If You Must

All That We Are Is Comforted

Baz

When I wake up I feel as though an elephant is sitting on my chest. My fangs feel too big, too heavy— disgusting. Even my skin is hypersensitive and uncomfortable, like every nerve ending is exposed and raw.

Fuck. It's going to be one of those days, then. Fan-fucking-tastic.

My face feels swollen and grungy from crying last night, but I can't make myself get up to wash it. Instead I glance over at Si's side of the bed, pushing my fingers angrily through my hair. Simon's still asleep, one hand curled under his cheek, the other draped across the mattress in my direction. Last night, after apologising to each other, I drifted off to sleep. Si woke me up a few minutes later to change out of my suit, and I quickly fell asleep again once we got back in bed, Simon still cradling me against his chest. Neither of us woke up with nightmares last night— but I think I'd take a week's worth of night-terrors over my current state of dysphoria (is species dysphoria an actual thing or am I just a crazy, semi-depressed vampire?).

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Running the flat edge of my fingernails up and down my not-right skin. My hands shake, but I lack the will to do anything about it. I'm jittery and anxious and numb and perfunctory all at once, and I hate it.

Simon lets out a soft groan, his eyes fluttering open. He rolls over, kissing my cheek vaguely before pushing himself into a sitting position, then getting up and shuffling away from the bed.

"Be right back," he mumbles. I don't answer. After a few moments the bathroom door clicks shut.

Releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding, I roll onto my side, curling into a ball. My fingers grip my arms— too hard. I ignore the pain, gripping even harder.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck....

My own body is closing in around me, constricting my breaths. The roar of blood that fills my ears grates against my mind. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to block it all out. To remind myself who I am— to feel human again.

But that's the problem. I'm not human, am I?

My fingers dig into the flesh of my arms, harder, harder, harder. The pain helps anchor me a little, but the relief is brief. Too brief. My body continues to rub every nerve raw.

"Fuck." At least I'm not screaming. I want to be, but something tells me that might get the police called on my pathetic arse.

"Baz?" Shit. I didn't hear Simon come back in. I don't know what to say (I don't really want to say anything), so I say nothing. So he doesn't think I'm mad at him, I shake my head. Somehow, I think he understands.

"Is it a Bad Day again?" He says 'bad day' with capital letters. My grip on my arms tightens.

"Yes," I choke out. Aleister Crowley I think I might be dying. I think my fangs are trying to choke me. If I hold my arms any harder I'm going to draw blood. One of my hands comes up to grip a fistful of my hair, tugging at it painfully.

"B—" Simon starts to say my name again, but his mobile rings, interrupting him. With an annoyed groan he picks it up.

"Hey Penny... Alright, call when you get back to the flat?... Yes. Do..." I feel his eyes on the back of my neck. "Do you want me to come with you?" My stomach lurches. Nonononono I really need to not be alone right now. I don't care how unenthusiastic he sounds about the suggestion. "Alright, call when you get back. Love you."

The minute he sets down the mobile, Simon crawls across the bed, stopping when his knees gently bump against my back. With careful hands, he takes my arm and my hair out of my grip. I try to pull away, a growl rumbling in the back of my throat, but he doesn't let me (damn his tenacity).

But he knows better than anyone how to snap me out of these stupid self-hatred funks I fall into every so often (I think the last time this happened was about a month and a half ago— which is much longer than I used to go between 'episodes').

Without saying anything, he grips my hands in his, curling himself around me.

"Why aren't you helping Bunce?" My voice is dull and apathetic. He knows I don't mean anything by it.

"Because I'm helping you," he answers simply. One hand starts to stroke my hair and I bristle for a moment before slowly relaxing into the touch. My shoulders remain tight and stiff, unresponsive.

"Why are you helping me and not her?" I ask, squeezing my eyes shut tight against the painful prickling in my chest. With every word, my lips catch on my fangs. I can't get them to retract.

"Basilton, you know why." I sigh, bringing my hands up to cover my face.

"I know... I'm sorry, I don't know why..." I swallow hard, "I don't know why this is happening." I growl in frustration at myself as my lip catches on my fang again and I taste blood. "I'm sorry... talking is making it worse..."

"Then don't talk. And don't apologise. I've got you... I'm not going anywhere."

After a moment, he kisses the back of my neck, whispering,

"You know I love you, Baz. Fangs and all."

"I know. I think I just need some help loving myself, fangs and all," I whisper back. My voice still feels raw and scratchy in my throat. Simon gently tugs on my shoulder until I turn onto my other side to face him. Softly, he traces the features of my face, fingers moving slowly and deliberately. Surprisingly, it helps. I feel myself start to settle back into my own skin, bit by broken bit.

"That's what you've got me for."

"I know."