Work Text:
The first time that Amy drew her own blood, it was by mistake.
Just at the cap end of summer, when the rain clouds swept in like slate-blue curtains, she had attended the funeral she never wished to attend. Sonic. He had not the luck to die at an old age, nor the mercy for it to be painless. Struck down, as many heroes were. One final time, he had saved the world. He had saved her. But she couldn't return the favor, not as he bled out in her arms.
It was that image— the visions of crimson leaking from him like a soaked sponge— that was what led her to dangling a knife over her forearm. It was raining. She was still wearing black. She had been chopping vegetables when she nicked her thumb, dripping blood onto the counter, and then all hell was let loose.
She could bleed like him. Who was she to dare to bleed like him? He had given every last drop so she could forge on, and there she was, caught in stasis.
The second time that Amy drew her own blood, it was on purpose.
Knelt on the kitchen floor, amongst the crumbs and dust of equal importance, she set the silver edge to her wrist. Slowly, dragging the knife with full intent, she carved a shallow ravine into her flesh. Just enough to cause blood to bead up.
It wasn't the pain that distressed her— she hardly felt much then. It was the relief. How disgusting, to find refuge in something so selfish. This was the flesh he fought for— he had died for.
The visions. She had clamped her hands around his gnarled thigh, desperate to hold arteries and sinew together. She mirrored it then, grasping her skin tight, squeezing until it burned.
The visions dissipated. It was then that she realized the horrifying power she had unlocked.
Hoodies began to take over her wardrobe. Winter would be coming soon; that's what she told everyone. She was just cold. She just felt better wearing a jacket. She didn't miss her sundresses. What was there to miss anymore?
Amy was fine.
And then November rolled by. No, she never celebrated Thanksgiving. Perhaps every other year, she'd bring pies to her friends. Food was better when shared, as they say. The constant, however, had always been Sonic. Eating a microwave meal in front of the television with him, drinking white wine and soda until their bellies ached.
She didn't have the stomach to eat. Locking her doors, she sealed her tomb and prayed that by the time that stone was rolled aside, it'd be spring again. As she watched through her bedroom window, the trees shed, like her. Gauze, red like the discarded leaves, scattered across her floor. In that way, she lost everything, too.
By the time the first snow of the year had arrived, she had become one with her bedding. Like a call center operator, she'd answer one concerned phone call after another, responding in whatever way seemed satisfactory. Rouge wanted to make plans with her. Tails wanted her help in the workshop, knowing they both needed the distraction. Everyone had an idea as to what would fix her, but no one would visit her home. They wouldn't dare. Their futile attempts had always ended with a door shut in their faces.
For that reason, she was unsure as to why Shadow had never attempted to reach out. He had skipped the funeral, as expected. He had sent no condolences. Was he grieving in his own unique way? Or had he simply washed his hands of all of them following Sonic’s death?
It didn't matter. She would send him away just like everyone else. She would give him whatever he wanted to hear, just so he'd leave her alone.
When Christmas reared its jolly head, she watched from a distance as her neighbors hung up their lights. Golden, crystal halos of light, casting shadows behind stalactite icicles and evergreen trees. Children molding shapes in the snow, fossilized and frozen footprints leading up driveways, candy canes lining every inch of sidewalk. And Amy, alone, cocooned in her blanket.
She hardly registered the knock at her door, not until she heard its repetitive echo. Another person insistent on checking on her. She knew deep down that she should be grateful— people cared for her, after all— but it meant she'd have to go through the effort once again of hiding her wounds. Fingers grazing over the fresh set of cuts on the inside of her wrist, she sighed. Sometime this week, she'd have to leave the house for more gauze.
Wrapping it tightly, she threw a jacket over her shoulders before making her way toward the front door. The rapping had become incessant.
"There's no need to break down my door," she tittered, the sound much more uncertain than she intended. Swiping the chain lock, she cracked open the entrance. "What do you—"
Shadow. He was holding a gift bag under his arm, the kind that left glitter on every surface it touched. It'd be the only thing that still sparkled in her home, that was for sure. An odd addition amongst the dust and decay.
