Archive of Our Own ^beta

His clothes were wet. That was the first thing that came to mind when he woke up. He hated that feeling, but he knew that he had to keep them on. Tim made that a big rule with snow: no matter how gross and repulsive the wet fabric felt, he had to keep it on when he was outside until he got back to the cabin. Something about the risk of hypothermia and frostbite increasing when he took off his jacket.

He was surrounded by snow, and at least two inches of it sat on top of him. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the crunch of ice on his eyelids. Shaking his head of the snow that had settled there (and trying to ignore the dizziness overcoming his senses with the motion) he stood, leaning heavily on the tree he had been slumped against just moments before. His head spun, but a quick pat down assured him that he wasn’t injured so it wasn’t from blood loss. It was probably from dehydration or low blood sugar, depending on how long he’d been laying there.

The world around him was white, blindingly so. The spot where he’d been sitting before had a patch of red, left over from his blood stained shoes and hoodie. It wasn’t his, so he didn’t care where it came from. He never really remembered where it came from. Sometimes he’d have little bursts of awareness when he was on missions, where he came out of the static that filled his mind during them and saw what he was doing. Burying his hatchet into the skull of a mother as her toddler watched from their crib. Blood under his nails as he dragged a girl by her hair to watch Masky kill her girlfriend. Brain matter on his sleeves as he caved in a teen’s head to the point he couldn’t even tell it was once a person. It was odd to experience that every once in a while. The moment of hesitation as he processed his surroundings, just to be sucked back into the static before he could really register what he was doing, never able to stop or control it.

It wasn’t his blood. That’s all he cared about. Well, that and getting back to the cabin. The dizziness passed soon enough, and even though he wanted to go back to sleep and relax, he knew he had to get back. He cracked his head to the left. Brian would be mad if he was late for dinner, even if they rarely even ate in the same room together for more than two minutes before someone walked off for a smoke or a fight started. There were rare occasions where they’d eat in peace, but Tim was trying to make them eat together for meals to lower the amount of dishes and utensils in rooms they shouldn’t be. It actually worked a bit.

Trudging through the snow sucked. His pants were wet and his feet felt heavy, even though (as far as he was aware) they were the same weight they always were, save for the extra water. He felt heavy all over, honestly. It was like he was made of lead. His jacket that he loved so much had started to become soaked through, the shoulders of it slowly drenching the hoodie he wore beneath, and finally the thermal turtleneck he wore as a base layer. This was gross.

His clothes were wet. His shoes were wet. His socks were wet. His gloves were wet. His hair was wet. His skin was wet. Everything was wet. He wanted to scream, it was so overwhelming. He wanted to scream until his voice was hoarse and he felt lightheaded, until he was curled over himself on the ground and digging his nails into his scalp. It was a pressure in his throat, a pressure that he didn’t want to relieve just as much as he did.

His head felt slow, like every thought he had was lagging behind every few steps he took. He was definitely walking slower now, too. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking for. It was long enough for his feet to start dragging in exhaustion, apparently.

Oh, there’s the driveway. It wasn’t much of a driveway, really just an old dirt path that was just wide enough for the truck and worn down over time. It was about a five minute drive from the cabin to the road, then another fifteen to town for the nearest grocery store or coffee shop. They were pretty secluded from the world, that was how they liked it. From the road it was hard to tell that anyone even lived there. But he made it to that stupid driveway.

He was so close, so, so, so close. He could just see the light from the windows, the warm lamp light that Tim liked since it made his migraines more manageable. He passed the truck, that rusted piece of junk that Brian refused to get replaced or even give a paint job to. Wait, when did he reach the truck?

Just seconds ago he was halfway down the driveway. He paused his walking, looking around in confusion. Yep, this was the cabin. The bright yellow snow shovel pressed against the siding and two pairs of bloodstained boots by the door gave that away, but it seemed like such a short walk when it should’ve taken at least half an hour. The sky above had begun to drop snow again in the time he’d been walking, the downfall rather heavy. He was pretty sure he should be shivering in this weather, but a quick look at his hands confirmed that he wasn’t. That wasn’t good.

