Chapter Text
a king of shreds and patches; save me and hover o'er me with your wings.
You’d had weird people show up to your door before. Homeless beggars that claimed they were sent by the alien race of “Shar’Shakr”; looney-bin junkies who found the love of their lives in rusty shopping carts with only three wheels; dogs with dead birds clamped in their jaws, etcetera. You had really thought that you’d seen it all, but that was before a half-dead guy knocked politely.
Well, he didn’t really knock politely. He kind of fainted impolitely, his skull slamming into the door as he fell. In either case, he knocked, and you answered.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, dropping to your knees. The rain was torrential and the wind carried the muddy water down the pavement, but it did nothing to wash away the pools of blood collecting underneath the nameless man’s body and onto your neatly painted steps. He opened an eye weakly and you met his gaze, his golden irises seeming so beautiful despite the grotesque state of his body. Wet, jet black hair stuck to his pale forehead like streaky lines of ink on paper.
“You my angel?” he asked in a raspy voice, a thin smile spreading on his lips. You had no idea what to say in response.
“I’m calling 911,” you told him hastily, about to get up before his arm shot out with surprising speed and strength for somebody who was partly unconscious. He grit his teeth and looked up at you, both shifting amber eyes open, and both filled with that same burning passion that had chilled you just before.
“No. Don’t.”
“What? But… you’re hurt.” As if he needed anybody to tell him. You were just reminding him that hey, you’re kind of dying, just in case you forgot. He shook his head, the grip on your wrist still tight.
“No… cops. I’d rather die.”
“You need to get help,” you insisted, but he shook his head again. His inhales were getting increasingly shorter and your heart was pounding hard in your chest.
“I’d rather die if I see the cops. I’m sorry. Forget… I was here.” His hand slid from your wrist and landed on the floor, bracing himself as he tried to get up. Obviously, it didn’t work out well. He groaned sharply and you caught him to your chest as his arm gave, about to crash him back into the ground. He fell against you heavily, your arms trembling with the strain of holding a grown man up.
“Okay. No cops. But you have to let me bandage your wound.”
You were chewing on your lip so hard that it tasted of blood. That, accompanied with the overwhelming smell of his, was making you dizzy. Only his eyes on yours grounded you.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he advised, but his voice was so weak that it came out in a hushed whisper.
“I do a lot of things other people wouldn’t,” you muttered. His eyes started to flutter and you dragged him inside, closing your door, which had a bloody handprint on it as if it were marking you for Hell.
That was Number 1 on your list of royal fuck ups, but it was also Number 1 of your best royal fuck ups.