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It had been a mostly quiet day and was shaping up to be a quiet night as well. That was precisely why Karl Morningdew was wide awake at 2:47 am, nursing a slowly cooling cup of tea and sat at their tiny table in the main living area of the boat they called home with a clear line of sight to the front door.
Although it would seem out of the ordinary to anyone else, it made perfect sense to Karl. It was too quiet and from his life experience thus far that could only mean trouble. It also explained why a majority of the table’s surface was taken over by every single item they had stockpiled that was even remotely useful in the treatment of wounds; the motley assortment had proved itself more than adequate in times past. He has as much confidence in his ability to patch others up as he does in his partner’s ability to get into trouble even on calm nights.
Hence why Karl is sat calmly at the table, hands that had once been cradling the comforting warmth of his well-loved mug now working away effortlessly on his latest project by only the light of the almost full moon, yarn and needles moving at blinding speeds as the form of what will become a jumper gradually takes shape. We don’t need another blanket, yeah?
Yet he always complained about being cold despite their supposed overabundance of blankets, going as far as to steal Karl’s warmth every chance he got with his frigid hands and feet, even if it meant waking Karl up in the middle of the night with shards of ice carved to resemble fingers and toes being shoved violently against stomach and calves. Karl scoffed fondly to himself, the only noise beyond the quiet slink of yarn against metal that mixed with the ever present background hum of insects and the calm swish of water against the shore and the boat’s hull.
The rattle of the worn knob barely clinging to the door—something they should really get around to fixing sooner rather than later, preferably before it falls off into the river again—draws Karl’s attention, pausing his work, grip loosening on a needle as his arm sags minutely towards his side and the shield leaning against the legs of his chair there.
Only to be restored to normal once his visitor makes it past the multiple locks, slinking into the shadows inside with a deep sigh as the door is shut behind him. A sigh that only becomes deeper with contentment when he notices Karl’s presence, followed by slow, measured steps before ending in the familiar weight around Karl’s shoulders as Hobie does his normal impression of a living scarf on nights like this–even if the pressure is more lopsided than usual.
“And how was it?”
A low grunt in reply as a face is nuzzled lazily into the crook of Karl’s neck.
“Smooth as silk, then?”
More nuzzling and a rush of warm air from a nose covered in spandex wedged next to his collarbone.
Karl lets out a sigh of his own as he concludes the row he was working on and pushes the half-finished project away as he stands up from the chair. It’s a little difficult with another person hanging off of him like a soaked comforter waiting to be put on a line to dry, but he manages just fine to turn so he is facing Hobie without dislodging him—though Karl can tell from the slightest increase in his slouched posture that Hobie is pouting behind the mask at the loss of contact.
This new view allows Karl to take in Hobie’s state of being for the first time and he’s pleasantly surprised at what he sees. There’s the usual cuts and scrapes all over the suit that come with fighting the monster/villain of the day/week, but no major pieces torn away, missing, or cracked for once. It'll be quick work to repair later.
Even Hobie’s guitar seems to have escaped mostly unscathed, just a string or two in need of replacement. Karl also notices a distinct lack of the coppery scent that usually signals one or more larger wounds hidden by clothes. It’s comforting in its absence until his mind reminds him that could mean any major bleeding is internal; a fact that is partially supported by Hobie’s lack of verbal response thus far.
Normally, Karl couldn’t get the guy to shut up for anything short of food or some intense snogging–even then Hobie still managed to make his opinions well known despite his mouth being otherwise occupied.
The complete silence was a cause for worry as far as Karl was concerned and he found himself taking a moment to count backward from the first number he thought of so he wasn’t bursting into a panicked frenzy and potentially making things worse than they actually are, taking a small amount of pride in the fact that he didn’t just start from 3 and go all ‘ferocious golden retriever’ on Hobie.
When he does finally talk, Karl’s voice matches the quietness and peace of the early morning as he puts a hand on Hobie’s cheek, feeling the other boy lean into it, seeking the contact.
“Worst?”