His confusion was interrupted when he heard the front door slam open, whipping his head to face the sound. Heavy footsteps clunked down the stairs leading to the porch, someone yelling his name as they ran to him. One person in a red flannel, the other in a yellow hoodie. Tim and Brian.

“Jesus fuck, kid! Where were you?” Tim yelled, trudging through the knee-high snow in just jeans and most likely unlaced boots. He grasped the younger’s shoulders, looking him over with furrowed brows for any obvious injuries. His gaze lingered on the blood, but it was obvious from the stain pattern that it wasn’t his, so he didn’t care.

Toby didn’t respond, dazed and exhausted. He was barely processing the words being yelled at him. He couldn't feel his hands or face. Every time he blinked he risked falling asleep, but that wasn’t a horrible idea in his mind. He wanted to change into clean, dry clothes. He wanted to lay on the couch. He wanted to sleep.

“Nope! Keep your eyes open!” Brian ordered, watching as Toby struggled to stay awake. He was only still standing because of Tim’s hold on his shoulders, or else he definitely would’ve gone crashing to the ground seconds after they opened the door.

Without any more talking, Tim picked up Toby in a fireman’s carry and headed for the cabin, nodding for Brian to follow. He set the boy on the floor by the door, leaving him leaning up against the wall as he went to grab clothes and towels. He didn’t want him getting the couch all wet. Brian took it upon himself to start undressing the other of his soaked clothes, starting with unlacing his boots and setting them out alongside the other two pairs just outside the door and his worn leather gloves. His mask was hard with the amount of ice on it, and his goggles were completely frosted over to the point that they were useless. That was probably why they were on top of Toby’s head and not over his eyes like they usually were when he was on a mission. Then came his jacket, hung on the hooks by the door, then his hoodie and thermal shirt, which were tossed aside to be washed later.

“How long was he out there…?” Brian mumbled to himself, feeling Toby’s cold, damp skin beneath his fingers. He was paler than usual (which said something, since the kid usually looked like death itself), and his fingers and nose were blue.

Tim came back with clothes and towels, helping Brian redress the boy in a thick hoodie and pants, as well as fuzzy socks. The socks were argued about, since last time fuzzy socks were worn by him it sent Toby into a sensory overload and he broke a window, but when they got no negative reaction to them they decided they were fine for the time being. Tim tousled his hair with a towel for a few minutes, trying to get the ice out and dry it off, but settled for just draping the towel over Toby’s shoulders to catch any droplets that fell. The ice was in clumps and he was tugging at his hair trying to get it out, and sure the kid couldn’t feel it, but it was still technically hurting him.

There were surprisingly no major injuries besides some nasty bruising to his side and a scrape down the side of his face, the latter of which was most likely from falling into a tree. Tim kept repeatedly tapping Toby’s face to keep him awake, wanting to make sure he was conscious enough to understand his surroundings so he could check for a concussion and if he had any symptoms of still being under His control. He was negative for both, even if the testing took longer than usual because he kept trying to curl up and sleep.

It took both Tim and Brian to move Toby to the couch in a way that wouldn’t jostle him too much since they now knew he was injured and were able to take their time since they weren’t outside anymore. He was placed down as gently as he could be, lying on the side that wasn’t injured and covered in blankets in no time. Seconds later he was out cold, silent besides the slight wheeze he made when he breathed. That was always there, so there was no concern around it, and it faded into the background as Tim picked up a book and Brian tended to Toby’s face wound. Just cleaning it out and putting on some antibiotic ointment along with a bandage before deciding that was good enough in the moment and curling up in his armchair, promptly following in Toby’s footsteps and passing out.

They’d take care of him when he woke up, but for now, they could rest.