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riptide_asylumTitle: Oliver is Worried
Rating: PG
Summary: When Cody gets out of the hospital after Code Blue, Oliver can tell something's wrong.
The boy--a man now, Oliver reminded himself fiercely--had been gone now for three days. That was two days too many, and Oliver was worried.
He well knew how much it meant to his boy to slide his fingers down between mattress and wall and rub Oliver's well-loved paw. The kind-eyed man had suggested the boy have Oliver in the bed with them, but that was not what Oliver and his boy had agreed to. Close to the wall, Oliver was safe. He would not need to be buried again. He could wait until each evening after the sun set and the moon rose high, silver fingers slipping in through the stateroom's windows.
His...his man. Oliver made himself say it until it felt like the truth. His man lay in the big wide bed with the kind-eyed man at his back, and while the magic box told them stories, his fingers would slip down into the crevice where Oliver lived, and the two of them would catch up in their own special way.
Oliver knew the kind-eyed man knew this too, and loved them both the more for it. The kind-eyed man was pretty darn nifty, Oliver eventually decided.
Until now.
Three days. Three days since he'd last spoken with his boy. Three days since they'd checked in, and the boat felt empty, rocking at a lonely slip while they were absent. Oliver did not like this one bit.
Finally, they returned.
Oliver had been all set to read them both the riot act, letting them know how worried he'd been, how sick at stuffing-heart he'd gotten, wondering what had happened, when he caught sight of his boy, shuffling slowly down the stateroom steps.
Oliver's breath caught in his throat. His boy...
The boy's eyes were tired, his skin gray and he moved so slowly, almost as slowly as Oliver moved, and he leaned so heavily on the kind-eyed man that at once, Oliver knew something terrible had happened. Something where the boy hadn't been able to get back, as much as he'd wanted to.
The kind-eyed man arranged the comforter, tucking it up close. He fluffed all the pillows and pushed them towards the boy, wrapping him in tight. Then he leaped up the steps and Oliver could hear him checking the locked doors one last time, making sure they were all safe. Then he dashed back down to the stateroom and crawled into bed, his arms and body a willing offering.
Oliver froze. Something was very very wrong.
He listened to the boy breathe. He listened to the kind-eyed man listening to the boy breathe. Then just when he thought his little stuffing-heart might burst, the boy's fingers delved slowly, oh so slowly, between the mattress and the wall and stroked Oliver's nubbinpaw, once, twice, and then were still.
In that instant, Oliver saw everything.
He saw the boy hurt, deep in his chest, and fall to the floor, gasping for breath. He watched the kind-eyed man breathe for him, and then strangers took his boy away, and the boy had no voice to tell them how much he needed the kind-eyed man to keep him breathing, to stay next to him and keep him breathing.
Oliver hurt at that. He knew just how his boy felt.
In that touch he saw and knew everything: saw the machines they hooked the boy up to, how they poked at the boy and prodded him, and ignored all his requests for the kind-eyed man, ignored how he pleaded to see the man again, to touch him; how he promised to get well if they would just give him this one wish.
He saw the kind-eyed man sneaking into the machine-room at night, so he could lay his head next to the boy's hand.
Oliver had never wanted to hug a human as much as he did right then.
A kaleidoscope of images assailed him: the boy lying motionless but feeling the kind-eyed man at his side, feeling him breathe into the air the boy was breathing, and how it healed him and kept him fighting. How the--Oliver did not know the word for her. A girl so big and bright the others ran from her.
She. ...This human made the other humans do things, and they were all things for the boy, to make him strong again, to get him back to the kind-eyed man's side. Oliver wanted to hug this human too, but he was also a little afraid of her. She was big in so many dimensions.
But more than anything, when the boy's fingers found his nubbinpaw, Oliver knew one thing with certainty: his boy was growing old.
The knowledge lanced through him like the butter knife the boy's sister had stabbed him with once, a very long time ago.