"What's up?" she finally finished.
Shadow looked at her oddly, as if she had two heads. "It's Christmas Eve."
Had it already been that long? The snow had muffled her senses; she had lost her sense of time. "Is it?" Leaning her arm against the frame, she tiptoed further onto the porch. Immediately, her toes began to numb. "Rouge is throwing her Christmas Eve party, then. Why bother being here?"
"She cancelled," he replied. "There's no party we could have without you, it seems."
A yearly tradition, destroyed because of her. Another sacrament to crumble between her clinging fingers. What would Sonic think of her? Would he blame her for their tightly-knit group falling apart?
It didn't matter, she reminded herself. The dead held no words, neither of joy nor judgment. Despite that, she could feel the chains of his ghost dragging her to the ground, to her low point. If she could just cut herself free— just one more time— just to bleed out his memory…
Shadow quirked a brow at her. "You're making a face. Are you cold?" Together, those words brought their gazes jointly to her bare feet, turning ashen in the unswept lump of snow on her porch. Before she could look up, he had pressed a palm into her door. "Let's go inside, before you freeze."
"No!" she cried out, startling both of them. "No! I mean— my house is a mess right now. I'm sorry."
"That's because you don't sweep your porch off, or clean your windows, or—" he gestured blindly toward the mailbox mounted beside her door, spilling over with unopened advertisements. "Or open your mail."
It was a mercy that he couldn't see the inside, lest he never shut up about her disorganization. "My mail?" Reaching to her side, she outstretched her arm to pick the hefty stack of mail from the bin, one by one. "It's none of your business, frankly."
The sound of air being sucked in through teeth. "Rose."
"If the gift is from Rouge, tell her I said thank you. I'll open it." She mumbled the next word, as if he couldn't hear it clearly from a couple of feet away. "Eventually."
"Rose."
He snatched her wrist. A letter fluttered pitifully down to the snow. Soaking in the melted slush, the ink bled, becoming an indecipherable smudge much like herself. Her jacket had ridden up as she had stretched for the mail. Gauze, white and pristine, caught between his grasp.
"Who hurt you?" was his first question. That was what struck her. Not 'what happened?' or 'are you okay?'.
She lacked the bravery to tell him who the true assailant was. Instead, she retreated into her home, spilling letters across her hardwood floor. "Just return it— whatever she sent— it's okay—"
A split second before she could slam the door shut, he grabbed the handle, nearly pulling it off the hinges as he pried the entry back open. He forced his way into her foyer, closing out the cold behind him.
His eyes were darkened pits. His behavior seemed to shock even himself as he struggled to form words, his eyes jumping between the sleeve she bundled into her fist and the state of disarray surrounding them. Dust. As if nothing in her home had been touched in months. Picture frames, empty or shattered. Withered flower petals peppered her coffee table, the glass vase full of mold and rot.
Amy sank to the floor, cowering in the only way she knew how. Just as she had done the first night she slit her wrists. This time, however, she had the aching feeling that opening a vein wouldn't be a means of escape.
She didn't fear him. No, even as he hovered over her, his expression deep in analysis. He wouldn't hurt her. He just wouldn't understand. No one could. The worst possibility was that he'd run away. She had been alone this long, though.
And then Shadow breathed, one long breath, slow and easy. Kneeling, he eased closer to her, not as if she were prey, but more practiced, as if she were as fragile as glass. Gently, he lowered her sleeve, revealing the cotton that held together her many fractures.
"I'm fine." Putting on her brightest smile, she hoped he hadn't heard the crack in her voice. "I burned my arm trying to cook, that's all."
His eyes lowered, tilting forward, granting her a look of full intensity. He pinched the uneven edge of her gauze. "Then you won't mind me taking a look, just to make sure it's not infected. Right?"
