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It feels like my need to take care of Casey and my desire to respect his new autonomy is fucking tearing me apart. I try to bury myself in work. In the other survivors. Hell, even in fucking therapy with Dr. Singh. But none of it makes me forget him. None of it keeps me from wandering to the pool every night just to stare at the lights reflecting off the undisturbed surface of the water.
One days I'm elbows deep in a task Ronan - one of our friends and fellow operatives working his own operation - asked me to do for him when Travis comes into my office with his phone against his cheek. He grabs my notepad and pen, ignoring me when I hiss at him to leave my shit alone. He shoots me a dirty look and starts to write something as he coos into the phone, "Look at you, being all fancy with your wine and cheese."
God, he's so in love. It's fucking disgusting.
I lean forward to read what he wrote once he's finished, my heart lurching. Casey having a hard time, won't leave his bed.
I barely manage to thank him before I'm heading out the door with my security badge in hand.
He doesn't answer his phone when I call three times during my drive, and he doesn’t answer the apartment door when I knock. I weigh the options for a second - I'd like to claim I take longer, but who the fuck am I kidding? - before using the key he and Carter don't know I have. My mind has spent the last hour spinning. Carter had said Casey wouldn't leave the bed. Did he mean the bedroom? Or the actual bed? Did Casey try being on his bed alone and end up having an attack? Is he locked in a memory like the shower? Will he-
"Carter?" a thick voice calls out, wavering with fear and exhaustion. I swear I can hear the heartbreak in his tone.
"It's me," I call out, walking through the small apartment toward his room. I hesitate at his bedroom door. "Can I come in?"
There's a pause that makes me feel fucking awful. Then - "Okay."
He's on the floor in his messy nest of blankets. His eyes are wet and rimmed red, the skin around them chapped. His hair has its own gravitational force. The sweatshirt he's wearing - my sweatshirt, again - is falling off one shoulder, exposing just how thin he's gotten. A nearly empty bottle of tequila is in his lap, precariously tilted to one side. One hand is loosely wrapped around the neck of it. The skin around his nails is bleeding.
"What are you doing here?" he slurs.
"Carter mentioned you were having a bad day. That you couldn't get out of bed."
He huffs a dry laugh. "Shows what he knows. I haven't been in that bed since…" his eyes dart to me before falling away. He doesn't finish. He doesn’t have to. Since me.
"He probably just assumed since you weren't leaving your room."
He just shrugs, not seeming to care. Which he probably doesn't. Tequila is great for that. "Why are you even here?"
"I was worried."
"Well, you can stop." He chases the words with another swig of tequila, his hand shaking so badly he barely manages it. "Everyone can stop. 'M fine."
You are so fucking far from fine, little boy.
"Casey, when was the last time you-" I pause, not even sure where to start. The last time he ate? Drank water? Left the room? Slept? Felt the desire to be alive? I go with the easiest one. "-ate?"
He shakes the bottle. "Liquid diet. It's all the rage."
"Yeah, no." I march forward, taking the bottle from him and ignoring his squawk of indignation. "We're getting you food. And water. And a bath. And then it's bedtime."
"You're not the boss of me," he mumbles, sounding as pouty as he looks. Still, he doesn't fight when I haul him to his feet and guide him toward the bathroom, even resting his head on my shoulder as we stumble along.
I gently sit him on the closed toilet before getting the water running. After instructing him to get undressed, I head into the kitchen to find some sort of sustenance he can consume while he soaks. Thankfully, it looks like someone - likely Carter - just got groceries. I make a mental note to thank him since the schedule on the fridge says he's already at work for the evening, then collect some food and a bottled water and head back to the bathroom.
Casey hasn't undressed. Instead, he's fallen into tears and panicky breaths. The moment his blue eyes fall on me, he sobs, "I'm sorry!"
My heart shatters.
I nearly drop the water and food in my haste to get to him, quickly scooping him up and holding him close. He wraps his legs around me as I stand, clinging like a monkey. He's far too light - as light as he was when I got him from DuGray. I should have never let him leave.
"You're okay, little one," I promise, maneuvering him so I can get the water turned off.
He buries his wet face in my neck and shudders. "Not little one. Y’call everyone that. Hate it."
"Remember what I told you? I meant it when I said you’re my little one. My little fish. It's such a fucking difference, Case. They’re just guys I’ve helped. You’re… everything." I grip the back of his head and force him to pull away enough to look into his eyes. It’s important to me that he understands this. "Everything. You could be mine, if you want to be. And I'd take damn good care of you.”
"Y-you would want that?"