The question is followed by the gentle removal of the mask as he waits for an answer, the fabric falling to the ground with a heavier plop than if it was bone-dry but less than if it was soaked through with liquid. Which is somewhat comforting until Karl remembers that it wasn’t even drizzling in New London for once and his worry about internal injury.
Hobie is staring at Karl as the mask comes off and while the exhaustion of the night is clear as day, Karl can also see how tightly Hobie is clinging to his façade of being okay. Even in the low light, Karl can see it in how Hobie holds himself just a little tighter than he needs to, in the tension at the corners of his mouth as he tries to put on a casual smile despite the pain he must be in. But all the attempts don’t fool Karl, not when he can see the truth of it all in Hobie’s eyes, all the emotions he refuses to voice swirling there, just waiting for someone to give enough of a shit to truly see and know them.
He cuts Hobie off as the other boy opens his mouth to answer him. “Cut the shit you’re gonna try to sell me.” Hobie closes his mouth. “Worst?”
A chuckled scoff, purely amused, not unkind. “Ya gonna let me talk now?”
An unblinking silence and facial expression that would normally be accompanied by either crossed arms or hands on hips if they weren’t otherwise occupied is answer enough.
“Pig thought a nearby shop made a perfect safety net to toss me into from thirty meters up. Skull disagreed. Was bleeding, don’t think it is anymore. Things also aren’t so wobbly now. Made swinging back a grand old fun time.”
The hand that had returned to Hobie’s cheek after removing his mask slides around to carefully poke at the back of his head, fingers sliding expertly through his wicks as they search for the wound Hobie is ninety percent certain is already starting to heal, fighting back a flinch as they find it and press gently, breath leaving in a low hiss. “Yeah, that’s the one. Ya found it.”
Karl pulls his hand away from the sore spot, letting it come to rest on the back of Hobie’s neck, massaging away some of the tension he finds there as a momentary distraction. “Didn’t feel like it was bleedin’ anymore, but we’ll check it better after ya sit. Next?”
“Not much else to be honest. Bruises, cuts mostly. Nothing some sleep won’t take care of by morning.”
Karl gives him a rather unimpressed look at the piss-poor attempt at lying.
“Really? So this feels fine too?” He says as he gives Hobie’s right shoulder a firm squeeze, eyes narrowing at the restrained jolt and muffled scream in response.
“When you’re not squeezing it like you’re trying to kill it, yeah it feels just peachy.”
“Anything else?”
The softening of Karl’s expression as he allows his concern for Hobie to be on full display is what finally breaks the last pillar holding Hobie’s bravado in place, a short but significant list of injuries following soon after. The list is met with a look Hobie is deeply familiar with, one he seems to inspire in anyone who bothered with getting past his spikey exterior to know the soul beneath –fond annoyance with a tinge of a deep affection at the edges.
Not really a surprise from his best friend of many years and boyfriend of four. Well, four years that they’ve been putting a label on it despite Hobie’s vocal dislike for the concept of labels in general. Said boyfriend carefully maneuvers them around so Hobie can be gingerly dropped into Karl’s vacated seat, a small lamp on the table being turned on for better lighting, the sudden intrusion has Hobie squinting his eyes from its painful onslaught against his already throbbing head.
“I’ll turn it off after I look at your head. Must feel wonderful.” Hobie grimaces. “Yeah, feels like something’s dancing on my brain in steel heels.” Karl sends a sympathetic look to the back of Hobie’s head as he gets a better view of the injury. “Just a bit longer. Promise.” True to his earlier thought, the fracture has stopped bleeding, leaving just the drying blood to scab over as it heals. It didn’t look like it would require any attendance beyond carefully washing the area after it healed fully.
The light has been cut back off within three minutes of it being on, Hobie sending thanks to whoever he wants for the small mercy as Karl helps him strip his vest and the top half of the suit off as the other boy starts to tend and dress any wounds he deems in need of such treatment, hands tender and loving even when laying stitches over a previously hidden gash in his back from the building he nearly became a door for early on in the evening. Normally a shower would be in order before they’d bandage or stitch anything, but one quick look shared between them confirmed neither really felt up to all that would entail at the moment. It could most certainly be saved until morning.
