The Guily Ones // 2 // Eric NorthmanxOC

Thunderbolt and Lightning

My pounding heartbeat felt like it decimated my skull. I woke up half expecting someone  rhythmically banging a hammer on my head. Everything spun and ached.

As I sat up, trying to find my bearings, my stomached flipped. Despite trying to rein it in, I threw up as someone shoved a bucket under my head just in time, and I retched noisily. My headache worsend. 

"Ugh," I groaned, clutching the edge of the bucket, shaking all over. It was pitch black, and I felt miserable. Physically and emotionally drained and fucking miserable. Heavily, I tried to find my way out of the fog of emotions, trying to crawl their way from my subconscious. For now, my bodily aches seemed to keep them at bay.

The most important questions:
Where was I?
Who was I?
How did I get here?
Why was I where I was?

I was sitting on something soft, and since I had been lying down before, I assumed I was in a bed, under a blanket. Not a ditch somewhere off road then. 

So far, so good.

Of course, I knew who I was, but what exactly had happened was hard to separate. Everything felt like a strange dream, images out of context covering each other accompanied by a hailstorm of emotions. 

I used my senses, let them stretch out to feel my way around the room.

I couldn't see who was with me, but I felt another presence. A cold, calm, yet comforting presence. 

Eric. 

My skin tingled. Without seeing him, I could make out his shape, feel his closeness, the way his eyes lingered on me. My head jerked around, for which I was rewarded with a fresh wave of nausea and pain. I groaned. Cold fingers touched my forehead, and I sighed contentedly.

"Thank you!"

Only when the pain subsided did it occur to me again that I should probably be more cautious and wonder about the fact that we were together in a dark bedroom, which I just couldn't manage to do. I didn't have the strength it would take to wonder about the circumstances or potentially panic because of the pain.

Something—a strange memory, a lightning strike—flashed before my closed eyes, scratching at a part of my memory that I had locked away from myself. It was as if it were on the tip of my tongue, just about to break through, but for the moment I tried to reach for it, thoughts scattered once more and  I simply felt numb.

Numb and somewhat disoriented, but primarily safe in a dark room. Everything else could wait.

"Eric?" I whispered into the darkness, when my upset stomach finally settled.

"Shhhh," he rumbled, and I closed my eyes again. It was terrifying how much his presence calmed me and took the pain away. He was like a morphine patch. Comforting, pain-relieving, and highly addictive.

Silently, he took the bucket away from me, and without the support of the plastic bucket, I slumped weakly back into the pillows. His fingers disappeared, and he rose from the bed. Unwillingly, I whimpered and sobbed. It physically hurt that he was moving away.

"Don't go," I heard myself whisper, ashamed of the desperation in my voice. But the shame disappeared the moment Eric sat back down next to me and leaned over. The bed creaked under his weight, and he placed a hand on my cheek, sighing heavily. His lips gently brushed my forehead in such a comforting, caring gesture that a tear escaped the corner of my eye, and I inhaled shakily. "Thank you!"

"You have a concussion. You need to rest. I'll come back, I promise." Another forehead kiss. "You are save. Sleep now."

The vibration of his voice through the empty room tickled in my ears, resonating in my body, leaving a cozy warmth behind. I closed my eyes, feeling my senses slip back into unconsciousness. The last thing I heard was Eric softly muttering to himself, "And when you wake up, we'll talk."