsu has felt enough guilt for one night.

So she covers the mark in the green paste and wraps his arm in more bandages, touch light as she runs a finger across the crisp, white bandages coiled around his upper arm.

Natsu sighs through his nose and releases her hand. She doesn’t pull back. “You waited for me,” he murmurs, barely audible in the silent room. “Why?” His gaze burns against hers, beseeching.

Lucy merely smiles back, slipping off him slowly, though keeping her hand on his cheek. “Because you’re my friend,” she whispers back, thumb brushing against his jaw for only a moment.

It hangs in the air between them, and Lucy crawls across the bed to lie on the other side. She slips beneath the sheets quietly, curling onto her side away from him. For a long moment he sits there silently, not moving, hardly breathing.

The bed creaks as he shifts, slipping beneath the blanket slowly, as if waiting for her to protest. But she doesn’t, and he curls up behind her, not touching her, but close enough that she can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves. He sighs and she can feel his breath against the back of her neck.

And that’s the last thing she remembers.

#fairy tail #nalu #ftdrabbles #ftberserk!AU #ftberserker!AU

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