They pass the time mostly in silence, though Karl does occasionally ask Hobie questions as he works, mainly to make sure Hobie hasn’t drifted off into some form of sleep yet. Questions about who the fight was with this time (almost all of it was pigs), what Hobie did when he wasn’t fighting (stopped a few petty shoplifters, gave them tips and advice about where to steal from and where to get a regular meal from, normal stuff), and whatever else he did that day when he and Karl were apart. When the exhaustion begins to hang heavier on Hobie’s tongue and brain stilling them in the process, Karl keeps up the stream of talk, filling Hobie in on his own goings on of the day passed, pausing occasionally to illicit a response.
Hobie gains a smidge of his energy back when Karl pops his shoulder back into place though it is gone just as quickly as it came as the throbbing ache recedes to a dull pulse. Hobie’s started to nod off yet again when he feels fast but small tugs at his right knee, a loll of his head onto his shoulder revealing the source of this sudden motion–Karl untying the main knot on his boots before loosening the laces so he can begin to ease it off to be set aside as he repeats the process with the other one, picking them up along with the now discarded socks and carrying them into their room before coming back to Hobie.
Hobie who now has a lovesick grin stretching his life-hardened features into something soft, something only Karl really gets to see in these quiet moments when it is just the two of them. It’s a look Karl knows is mirrored on his own face at that moment, something that stays in place even as he reaches down and eases Hobie back onto his bare feet, steadying him with hands pressed like a brace against his lower back, muscles that had begun to relax protesting at being forced to work again. It’s a moment Karl wants to bottle and keep forever, to savor when things get tough, to remind both of them part of what they are fighting for.
A lovely moment that is shoved violently to the ground as Hobie raises his arms–bare and littered with bandages that will be useless by morning–to hook around Karl’s chest, fingertips digging into ribs as Hobie attempts to sway the two of them to an unheard melody.
Something that would be more successful if it were not for A) the concussion that turns the swaying to a disjointed and farcical imitation of dancing complete with odd shuffling steps as Hobie attempts to move them away from the table and B) Hobie having a complete lack of rhythm when not physically playing a musical instrument. If you were to ask Karl, there’s a very good reason Hobie plays guitar and not drums. Man moves like a car crash on the best of days.
The entire situation has Karl trying to hold back laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, something that is easily noticed by Hobie even as they shift away from the scattered moonlight. Their movement stops.
“What’s all that about, hey? You thinking about what Robbie said that one time? It–“
Karl cuts him off, trying hard to keep the laughter from bursting out and his voice even. He’s not successful. Not in the slightest.
“You dance like a drunk duck!” The words rush forth as he finally cracks up, a deep rumbling sound tumbling out as Karl forces himself to stay upright despite the urge to double over. If he goes down he’s pulling Hobie with him and neither would prefer to sleep on the floor that night. Not when the stray cat that occasionally decides their boat is a good enough place to call home likes to wander in during the night with whatever fresh kill she’s made, sometimes splattering its remains around the floor for them to find in the morning bleary eyed and bare footed. That is awful enough without also waking up covered in it, something neither wants a repeat of anytime soon.
Hobie flutters a hand against Karl’s ribs in dismissal but doesn’t let go.
"That's the concussion.” A single look is more than enough to have him backtracking just a little. “Okay, mostly the concussion."
A fond sigh.
Then
“If ya wanted to dance with me, all ya had to do was ask.”
“Some things are better a surprise, aren’t they?”
A pause.
“Aye, they are.”
A tightening of arms—support, never wavering. “I got ya.”
A wordless nod as the dancing starts again, more successful this time with Karl’s willing participation. A low rumble begins in Karl’s chest as they slowly rotate next to the table, eventually evolving to a recognizable soft melody, memories of the dozens if not hundreds of times they’ve done this before washing Hobie in their warmth bring a full genuine smile to his cheeks. A melody that Hobie joins in with, their voices mixing perfectly with each other, with the stillness of the night.
