Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright...

[britchillsout]

Who: Phil (britchillsout) and Dean Smith (respectedman) // Philip (sadfreezingbrit) and Alex Kralie (40410)
Where: Smith & Phil's room on the mirrorside // 5th floor on the realside
When: The evening of Christmas Day
Rating: R for character death
Summary: The event is over and Phil walks back to Smith's room. Hey, did he mention that he met his regular just before being transported back? It

Comments

[britchillsout]

Phil knows it's bad. When your red tie doesn't stand out against your white shirt then it's definitely bad. Hell, when somebody sticks a bloody fire poker through your bloody stomach then it's bloody fucking bad, that's not even a question.

...It doesn't actually hurt. (That's probably bad too.)

Actually, it feels a little like not going to sleep for a day or two, when you end up just a little colder, your muscles just a little stiffer and your mind just a little blanker than you care them all to be.

(Not that Phil ever really cared about that, but still, he thinks he could use a rest right about now.)

And when he stares down the corridor he realises that he's made it all the way up to the tenth floor. Behind him there's red drops on the stairs, crimson smears on the wall and an overall bloody mess in his wake.

But at least he's home.

Phil takes another step forward, cold hand wrapping around cold metal, and opens the door.

1/2

[respectedman]

It's been a surprisingly dull event so far, for which Dean Smith is infinitely grateful. No mishaps, no outrageous shenanigans. Some gift exchanges and a few snowmen outside. White flakes blowing past the windows, and hot, fresh coffee brewing. A pretty good Christmas morning, too, involving chocolate sauce, hot wax and naked cooking.

He's even hoping to coerce Phil into watching a movie that isn't a porno with him, given the holiday spirit and all that.

It's good to be back on their own side, and it shouldn't be long before Phil shows u-

"I wondered when you'd get back," he muses, turning with a mug in hand as the doorknob clicks.

[respectedman]

The ceramic cup shatters as it hits the floor, spraying hot coffee across his bare feet.

He doesn't even feel it.

"Phil!"

Smith scrambles to the door, catching him before he can fall, pulling him inside. There's red. So much red. Everything is red.

"Oh Jesus, Phil, what-" he chokes, voice struggling to catch up to his brain.

"-what happened?"

[britchillsout]

Phil thinks he would have been fine on his own two feet, but it's nice not to have to test that theory. It's nice to hold Smith, even if he is sort of worried that the blood he's getting all over his shirt will have terrible repercussions later.

"Ghrngh."

Keeping his mouth closed while walking upstairs, not letting the blood pooling in it drip out. Right. He forgot about that.

"Guessssshe... didn't like the tapes."

He coughs. Or laughs. Or tries both, he isn't sure.

[respectedman]

Wrapping one arm around the back of Phil's neck, trying to support something, anything, because he doesn't know what to do, Smith stares into a bloody face with something akin to incredulity.

"Tapes? What tapes, Phil? They don't even-"

The panic rushes through him like water from an opened floodgate, fast and cold and nauseating. He feels like he's swimming in it and starting to drown.

Phil's entire chest is slick with bright, bright red - it almost looks fake. With his free fingers, Smith hastily rips apart the buttons on Phil's shirt and gags at the wound in his stomach.

"Oh God, oh Jesus, Phil."

He doesn't even have anything to stop the bleeding. Bunching the sodden fabric of Phil's shirt and pressing his hand over the torn skin, Smith pointedly ignores the liquid seeping from between his fingers.

"Talk to me, Phil, is this the only place? Where you're hurt?"

[britchillsout]

"Yeah, 's just a..."

Just a scratch, look. Just a little difficult to pull off, that one, if you reach down and grasp at wet cloth, slick, red skin instead of just a scratch.

Phil's fingers tighten around Smith's hand all the same.

"I'll- I'll lie down for a bit, all right?"

Looking towards the bedroom is easy. Getting there is a different story.

[respectedman]

If he was Winchester, he'd know what to do. He'd know that applying pressure will only keep someone alive for so long when they've been stabbed through the stomach by something thick and sharp. He'd know that it was only a matter of time.

Smith, though, hangs onto the futile hope that it's not really as bad as it looks, that there isn't internal bleeding, that he's in the middle of a nightmare on Christmas.

"I can't move you, it'll make it worse," he grits, terrified. "Who did this?"

[britchillsout]

All in due time.

"Please?"

A pleading look at Smith. Another towards the bed.

Walking is one thing, but standing up when you've allowed yourself to sink that deeply; getting to your feet when heavy limbs are pulling you towards the ground... that's another thing entirely.

"I can't lie on the floor, I'm almost bloody sober."

[respectedman]

Conflicted and worried above all else, Smith can't say no when he doesn't know how much time there is left. But there is time - so much time. They've got nothing to worry about. This isn't happening.

"Okay," he breathes, talking himself through it. "Okay, let's- Let's get you to the bed, you'll be fine."

Unhappy that he has to stop holding Phil's stomach to get him to the goddamn bedroom, he stoops wraps both arms around Phil's waist, shoulder braced under his arm, and shakily pulls him to his feet.

"Hold onto me."

[britchillsout]

"Yeah."

