Crimson Red-A TomTord Fanfic

The Red Doctor

Chapter 2

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Tom's POV

I'm laying on something soft, a leveled surface, dry and supporting. I don't open my black voids, too scared for what I might find. Scared of the blood.

The purple goo.

Myself.

Instead, I wait there, feeling the warm sun on my left side, where it must be hanging low, signaling midday. Soon, a cold hand traces my face's features, feeling around my cheeks to my forehead. For some odd reason, I recognize the feeling of his limb, his fingers, but that feeling quickly fades as I reach up with my human hand and slap the new limb away, opening my eyes, blinking to see more clearly.

Matt, sitting in a plastic waiting chair, holding a mirror up to his holy face looks up, something he'd never be bothered to do so long as he was staring back at his reflection, and I realize my mouth is open in the form of a scream I hadn't heard.

I close my mouth, groaning, wondering where I am.

"You okay," Matt asks, getting up and placing his prized possession back into the pocket of his green overcoat as he walks toward my feeble body, which I now realize is strapped to a hospital bed, but thankfully whole and not oozing with purple muck or blood.

"Yeah," I manage.

Matt moves closer, coming to the side of my bed and looks to the opposite end expectantly.

I move my head in that direction as best I can without groaning, and see a blurry figure clothed in a white lab coat.

"Told you he's fine," says a familiar voice, as this kid, about my age comes closer to me from where he'd been standing silently.

"Who...who are you?" I seem silly, but I can't hold back the questions that threaten to break the floodgates in my mind.

"You don't remember?" He asks, that accent still bringing back unreachable memories.

"No," I state plainly. Should I? He comes closer yet.

As he moves into better view, I can't help but recognize the red cloth that pokes out from under his white garment. I pick myself up, lean on my elbow and squint.

NO.

"Call me," he begins, but a sick feeling overwhelms me and I almost scream, buckling back into the mattress.

"Tord!" It comes out as a whisper, full of menace, and I wish now that I were a monster like I became the night before. I want to be able to break these metal chains holding me to the bed. I want to run away and never see him again. But when I try to muster up my strength and flail my arms and legs, straining against Tord's constrains, I collapse even further into the bedding, hopeless.

A sad, solemn expression clouds Tord's face, and only now do I realize he wears his hood up, shielding the right side of his face. I hadn't taken the time to look at his face. I hadn't even taken the time to recognize him.

His light brown, almost golden hair waves at me from under his hood, that crazy style, his trademark. His eyes, dark and always sharp, look almost dulled out, like he's tried to forget as much of his past as he could. I recognize that troubled face. It's the same face I am so used to wearing: calculating and cold, used to hide what I really feel.

I look away before I can even forgive him one bit, and snort.

"What are you doing, get away from me," I yell over Matt's pleads for me to calm down. "Leave, both of you! I don't need your help!" Tord reaches for me, and before he can lay down a finger, I slip my thin arm out of the constraints of the chains and land a fist on his nose, knocking down his hood, which he moves quickly to adjust over his right eye. His grin fades and he turns away.

I look down at my balled up fist and see a smear of blood, fresh and wet, slowly dripping down the side of my pinkie finger and out of my limited peripheral vision, partially because I'm too lazy to look down.

"Sorry," I croak, to no one in particular, although I see Matt's ginger head bob up and down in understanding.

"I'll leave you two alone, then. See ya outside, Tom, okay?" Matt doesn't wait for my answer, opening the door, slipping through, and closing it sharply from the other side. I feel a blush creep down my neck, knowing I'm alone with Tord now.

Seem cold and unforgiving, Tom. Don't let him see through your mask.

I feel Tord shift to my left, and I let out a desperate croak to get his attention, putting on my cold, hard glare.

He turns and comes over to me, white linen bandages creating a spider web in his arms, as he lifts up his head, and I do my best to use my own hand and head gestures to point to the metal holding me down, finally pressing against me and hurting now, unlike before.

Tord nods, but he makes no move to untie me from the bed. He only drops the bandages on the mattress and turns to grasp a purple vial from a shelf on the wall, placing it on a bedside table to my side, where I can get a clear view of the liquid inside the glass. What is that? Poison, I think, trying to wriggle out my other arm from the chains.

Tord leans over me, moving his hand to touch the top of my head, and I watch his fingers steadily fall onto me. I don't see them, but I know his fingers have made it to my scalp because of the shock that runs through my veins, letting me know his touch is dangerous.

"Holy pigs in a linen blanket," I shriek as Tord lifts up my head, pressing his hands on either side of it and reaches for the bandage, keeping my head up as he hastily slips the linen under and around my scalp.

"Calm down, I'm not doing anything that'll hurt." His expression is focused, and he keeps wrapping. Every inch of me screams for him to get off, but for some unknown reason, it gives me comfort in knowing that someone has my back--or rather, my head.

"W-what did I do to my head," I try, not sure he'll hear me.

"Banged it up real good." He gives a sly smile, "Good job."

Anger bubbles in the depths of my soul, but I can't peel my eyes from his shadowed face. "Haha, thanks for the compliment, Tord." Irony lines every syllable.

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After he's done wrapping my head, Tord moves to the side table to my left and I watch him intently out of the corner of my eye as he reaches a hand to the purple vial I'd been eyeing nervously. He pops out the cork and an iridescent smoke unfurls itself from the glass, bringing with it a sour smell that flips a switch in my brain and brings back a memory.

"Wha-what is that," I ask, shaking, trying to get myself out of the constraints of the bed. I feel the heat around me rise, and something tells me it isn't just me who's experiencing it. Tord's brow is furrowed and I catch a glimpse of his exposed forehead, brimming with sweat. "Tord, answer me," I scream. "What is that?"

He looks at me, stuffs the cork into the vial and stays put, his words trapped inside of him.

"That isn't..." I begin, my limbs shaking. "That isn't m-mine, is it?"

He nods. "It is." His tone is dark, and at that moment, I think I see his face turn even darker, even the shadowed side. He rips off his lab coat in a flourish and reveals the full extent of his red hoodie, where a hole has been made at the center, its edges stained crimson with blood. I peer into his heart, right above where the fabric has been ripped, but I see nothing but darkness.

The sleeve on the right extends from his shoulder to his wrist, ripped and fraying on the ends, but somewhat intact; the opposite sleeve has been torn off a few centimeters after the shoulder, and I see that the fabric turns a bit darker there, and I trace my eyes down his bare arm and to the purple container held tightly, protectively, in his grasp.

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