Fic: Dead Quiet
Title: Dead Quiet
Fandom: Wolverine and the X-Men
Word Count: 1,217
Rating: PG-13 (angst and mild swearing)
Characters: Mort/Forge, Kitty
Summary: Forge isn’t dead and, somehow, that only makes it harder. A very, very belated birthday present for manikaitwing.
The click of the door opening seemed too loud in the still air of the infirmary and Mortimer couldn’t help but send a glance at Forge’s bed, as if worried the sound had somehow woken him. As if he wouldn’t have given anything for Forge to wake up. As if he hadn’t spent months dreaming that he’d come down here one day and Forge would be sitting up, smiling and alive again.
But if that was ever going to happen, it wouldn’t be today; Forge lay as still as ever, half-hidden beneath the tangle of wires hooked into his body. After a moment, Mort shakily forced himself away from the doorway, letting the door swing shut behind him with another deafeningly quiet click. He tried not to look at Forge’s face as he dragged his chair around to the side of the bed, focusing instead on the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest, the only visible indication that he was even still alive.
He didn’t speak as he sunk into the chair and dropped his chin on folded arms. Some days, he could manage half of a conversation, almost like Forge could actually hear and understand him, but today the words seemed to stick in his throat, threatening to choke him if he even tried to voice them. Instead, he just listened to Forge’s breathing and the steady beeping of some monitor or another. He let his gaze focus on the IV drip in his arm or the flashing numbers of the nearby clock or anywhere that wasn’t Forge’s too thin, nearly grey face.
Mortimer cherished these brief moments, when he could almost pretend that it wasn’t Forge lying there, that it was someone else, anyone else. But it was a fragile illusion and all too quickly shattered when, finally, he could no longer keep his gaze off of Forge’s face. Like clockwork, just as the thought flitted through his head, he looked up.
That familiar lump in his throat welled up again, making his chest tighten and a quiet whimper slip out. No matter how many times he saw it, Mort never got over that long moment of shock at how dead the man looked. Hank had made an effort to keep him looking the same, keeping Forge’s hair and beard neatly trimmed just like they would have been if he were still awake, but as admirable as the effort was it was futile in the end. Forge’s face was just too slack to be mistaken for sleep, too emotionless, and his skin was pale and clammy looking from all the time away from the sunlight. It was so unlike his old self that Mortimer could hardly connect it with the Forge in his memories, the Forge that smiled and laughed at his jokes even when they weren’t all that funny, that held him while he slept to keep the nightmares away.
Biting his lip, he buried his face in his arms again.
It had been nearly six months now since the accident. Six months of falling asleep alone and waking in the middle of the night screaming. Six months of trying to empty his mind of the memory of Forge unconscious on a stretcher, bleeding from head wounds that Hank wouldn’t let him get close enough to see; the memory of sleeping on the infirmary bench next to Kitty and Bobby while they waited to find out if Forge would even survive the night.
And, worse, of being taken aside the next day and told - in the gentlest and most devastating way - that, while Forge’s body was still alive, his mind was dead and gone and most likely never coming back.
Without looking up, Mortimer reached out and tangled his fingers together with Forge’s, trying to pretend that the man’s skin didn’t feel ice cold, even to him. Momentarily, Forge’s hand tightened around his own. Just a reflex he reminded himself, beating down that faint hope before it dared to fly too high. He’d make that mistake the first week, noticing how Forge’s eyes would occasionally flutter open, that he sometimes gave the slightest hint of a smile. In his desperation, he’d let it get into his head that it actually meant something.
Hank had explained it as gently as possible, in those same quiet tones he’d used when Forge had first been hurt. Mort hadn’t heard any of it. He hadn’t wanted to hear any of it. He had his false hope and that was enough to get him through a month or two of no changes before it all came crashing down and he realized that Hank had been right.