Oliver was not ready for the boy to grow old. He had spent such a long time loving the boy, and then missing him, and worrying he was not safe and that he was sad, and now, after only such a short time it seemed, the boy had seen fit to go and grow old. It simply was not fair. Not to Oliver's way of thinking. He would never tire of the boy's company, never tire of the small grubby fingers that told him everything he would ever need to know about love and want. His boy...
It simply was not possible.
Another set of fingers scrabbled between wall and mattress and finally found one of Oliver's ears. They yanked, and Oliver suffered the indignity of a nose smashed against the stateroom wall as he was hauled unceremoniously upward and back into the world.
He worked hard on taking it all in. A new boat and a new room, certainly but...Oliver looked around with his one remaining eye. His boy.
His very same boy as had ever been, lying exhausted and drained in a nest of pillows and the warm warm comforter Oliver had heard so often moved above him. Oh, boy.
His boy flicked weak little fingers and Oliver was suddenly there, at the boy's neck, breathing in his saltwater scent and nuzzling the soft skin at the boy's nape, snuggling with all the fierceness he could muster. Boy, he said silently, you might get old on me, but you will never ever stop being my boy. You will always be my boy forever and ever and ever and I will love you twice as long as that. I will love you always because you are my boy and I am your bear and nothing can break us. Not ever.
Oliver leaned in close, in case the boy had gotten distracted during the long speech. That happened sometimes, but made the boy no less lovable for it.
Resting in the lee of the boy's neck, Oliver barely noticed the kind-eyed man at his back. He had barely recognized those fingers on his ear, so concerned was he for the boy now. But the kind-eyed man was a good man, and he and Oliver understood each other well, so when the kind-eyed man moved Oliver gently down to the boy's chest, Oliver knew it was important.
Oliver lay, in his stuffed fashion, against the boy's chest. And he listened.
The boy's heart had always been good. It had always been bright and shining and perfect, but now apparently it had decided it was getting tired.
Oliver had just the thing for that.
He waited, and the kind-eyed man did not disappoint him. He moved in close, pressing his bare skin against Oliver's back (and this was exactly the only time Oliver would put up with that sort of nonsense thank you very much) and he held the two of them to him. Oliver was filled with a rush of emotions. Some of them were his, and some the boy's and some the kind-eyed man's. They were all running along the same line: this boy wanted to live.
He wanted it so badly, and so did Oliver and the kind-eyed man, so much did they love their boy (Oliver was not too much of a bear to admit now that the boy was shared, so much love he had flowing around him). The three of them were all in agreement.
There was just one problem.
Oliver pressed his plastic-button nose to the boy's chest and peered inside. The boy's heart was worn and sluggish and--how very strange. The boy's heart had a plastic straw in it. Oliver sighed.
He had never been a bear to shirk his duty. Not ever. He could honestly say that not once in his life had he run from his duty of being this boy's bear, and he was not about to do so now.
Squashed between the two of them, Oliver stretched gently, making sure stuffing went to all the right places, then he got to work. He squashed his plastic nose harder against the boy's bare chest.
HELLO IN THERE, he called. IT'S OLIVER. I'VE COME TO HELP.
The boy's slushy little heart looked up with interest, but even from there, Oliver could tell it was a tired old heart. But that is what bear hearts are for; to take on the tired, slushy rhythm of their boy's old heart and keep it beating true.
Something that sounded like a sigh but felt like forever drifted up through the boy's chest, and Oliver and the heart watched it go.
And with that, everything was solved.
Oliver felt the change in all of them. In the boy and his heart and the kind-eyed man and deep in his eye-socket that throbbed when the tides changed he felt it all. The boy would try because the boy loved him, and because the boy wanted to live and he believed.
Oliver stretched again, feeling the satisfaction of stuffing staying in the places it was supposed to be stuffed. Deep inside him, he felt the boy's heart beating strong and true, the way bear hearts do, and his own stuffing heart murmured, fluttering. Oliver sank back down between the boy and his kind-eyed man, letting the weakness take over, strong now in having done what bears should always do. Look after their boys.