He knew. He could see right through her. Tears sprang to her eyes, air caught in her throat. Wordlessly, her teeth parted, giving nothing but empty silence. Shaking her head, she allowed the tears to stream freely down her cheeks. "I— I'm okay! Really!" No. That made no sense. Why was she panicking? "Please, Shadow…" she gulped down what she could of her grief. "There's nothing to even see, really."
Shadow paused, frozen with indecision. Those eyes of hers— no, her being in entirety— she was in agony. She was shaking beneath his fingertips. But he was certain. Despite her protests, he began to slowly peel back the gauze. "I won't let you get hurt any further."
As if she could block out the sensation, she squeezed her eyes shut. Cold air licked over her wounds. Then his fingers, perpetually warm, shifted over the scabbed lines as if reading text on a page.
Frightened like a child, she slowly opened her eyes to take in his expression. Thoughtful. Ruminating. A part of him looked a little crushed, though she couldn't comprehend why. He should be running. He should have abandoned her the moment he noticed she was unwell. But he held her there, wounds and all.
After a long quiet, he broke the silence. "This is foolish, you know." Knowing that he could come off slightly calloused, he settled his tone. "Shedding blood. Hurting yourself. It won't change anything. It won't bring him back."
"I know that better than anyone!" she snapped. The words slipped out all at once, messy and wet with tears. "He'll never be back! He'll never forgive me!"
His mouth twisted into a frown. "Then why-"
Fissure upon fissure formed, and she began to shatter in his hands. "If I just died here— then maybe— maybe—"
The wind would have gotten knocked from her lungs if Shadow hadn't restrained himself as he wrapped his arms around her torso. Warmth, for the first time in months, enveloped her frigid skin. The tears were never-ending; a dam had broken within her.
"Don't speak like that," he grumbled into her shoulder. Not a warning, but a stern chiding. "What a useless thought. Rose, we already lost Sonic, and I—" he stopped himself. An insult was on the tip of his tongue. He was the epitome of a fool to have thrown away his life, leaving her here like this, simply shards of a being that once was. Squeezing her tightly, he hoped in earnest to put her back together. "Please don't waste something as wonderful as your life."
"Where were you?" She melted into his touch as if she were fallen snow. "Where were you when he died? When he left me here?"
His grip slipped down to her forearm, careful not to harm any of the cuts he was sure scaled up to her shoulders. "I was scared. I was scared I'd hold you, just like this. I was scared of what I'd see."
Sniffling down tears, she gave a meek smile. "Well? Are you just as disappointed as you thought you'd be?"
"I'm only disappointed I wasn't here sooner," he breathed out. "I should have been here sooner."
A strange choice of words. Curious, Amy hooked a finger into the gift bag that he had dropped by his side, tilting the contents into view. Nothing. He had entered her home without any real gift.
"You lied." Not a trace of malice was detectable in the cotton-filled pillow of her words. She was in disbelief, that was all. "Did Rouge even send you?"
After a moment, he shook his head and lowered his chin to the crook of her shoulder. "She had expressed some concern to me. Not answering calls, not leaving the house, that sort of thing. I took it upon myself to get to the bottom of things, but this…" As if they could have possibly disappeared since he last checked, he traced his fingers once again over the scarlet lines embedded in her flesh. "I would have never thought to imagine this."
"And what now?" Her wet throat creaked out the words, unable to hold steady beneath her soft tears. "Tell Rouge? Put me under house arrest?" Hungry for any connection, she laced her shaky fingers between a tuft of his quills. Shockingly, he didn't run or form a complaint.
"We'll do whatever we need. Whatever will get you out of this." He sank away from her touch, reluctance clear in his hesitation. "I'll be here, every step of the way. But I won't force you into anything. I can't."
With a blink, tears dribbled down and met at her chin. "You're not leaving?"
He paused for a moment, caught in the depth of her eyes. Then, gently, he lowered his face to her marred flesh, planting the ghost of a kiss against the oldest of her scars. The air was sucked from her chest; she had forgotten in the moment how to form words.
Tilting his gaze to gauge her expression, he was relieved to see her smile— her real smile. In the darkness of her home, he could finally see some light. "I wouldn't dream of it, Rose."