Mort tightened his grip on Forge’s hand. The contact had started to warm it up, not as warm as it should have been but close enough. He put his attention towards that as much as he could and slowly, very slowly, let his mind start to drift.
***
The sound of the door creaking open made him reluctantly lift his head to stare over his shoulder. Kitty stood in the doorway, eyes downturned like she’d rather be anywhere but here. All things considered, Mort couldn’t really blame her.
It took a long time for her to take that first step into the room and, even then, she refused to look at the bed, keeping her eyes locked on Mort. “We missed you at dinner,” she said simply. “I figured you were down here again.” The mention of dinner made him glance at the clock and he was shocked to see that it was nearly nine. Nearly four hours since he’d come in and he’d barely noticed any of it.
“Sorry,” he muttered, voice cracking, “I’m just not all that hungry.” That excuse must be wearing thin, he could hear the frustration in Kitty’s soft sigh. He just hadn’t been all that hungry for most of the week now. Thinking back, Mortimer realized that he hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since a pathetically tiny breakfast the day before. Even with that realization, he still didn’t feel like eating.
Distantly, he wondered if he should be concerned about that.
He was tired though. He was always so fucking tired these days. Shakily, he forced himself to his feet. Kitty watched him, her face growing concerned as he just stood there by Forge’s bed, leaning heavily on the mattress. Mortimer bit his lip and sent a brief, plaintive look over his shoulder. He didn’t trust his voice enough to try to speak at the moment.
To his relief, she understood without him having to. She nodded slightly then turned to leave, giving him only one more concerned glance before the door shut. Mort turned back to Forge, taking another long look at the motionless face.
Hesitantly, he leaned down.
Mort pressed a kiss to Forge’s lips, one he knew wouldn’t be returned. It was a leftover habit from the beginning of this nightmare, back when he’d still clung to the hope that he could somehow pull Forge back from brain death, like something straight out of a fairy tale. But this wasn’t Sleeping Beauty and Forge remained still and lifeless as he pulled away, just as he always had.
Somehow, Mort managed to make it to their bedroom before he started to cry.
Fandom: Wolverine and the X-Men
Word Count: 1,217
Rating: PG-13 (angst and mild swearing)
Characters: Mort/Forge, Kitty
Summary: Forge isn’t dead and, somehow, that only makes it harder. A very, very belated birthday present for manikaitwing.
The click of the door opening seemed too loud in the still air of the infirmary and Mortimer couldn’t help but send a glance at Forge’s bed, as if worried the sound had somehow woken him. As if he wouldn’t have given anything for Forge to wake up. As if he hadn’t spent months dreaming that he’d come down here one day and Forge would be sitting up, smiling and alive again.
But if that was ever going to happen, it wouldn’t be today; Forge lay as still as ever, half-hidden beneath the tangle of wires hooked into his body. After a moment, Mort shakily forced himself away from the doorway, letting the door swing shut behind him with another deafeningly quiet click. He tried not to look at Forge’s face as he dragged his chair around to the side of the bed, focusing instead on the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest, the only visible indication that he was even still alive.
He didn’t speak as he sunk into the chair and dropped his chin on folded arms. Some days, he could manage half of a conversation, almost like Forge could actually hear and understand him, but today the words seemed to stick in his throat, threatening to choke him if he even tried to voice them. Instead, he just listened to Forge’s breathing and the steady beeping of some monitor or another. He let his gaze focus on the IV drip in his arm or the flashing numbers of the nearby clock or anywhere that wasn’t Forge’s too thin, nearly grey face.
Mortimer cherished these brief moments, when he could almost pretend that it wasn’t Forge lying there, that it was someone else, anyone else. But it was a fragile illusion and all too quickly shattered when, finally, he could no longer keep his gaze off of Forge’s face. Like clockwork, just as the thought flitted through his head, he looked up.