Rating: PG
Summary: When Cody gets out of the hospital after Code Blue, Oliver can tell something's wrong.
The boy--a man now, Oliver reminded himself fiercely--had been gone now for three days. That was two days too many, and Oliver was worried.
He well knew how much it meant to his boy to slide his fingers down between mattress and wall and rub Oliver's well-loved paw. The kind-eyed man had suggested the boy have Oliver in the bed with them, but that was not what Oliver and his boy had agreed to. Close to the wall, Oliver was safe. He would not need to be buried again. He could wait until each evening after the sun set and the moon rose high, silver fingers slipping in through the stateroom's windows.
His...his man. Oliver made himself say it until it felt like the truth. His man lay in the big wide bed with the kind-eyed man at his back, and while the magic box told them stories, his fingers would slip down into the crevice where Oliver lived, and the two of them would catch up in their own special way.
Oliver knew the kind-eyed man knew this too, and loved them both the more for it. The kind-eyed man was pretty darn nifty, Oliver eventually decided.
Until now.
Three days. Three days since he'd last spoken with his boy. Three days since they'd checked in, and the boat felt empty, rocking at a lonely slip while they were absent. Oliver did not like this one bit.
Finally, they returned.
Oliver had been all set to read them both the riot act, letting them know how worried he'd been, how sick at stuffing-heart he'd gotten, wondering what had happened, when he caught sight of his boy, shuffling slowly down the stateroom steps.
Oliver's breath caught in his throat. His boy...
The boy's eyes were tired, his skin gray and he moved so slowly, almost as slowly as Oliver moved, and he leaned so heavily on the kind-eyed man that at once, Oliver knew something terrible had happened. Something where the boy hadn't been able to get back, as much as he'd wanted to.
The kind-eyed man arranged the comforter, tucking it up close. He fluffed all the pillows and pushed them towards the boy, wrapping him in tight. Then he leaped up the steps and Oliver could hear him checking the locked doors one last time, making sure they were all safe. Then he dashed back down to the stateroom and crawled into bed, his arms and body a willing offering.
Oliver froze. Something was very very wrong.
He listened to the boy breathe. He listened to the kind-eyed man listening to the boy breathe. Then just when he thought his little stuffing-heart might burst, the boy's fingers delved slowly, oh so slowly, between the mattress and the wall and stroked Oliver's nubbinpaw, once, twice, and then were still.
In that instant, Oliver saw everything.
He saw the boy hurt, deep in his chest, and fall to the floor, gasping for breath. He watched the kind-eyed man breathe for him, and then strangers took his boy away, and the boy had no voice to tell them how much he needed the kind-eyed man to keep him breathing, to stay next to him and keep him breathing.
Oliver hurt at that. He knew just how his boy felt.
In that touch he saw and knew everything: saw the machines they hooked the boy up to, how they poked at the boy and prodded him, and ignored all his requests for the kind-eyed man, ignored how he pleaded to see the man again, to touch him; how he promised to get well if they would just give him this one wish.
He saw the kind-eyed man sneaking into the machine-room at night, so he could lay his head next to the boy's hand.
Oliver had never wanted to hug a human as much as he did right then.
A kaleidoscope of images assailed him: the boy lying motionless but feeling the kind-eyed man at his side, feeling him breathe into the air the boy was breathing, and how it healed him and kept him fighting. How the--Oliver did not know the word for her. A girl so big and bright the others ran from her.
She. ...This human made the other humans do things, and they were all things for the boy, to make him strong again, to get him back to the kind-eyed man's side. Oliver wanted to hug this human too, but he was also a little afraid of her. She was big in so many dimensions.
But more than anything, when the boy's fingers found his nubbinpaw, Oliver knew one thing with certainty: his boy was growing old.
The knowledge lanced through him like the butter knife the boy's sister had stabbed him with once, a very long time ago.