If no blood vessel was hit properly an untreated gut wound can take several days to kill. Slow. Unpleasant. Pain, fever, infection. Hit somewhere with modest blood loss and you're looking at hours left to life. A day if you're lucky. Or unlucky, depends.

A stab wound to a major blood vessel though? Think ten to thirty minutes.

Phil grits his teeth, fingers clawing into fabric and/or Smith as he almost slips in his own blood and almost falls down again.

Better make it snappy, Smith.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck."

The floor suddenly seems nice in comparison. Whatever movement Phil just made must have ripped through the shock, a sharp and icy reminder that--

He'll be fine. He'll be fine, it's not a big deal.

(Phil chuckles to himself. He's not buying it.)

He's moving fast, unsure about how long he can keep to his feet if he doesn't.

[respectedman]

"Shit-"

Phil slips and Smith grapples for him, the arm around Phil's waist clinging to his trousers to hold him up as they move quickly and inelegantly to the bedroom.

It's like dragging a corpse.

"I know, I know, just hold on, hold on, it'll be all right-"

Smith talks to himself more than he does to Phil, reassuring things, things that imply safety and a happy ending. The steps are hard and slick and Phil's hands are slippery, leaving red all over Smith's dress shirt - and Smith doesn't care.

It's a miracle they can even get to the mattress, and as soon as they do he lifts, pushes, gently helps Phil onto it. Smith practically tears a pillowcase from one of the cushions, folding it haphazardly and pressing it to the wound as he clambers onto the bed from the other side.

"Phil."

He holds a red hand to a pale, stubbled cheek.

"Phil, you need to tell me what happened. Please, I-" A sharp breath. "-I'm scared, I don't-"

Know what to do.

[britchillsout]

Phil sinks into the mattress and exhales, a bloody smile appearing on his face.

In some situations the lines between regular and mirrored personality blur, maybe because there isn't all that much left of either. This situation is probably a good example and the raw part of Phil knows he's in a fuckload of trouble and no matter where he is or who's with him, it's not going to end well.

But the part that is still Phil is just glad he made it here, glad that he's with Smith right now. Contrary as it may sound, Phil is the one who takes incredible comfort from that where Philip would prefer to do everything in his fading power to not have loved ones see him like that.

Of course what Philip would do right now doesn't actually matter. What Philip has done already--

Right.

That is something Smith wants to know.

"Think I pissed him off. Got a bit stabbed."

Phil smiles.

"Don't worry 'bout it."

[respectedman]

"Who?"

Smith rubs a bloody thumb across Phil's temple, swallowing hard, trying to keep from hyperventilating.

He mentioned tapes. Tapes. Tapes. It's so hard to put two and two together when mathematics is the furthest thing from his mind, rationality is the furthest thing from his mind, he just wants the bad dream to stop.

Tapes as in video tapes. The sex tape? He gave out the sex tape. Smith can't even be angry, he- Well, yes, he can, angry that Phil was so stupid, this wouldn't have happened if he wasn't passing around a sex tape of them, it's no wonder someone would get pissed-

Philip.

"Philip?" he whispers, not even needing confirmation. "Phil, I can't not worry, you- you know me, I-" Smith laughs nervously.

"I always worry."

[britchillsout]

Phil worries too. Not about himself, technically, but Claire-- Why hasn't Claire said a word yet?

(He's probably just scared, poor guy. He hates blood.)

"Yeah, but..."

Phil drapes one arm around Smith's waist. The impact of trying to pull him closer falls short.

"'S just a scratch, pet."

But at least the sentiment is there.

[respectedman]

Smith moves closer anyway, because he knows that Phil needs it, and he needs it, and the gravity of the situation is hitting him like a ton of bricks. He hasn't wanted to acknowledge it, because denial is so much better. Denial lets him think that everything is going to be okay, like it always is.

And Phil is dying.

Phil is dying, and all Smith can concentrate on is how angry he is. If Phil dies, who is he going to look after? Who is he going to berate for leaving all the dishes in the sink and the fridge empty? Who is going to play with the cat?
Who will make hot chocolate for him when it's cold outside?
Who will curl up behind him and hold him while he sleeps?
Who will smile lazily and tell him his bitching is cute?

No one. But it's not about Smith.

It's about the infuriating stoner trying to reassure him that he's fine despite everything, the person who frustrates him more than anything else, the one he never thought he'd care about. Not like this.

"It's not just a scratch, you're...there's so much red, Phil, please

[britchillsout]

Phil is vaguely convinced he was about to mention the Queen, how she seems like a sweet girl and how she'll patch him up again in no time.

Now he really doesn't know why he'd even need to bother. He's fine. Granted, a bit cold maybe, but that's why he's in bed. With blankets. And Smith.

"You're warm."

Smith, whose shampoos and colognes and body wash Phil will never remember by name, who smells minty and a little like sage, strong enough to distract from the stale scent of iron in the air.

Smith, who looks really good in a red shirt, even if this one is just a blotchy and wet draft.

Smith, who worries entirely too much about something Phil can sleep off in no time.

"Stop fussing."

Phil pulls closer still and presses the back of his nose against Smith's shoulder.