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It had all been going fine.
Well, ok, that was a gargantuan overstatement. Nothing about anything that had happened the last day was anywhere near even approaching an approximation of what would constitute 'fine.'
In fact, he'd even say all of this absolutely sucked, he thought, bringing the pipe back down with a slam on one of the hands that was skittering after him like a demented rat with a mission.
However, considering how the last stretch of his current memory had been going, he had to admit, it could be worse, readying the pipe to strike again.
He missed.
....He took it back, it couldn't get much worse than this, but then again, life just loved proving him wrong.
Six was doing her best to pry the boards off by herself so they could exit this stupid room, but he knew she needed his help so he was trying to hurry up but the hands were just so fast and they kept snagging the ends of his trenchcoat as he barely stepped out of the way when they lunged at him, and he was just so tired.
He pushed through it, because he had pushed through worse and he couldn't afford to mess this up because it wasn't just him on the line, he had a teammate for once in his life and he refused to let her get hurt because of him.
Another down, one more to go, but.. where is it?
He quickly scanned the room, fear palpable in his veins but he needed a level head. Where is it, where is it, where- Is it heading for Six?
He glanced at her, just for a moment, but that moment was enough of a distraction for the last hand to leap at his face with a vengeance from nowhere, latching onto his bag, and he was knocked onto his back with the momentum with a strangled gasp, scrabbling at it desperately with the taste of dust and blood and fear rising in his throat like bile.
He had to get it off or he would die, he had to get it off or he would die, how was he not dead yet, death by hand, what a way to go, he thought near hysterical, choking out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and suddenly he heard rapid footsteps and then the hand was being wrestled off his face, taking his bag with it and he scrambled to his feet, grabbing his fallen pipe and deliriously locked onto the hand that was now a few feet away from Six, flexing tendons in preparation to attack, and he rushed it, slamming the pipe onto it over and over and over again, until it stopped moving at all, not even a twitch, the bone broken and tendon torn and muscle frayed.
He stood there, trembling and heaving breaths, not quite processing what happened just yet.
He should be dead.
He should be dead, but Six had saved him, and the hand had dropped his bag somewhere, and he was alive, and-
Wait, his bag, where was his bag? He was painfully aware of Six starting to move behind him, almost in front of him, and he panicked, flinching away and covering his face, making sure to keep his back to her as he cowered.
He felt pitiful, shameful, he almost got them both killed and now she's going to see his face, his dumb face that made everyone hate him for reasons he couldn't understand, and maybe she already hated him for almost letting a hand, of all things, kill him, but he could handle that, that was understandable, but if she saw his face and hated him he didn't know if he could move on from that blow to his psyche, not in any way that mattered.
What was wrong with him?!
He was pulled from his thoughts by Six calling quietly, "Hey. Are you hurt?" He didn't hurt anymore than he usually did, and the new bruising on his face hurt but it wasn't fatal and there wasn't anything they had that could alleviate the pain, so after a few long moments he shook his head carefully.
He called back hesitantly, "..A-Are you hurt?"
He cringed internally at the sound of his voice without the muffling of his bag, the feeling of his own breath not bouncing back to his face alien to him, only rubbing salt in the wound that was one of the few things he derived comfort from being gone.
Six responded, "No."
There was stilted silence for a few moments before she tried to move to face him again, and he flinched violently, his hands covering as much of his face as he could and he croaked out, "Please don't look at me."
She stopped, and then the footsteps started walking away, Six was walking away, and oh god she was going to leave, wasn't she. She realized how freakish and weird he is and how weak he can be and she's going to leave and he's going to be alone again-
She pressed her hand to his shoulder, Mono not even realizing she had gotten that close again, and he peeked at her from between his fingers, just enough that he could see her but she couldn't see him, and she was looking away, thank god, but she was holding out something to him.
His paper bag, which had a new stain on it but it was his bag, and he grabbed it more desperately than he intended and shoved it back on his head, something like relief spreading in his chest at the familiar feeling.
He looked back at her, something soft in his heart eating the fear away, and smiled, because she didn't even ask, she didn't judge him, she gave him back his paper bag, she- she didn't leave, and that in and of itself is the closest thing he's ever had to a miracle.
His hand twitched, before taking hers. She finally looked at him, eyes peering out from the shadows of her hair and hood of her raincoat. His lungs were still caught in a wheezy sense of fading adrenaline and lurking apprehension, but he still felt happier than he had in.... a while.
He mumbled, "Thanks." She seemed taken aback, before stiffly nodding. It felt like all his energy had been zapped from him suddenly, the combined adrenaline and fear fading, leaving him exhausted and dizzy. He swayed, and she stabilized him.
They made their way to the table in the room, clambering on it, avoiding the stick spots that he tried not to think about too hard, and leaned back against the wall, curling into each other as had become habit at some point during their travels.
They didn't speak much, such was common for them, as he quickly started to lose consciousness.
Just before he fell asleep, he thought idly about how, despite how cold he was, something in his chest was undeniably warm.
He marveled again at Six; She wasn't usually one to not question the things around them, with sharp eyes and sharp wits, a razor tongue and barbwire hands, but it seems this hospital was affecting her, too.
Maybe she could see in the fold of his spine, in the rise of his shoulders to his ears, in the nearly imperceptible shaking of his hands, that this was something too vulnerable for clumsy cuts or sudden movements that might result in jagged lacerations neither had the thread to stitch up properly.
Maybe she did care about him as much as he cared about her.
...Maybe he was overthinking this, he decided.
Either way, he wouldn't speak of this again if she didn't, either.
He didn't say, and she didn't ask, and like that, they fell asleep.