That familiar lump in his throat welled up again, making his chest tighten and a quiet whimper slip out. No matter how many times he saw it, Mort never got over that long moment of shock at how dead the man looked. Hank had made an effort to keep him looking the same, keeping Forge’s hair and beard neatly trimmed just like they would have been if he were still awake, but as admirable as the effort was it was futile in the end. Forge’s face was just too slack to be mistaken for sleep, too emotionless, and his skin was pale and clammy looking from all the time away from the sunlight. It was so unlike his old self that Mortimer could hardly connect it with the Forge in his memories, the Forge that smiled and laughed at his jokes even when they weren’t all that funny, that held him while he slept to keep the nightmares away.
Biting his lip, he buried his face in his arms again.
It had been nearly six months now since the accident. Six months of falling asleep alone and waking in the middle of the night screaming. Six months of trying to empty his mind of the memory of Forge unconscious on a stretcher, bleeding from head wounds that Hank wouldn’t let him get close enough to see; the memory of sleeping on the infirmary bench next to Kitty and Bobby while they waited to find out if Forge would even survive the night.
And, worse, of being taken aside the next day and told - in the gentlest and most devastating way - that, while Forge’s body was still alive, his mind was dead and gone and most likely never coming back.
Without looking up, Mortimer reached out and tangled his fingers together with Forge’s, trying to pretend that the man’s skin didn’t feel ice cold, even to him. Momentarily, Forge’s hand tightened around his own. Just a reflex he reminded himself, beating down that faint hope before it dared to fly too high. He’d make that mistake the first week, noticing how Forge’s eyes would occasionally flutter open, that he sometimes gave the slightest hint of a smile. In his desperation, he’d let it get into his head that it actually meant something.
Hank had explained it as gently as possible, in those same quiet tones he’d used when Forge had first been hurt. Mort hadn’t heard any of it. He hadn’t wanted to hear any of it. He had his false hope and that was enough to get him through a month or two of no changes before it all came crashing down and he realized that Hank had been right.
Mort tightened his grip on Forge’s hand. The contact had started to warm it up, not as warm as it should have been but close enough. He put his attention towards that as much as he could and slowly, very slowly, let his mind start to drift.
***
The sound of the door creaking open made him reluctantly lift his head to stare over his shoulder. Kitty stood in the doorway, eyes downturned like she’d rather be anywhere but here. All things considered, Mort couldn’t really blame her.
It took a long time for her to take that first step into the room and, even then, she refused to look at the bed, keeping her eyes locked on Mort. “We missed you at dinner,” she said simply. “I figured you were down here again.” The mention of dinner made him glance at the clock and he was shocked to see that it was nearly nine. Nearly four hours since he’d come in and he’d barely noticed any of it.
“Sorry,” he muttered, voice cracking, “I’m just not all that hungry.” That excuse must be wearing thin, he could hear the frustration in Kitty’s soft sigh. He just hadn’t been all that hungry for most of the week now. Thinking back, Mortimer realized that he hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since a pathetically tiny breakfast the day before. Even with that realization, he still didn’t feel like eating.
Distantly, he wondered if he should be concerned about that.
He was tired though. He was always so fucking tired these days. Shakily, he forced himself to his feet. Kitty watched him, her face growing concerned as he just stood there by Forge’s bed, leaning heavily on the mattress. Mortimer bit his lip and sent a brief, plaintive look over his shoulder. He didn’t trust his voice enough to try to speak at the moment.
To his relief, she understood without him having to. She nodded slightly then turned to leave, giving him only one more concerned glance before the door shut. Mort turned back to Forge, taking another long look at the motionless face.
Hesitantly, he leaned down.
Mort pressed a kiss to Forge’s lips, one he knew wouldn’t be returned. It was a leftover habit from the beginning of this nightmare, back when he’d still clung to the hope that he could somehow pull Forge back from brain death, like something straight out of a fairy tale. But this wasn’t Sleeping Beauty and Forge remained still and lifeless as he pulled away, just as he always had.
Somehow, Mort managed to make it to their bedroom before he started to cry.