Fish Fingers and Whiskey

Water Spelunking

Author's Note

Let me know what your thoughts are, I absolutely love to gossip about our favorite fictional idiots :)

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As Artemis sat on the side of Tom's bed, the world seemed to come into a sharp focus. It wasn't that he had sobered, it was that things had stopped for a time, reality had refused to keep its distance. The world was dimmer, darker, yet more vibrant.

He wanted to curl up here under a duvet and feel safe enough to cry. And he reckoned he could, here.

His half-formed thoughts failed to arrange themselves into an orderly queue and he was stuck with several vague impressions. How embarrassing this situation would be for one, the excuse he'd have to feed Butler for another and whether the blinding pain behind his eyes would subside. It didn't.

He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. The pressure built in his head, his nose, the muscles in his neck, like a pulsing fruit ready to burst. Or maybe he was just noticing now. He was so fucking tired. Everything felt clogged and too much, he was all creaking joints and tender muscle.

This had gone horribly wrong, like everything else he tried, and it was difficult to see how he could get himself out of this mess. Nothing he did made anything better; none of it ever mattered.

It was hard to remember how he had felt so light before, the clarity was distant. It has scarcely been two weeks, but he barely recognised the person he had been. He was a dull and hopeless wretch now, a thing. Things happened to him now, he didn't happen to things. He didn't feel quite like a person, not anymore.

It came out of nowhere, the thought that things would be much simpler if he had overdosed. For him at least. Relief and grief coiled across his face, knotting, matching, competing.

It was quite enough here to feel everything. It tied him to the moment, to the feel of the sun. distracted him from the ashen taste of despair.

Dizziness clogged his head when he looked up too fast and nausea clung to his next few breaths. When the pressure subsided it was as if his brain was being doused in cool water, which was dazing in its own way. He felt like he might faint for a moment. And then the moment passed but the pain remained.

He stood and the process repeated itself, his knees weak.

The room was a dark navy, not plastered in posters or anything particularly personal. Very utilitarian.

The carpeted floor groaned, but didn't creak as he walked across it, barefoot. The doors were all glossy white with glassy doorknobs, cold to the touch. The rustle of his uniform was loud in the quiet house. The stairs released a hollow boom as he went down them, he hadn't noticed that earlier, they didn't feel substantial.

He could hear the hiss of cooking in the other room, the scents of paprika and other various spices drifted around the landing. He passed through a door to the kitchen and caught sight of Tom at the stove.

Squinting at the light, Artemis stumbled into the kitchen muttering a quick, "Hi." Before slumping at the unvarnished wooden table without sparing Tom a glance.

The boy in question looked round flashing a charming but exhausted smile, "Hi. I hope you like mushroom stir fry because I just used most of the fresh vegetables in the house, my mam will not be happy."

It wasn't clear whether the grunt he released was affirmative or not, "Thanks."

Tom unloaded the pan onto two plates on the side and plopped them down on the table at the same time, dropping a fork next to Artemis's plate, "So, what's going on?"