Oliver was not ready for the boy to grow old. He had spent such a long time loving the boy, and then missing him, and worrying he was not safe and that he was sad, and now, after only such a short time it seemed, the boy had seen fit to go and grow old. It simply was not fair. Not to Oliver's way of thinking. He would never tire of the boy's company, never tire of the small grubby fingers that told him everything he would ever need to know about love and want. His boy...
It simply was not possible.
Another set of fingers scrabbled between wall and mattress and finally found one of Oliver's ears. They yanked, and Oliver suffered the indignity of a nose smashed against the stateroom wall as he was hauled unceremoniously upward and back into the world.
He worked hard on taking it all in. A new boat and a new room, certainly but...Oliver looked around with his one remaining eye. His boy.
His very same boy as had ever been, lying exhausted and drained in a nest of pillows and the warm warm comforter Oliver had heard so often moved above him. Oh, boy.
His boy flicked weak little fingers and Oliver was suddenly there, at the boy's neck, breathing in his saltwater scent and nuzzling the soft skin at the boy's nape, snuggling with all the fierceness he could muster. Boy, he said silently, you might get old on me, but you will never ever stop being my boy. You will always be my boy forever and ever and ever and I will love you twice as long as that. I will love you always because you are my boy and I am your bear and nothing can break us. Not ever.
Oliver leaned in close, in case the boy had gotten distracted during the long speech. That happened sometimes, but made the boy no less lovable for it.
Resting in the lee of the boy's neck, Oliver barely noticed the kind-eyed man at his back. He had barely recognized those fingers on his ear, so concerned was he for the boy now. But the kind-eyed man was a good man, and he and Oliver understood each other well, so when the kind-eyed man moved Oliver gently down to the boy's chest, Oliver knew it was important.
Oliver lay, in his stuffed fashion, against the boy's chest. And he listened.
The boy's heart had always been good. It had always been bright and shining and perfect, but now apparently it had decided it was getting tired.
Oliver had just the thing for that.
He waited, and the kind-eyed man did not disappoint him. He moved in close, pressing his bare skin against Oliver's back (and this was exactly the only time Oliver would put up with that sort of nonsense thank you very much) and he held the two of them to him. Oliver was filled with a rush of emotions. Some of them were his, and some the boy's and some the kind-eyed man's. They were all running along the same line: this boy wanted to live.
He wanted it so badly, and so did Oliver and the kind-eyed man, so much did they love their boy (Oliver was not too much of a bear to admit now that the boy was shared, so much love he had flowing around him). The three of them were all in agreement.
There was just one problem.
Oliver pressed his plastic-button nose to the boy's chest and peered inside. The boy's heart was worn and sluggish and--how very strange. The boy's heart had a plastic straw in it. Oliver sighed.
He had never been a bear to shirk his duty. Not ever. He could honestly say that not once in his life had he run from his duty of being this boy's bear, and he was not about to do so now.
Squashed between the two of them, Oliver stretched gently, making sure stuffing went to all the right places, then he got to work. He squashed his plastic nose harder against the boy's bare chest.
HELLO IN THERE, he called. IT'S OLIVER. I'VE COME TO HELP.
The boy's slushy little heart looked up with interest, but even from there, Oliver could tell it was a tired old heart. But that is what bear hearts are for; to take on the tired, slushy rhythm of their boy's old heart and keep it beating true.
Something that sounded like a sigh but felt like forever drifted up through the boy's chest, and Oliver and the heart watched it go.
And with that, everything was solved.
Oliver felt the change in all of them. In the boy and his heart and the kind-eyed man and deep in his eye-socket that throbbed when the tides changed he felt it all. The boy would try because the boy loved him, and because the boy wanted to live and he believed.
Oliver stretched again, feeling the satisfaction of stuffing staying in the places it was supposed to be stuffed. Deep inside him, he felt the boy's heart beating strong and true, the way bear hearts do, and his own stuffing heart murmured, fluttering. Oliver sank back down between the boy and his kind-eyed man, letting the weakness take over, strong now in having done what bears should always do. Look after their boys.
