#despite how hard ned tries to be the kind of lieutenant; the kind of man he knows crozier expects him to be

[boogiewoogieweeb]

#also if you’re like me (insane) and also see edward as left handed the implications of the left hand bleeding #ned little holding his hand out in school as the school teacher switches a cane against it #trying to make him learn a pattern that’s unnatural to him #[in an insane voice] actually the fact that edward’s left hand is his most visible sign of illness is intentional and incredibly meaningful!

@maedhrus helen, don't you dare hide these additions in the tags!

thinking again about the edward little death vision of his father comforting him after a dog bite. thinking about how his left hand is the one bandaged. edward little who once held his hand out to an animal that betrayed the trust he showed it, his wound reopening as once again his empathy is exploited

[restmyheadatnightcontent]

home is nowhere, therefore you

lots of new witcher content to feed my inspiration so naturally i write something for a completely different fandom. heres some more cold boys as a treat!

__

He is almost always cold now.

It doesn’t matter how many jumpers and layers he wears, how brightly the sun shines that day, or how long he sits by the fire, the cold is still there.

He isn’t sure when it became a part of him. Perhaps it was his first visit to the Antarctic all those years ago, it slipped past his defences and lay in wait, or, he is sure, it was those weeks and months out on the ice, as his body grew weaker and weaker, the poison working its way through his body, wearing him down day by day, leaving enough room for the cold to crawl inside him and make itself at home.

Or perhaps, it has always been there.

From the moment he came into the world, the cold took him and claimed him as one of its own. He remembers many moments as a child when it was there, as his mother went off into her own world, it would come and wrap his small body up in its arms.

Perhaps this is the just way his life was always meant to be.

“You should have woken me,” says a familiar voice says from behind him.

Thomas turns from where he is perched on the steps to see Edward standing there, hair still mussed from sleep, blanket hanging loosely from his shoulders. He looks just as beautiful now as he did that first time Thomas saw him all those years ago in the wardroom on Terror. His hair is longer now, as is his beard, and there is a tiredness to him that wasn’t there before, something Thomas knows they all carry with them now.

It is dark still, the sun yet to rise, but in the moonlight Thomas can see the concerned furrow of Edwards  brow, the worry in those deep brown eyes as he takes a seat next to Thomas.  

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replies, accepting the corner of the blanket that Edward holds up for him, and burrows into his loves side. They have been staying with Francis and James for the past week, and Edward never sleeps well anywhere other than their own bed, despite the fact they have often visit their old captains and their house feels almost as familiar to Thomas as their own. Tonight was the first night that seen Edward sleeping contently since their arrival, and Thomas could not bear to wake him.

“You’re freezing,” Edward says as Thomas buries his nose into his neck.

“I’m always freezing,” he laughs humourlessly, and Edward doesn’t answer that, just wraps his arm around him and rubs his arm in a vain attempt to warm him up.

Still, Thomas appreciates it nonetheless.  

They sit huddled together underneath their shared blanket, looking out onto the garden. Summer is coming to an end, there is a lingering humidity in the air but the night is cold. Thomas takes Edwards free hand in his. He likes Francis and James’ house, and in particular the garden. He finds it reassuring.  It is nice, he thinks, after being around nothing but blankness for so many years it is good to be surrounded by so much colour. James has put a lot of time into it, Francis has told him, he spends most of his time out here. Whenever he tells Thomas, it is always with that tone of annoyance that he has learnt to interpret as fondness. He’s glad, that they have each other, like he has Edward.

That some good managed to come out of that place.

 “Was it a nightmare?” Edward asks quietly, snapping him out of his revive.

They are no strangers to nightmares, both of them still haunted by the memories of what they saw up in the Arctic, waking each other in the night, shaking and sweating, the screams still on their lips. Sometimes all it takes to bring them back is a call of their name, a few kind touches and a reminder that they made it, that they are no longer there, that they are home.

Other nights can be harder, they can be lost for hours, shivering like they are back there, unable to rid the horrible taste from their mouths, feeling the presence of the creature behind them again.

They each have their own demons that haunt them. He does not know the exact details of what Edward sees when he dreams, but by the way he clutches at Thomas when he awakes, runs his fingers through his hair, as if checking for a wound; desperately presses his hand against his chest, as if searching for a pulse; Thomas can imagine well enough.

He does not know what James sees, but from what little he has gathered from Francis, it involves his wounds and something about him wasting away, layer by layer, until nothing remains.

Francis he knows, sees all the men he could not save, all the men he left behind, and that sometimes the guilt is so strong he finds himself driven close to drink, and there have been nights where James has found him slumped in a chair, glass in hand, doing his hardest not to break.

And Thomas feels the shale hard beneath his hands again, clawing his away across it, words caught in his dry throat as he watches everyone he loves turns and walk away, leaving him behind. Alone.

Tonight had not been one of those nights, there had been nothing clear, no shale, nothing he can remember, but he woke feeling unsettled. He should have stayed in bed and tried to go back to sleep, he knows, but he could feel it crawling underneath his skin, the cold settling over him once again, and the warmth of Edward and their room was all of a sudden too much.

“No, not tonight,” he answers, finally. “I just woke up and couldn’t drift off again. Thought I’d come and get some fresh air.”

He can feel the Edwards frown against his hair, and smiles as the other man just hums and pulls him tighter into his arms. Edward was so serious when he first met him, and he made it his personal mission to make the lieutenant smile whenever he got the chance. Edwards frowns are rarer these days, but they always make a reappearance when he is worried about Thomas.

“I’m fine, Ned,” he assures, lifting up his head from where it had been resting on Ned’s shoulder. “Truly. It’s just one of those nights.”

Edward stares at him for a moment, searching for something that Thomas cannot be sure of, but he seems content with whatever he finds, simply pulling Thomas closer and kissing his temple.

“Good,” he murmurs against Thomas’s cheek, and is silent for a moment before he adds “Can it be one of those nights back inside? Because I fear if I sit out here any longer, I think I will lose what few toes I have left.”

Thomas lets out a sharp laugh at that, and leans in to press their lips together. He stands up and tugs Edward up with him by their joined hands.

“Well we can’t have that now, can we?” he says.

Yes, there is cold in him, but when he is met with the sight of Edwards smile, there is nothing but warmth.