hunting

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

They scramble madly for a few days.   Move fast, sleep light- and then get spotted and go to ground, tucking into a small little cubbyhole for a full day where Sherlock has to sit down, his height won't allow him to stand in full.

He keeps watch, keeps a hand in Wyatt's hair while he sleeps, thumb rubbing at the little metal word.  sherlock.

Thinking, for the time being, on the true nature of resilience.

Comments

[wrenchinplans]

"Not havin' control. The feelin' of somebody takin' it from you. Not havin' to think. Used to scare me, too."

Wyatt melts into his arms, well-practiced and pretty, kissing the wing of his nose.

"But there's something special. 'Bout being trained. Someone putting all that energy into hurting you, just because they like it that much. Makes it special."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I'll never be able to give you all of myself."

He apologizes, quietly.

"Would most of me suffice?"

[wrenchinplans]

"Dun want all of you," he hummed, practical.

"You've got to keep some of you for sanity's sake."

He doesn't think of devotion in terms that other, sane, whole people do.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Good. I'd hate for it to be a disappointment."

Would be the dreadful thing.

[wrenchinplans]

It made Wyatt smile. There were moments he seemed much, much older than Sherlock.

"Dun got to worry about that, Sher," he told him fondly. He wanted to do this right.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

In a few important ways, he really is.

"All right."

Agreeing, with an exhale.

[wrenchinplans]

"Out of the water," he tells him with a hum. "Dun want to get too cold."

His fingers trail down the back of his neck, his shoulders.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"All right."

He slips out, climbing up to his feet reluctantly.

[wrenchinplans]

Wyatt floats up to the edge of the spring, leaning against it and watching him thoughtfully.

"Like looking at you," he confesses.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He glances down at him and smiles. Not surprised, exactly- he knows what he looks like and how people react, but surprised that he likes hearing it and cares this once.

[wrenchinplans]

"Like your eyes," he went on, looking only at his face.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Despite what they see?"

Checking, cautiously.

[wrenchinplans]

"Because of it, partly."

He sounds surprised, himself. "Y'know I'm cracked. Need somebody checkin' me."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I'll check you."

He agrees to that, nodding.

[wrenchinplans]

Wyatt reaches up with both hands for him, still in the water.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Sherlock reaches down to help him up, drawing him in close.

"Keep walking?"

[wrenchinplans]

"Think we've got to."

Though he lingers in Sherlock's arms a few moments before he goes to put on pants. A tiny, tiny touch of needing him.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"All right."

Mournfully, though. He wants.

[wrenchinplans]

Wyatt laughs, good-natured and indulgent, and crooks a finger at him.

"Lay down, facedown."

They have a few minutes. They're far enough away from anything that Sherlock can scream. The falls will drown it out.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He comes closer when beckoned, breathing out quietly. Okay.

"What are you-?"

[wrenchinplans]

"Facedown," he tells him softly, urging him with warm hands. He guides him facedown on the rock -- enough that his head and the tops of his shoulders are dangling off of it and hovering close to the water.

Sherlock will have to expend energy to not let his face go under.

For now, Wyatt sits next to him, stroking his hands down his back.

"D'you want a bit more of what's in my head?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Yes," he says immediately, urgent and ill advised. But yes, absolutely.

[wrenchinplans]

Wyatt gives a pleased sound and strokes his hair, getting to his feet.

He shakes his feet a bit more dry, then steps up onto his back, cracking and massaging, walking on him. It would probably feel fantastic if the rock Sherlock was pressed against weren't so uncomfortable and sharp with any friction.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He's too sensible to pull away, eyes closing tight, trying to breathe through it. There's no sense shifting, no position will be any more comfortable.

[wrenchinplans]

Wyatt balances easily, walking up and down his back, drawing it out to get him used to feeling the pain, to make his neck tired, to not moving.

"Sensitive," he murmurs.