Though if any of their friends had been around to see it they would have labeled the resulting sound something closer to a pair of alley cats trying to meow at each other but both had forgotten what that sound was and went with the next best thing they could manage, much to the chagrin of anyone trying to sleep nearby. Much as they’ve done in the past.
Time passes unheeded until Hobie’s voice starts to trail off and Karl sees he is nearly asleep on his feet, Karl’s arms the only reason he isn’t curled up in a ball on the floor snoring like the car with the busted exhaust that seems to always pass by when either of them are trying to get a rare nap in. His knowledge of the dangers of sleeping with a fresh concussion outweighs his want to let the exhausted vigilante sleep and has him shaking Hobie awake, though he does so as gently as he can manage.
It still has the end result of Karl being on the receiving end of a glare most would find mildly intimidating at least but he finds it rather endearing after experiencing it often enough for so long. Hobie’s growing sleepiness also doesn’t help with the intimidation factor. “Be much scarier if you could keep your eyes open for more than a second.”
A put upon groan, as though Karl is the most annoying thing Hobie’s faced today and quite possibly in his entire life thus far. Which 1) Karl knows is wholly untrue and 2) the man himself is still breathing which means Karl will forever be out of the running for that particular title. “Why won’t you just let me sleep already? Been more than a few hours since I smacked my head, probably already done healing by now and isn’t worth the fuss you’re making over it.”
The sudden shift in tone sobers Hobie just a little. “You know why. Besides, if it really has been a few hours, what’s one or two more? Let’s head to bed, get you undressed the rest of the way, then we can talk to pass the time, yeah? Just talk.”
The lightness from earlier is back as Karl shakes his head at the droopy smirk on Hobie’s face even as he shifts their positions to make it easier to walk to the far end of the boat, only one of Hobie’s arms still draped around Karl’s shoulders while the other is secured against his side with the arm Karl has around his waist for support.
It’s slow going even with enhanced strength working in their favor, seeming to take forever until they are stood in front of their bed.
Karl makes quick work of removing the rest of Hobie’s suit/clothes—“you decided to wear pants for once”—propping the boy up with one hand when he begins to lean as Karl reaches over to push the blankets to one side, silently glad he hadn’t remade it when he got up earlier. From there it is a controlled tumble of rubbery leaden limbs until they are situated in bed much like normal with Hobie using Karl more as a mattress than the actual item.
It’s how they always start out the night and sometimes how they end it. Sometimes they wake up in the morning with Hobie on the mattress and Karl curled around him as though trying to physically shield him from the world outside–trying to shield his world. Hobie sometimes jokes that he feels like Karl’s trying to squish him and make it look like an accident, but Karl knows that in reality Hobie adores it, enjoys the feeling of someone having his back–of security. And that is something Karl will gladly give him because ultimately it is what they are trying to give the people of their city–security to live their lives without fear, heads held high, not having to constantly check over their shoulders or worry if they’ll make it home safe from what should be a quick trip down to the shops.
It’s their topic of discussion for the next two hours. Plans for the next steps in the resistance, for the future of the city, for the people. For them.
That particular train of thinking lasts the longest, keeping them occupied with hopes for what that could look like–Karl’d like a garden or even just a few potted plants to care for, Hobie’s not picky, just wants it to be with Karl, maybe they’d get a cat that would stick around long term, maybe not–until the first rays of dawn begin hesitantly peaking over the horizon. Their appearance prompts Karl to gently shift Hobie off of him, promising his absence will be brief as he gets up and shuts the blinds, making sure they are blocking out as much of the incoming sunlight as possible before returning to the bed and settling the half asleep Hobie back to his previous position, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead as Karl tells him he can sleep now. Karl’s eyes are nearly drooped shut with sleep when he feels as much as hears Hobie sigh out a familiar phrase, the last piece of their usual routine for these nights.
“I love you, Karl Morningdew.”
Karl knows Hobie can hear the full range and depth of emotion behind his response even if it sounds vaguely annoyed and kinda slurred to his own ears.
“And I love you, Hobie Brown. Now go the fuck to sleep.”