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And then sometime later, another one thought text would fail to convey the uncertainty with which the question was asked, as if he were afraid to hear the answer.



Waiting was entirely insufferable and the very thought of doing anything but rushing straight to the infirmary that instant was unthinkable. But unfortunately, he was on night shift, so he had to think about it, had to stop himself midstride from heading out the door and abandoning his work.

Tomorrow. In reality it was only a few hours away but to Shiloh it seemed like an eternity. He’d never been particularly patient and now was no different, except he didn’t have a choice, responsibilities were responsibilities and Jack had said tomorrow… Shiloh was even worse at sneaking than he was at waiting. But as he found his chair again and sat down to the reports strewn across the table, he was forced to wait, forced to sit there tapping his pen anxiously, left alone with his own thoughts. Was Ian okay? What had happened?

What did Jack mean anyway? Some childish part of Shiloh instantaneously latched onto the idea that maybe there was hope, that maybe it would be like he imagined it, that everything would be okay, they’d talk and make-up and it would be like nothing had ever gone wrong. As wishful as that part was, however, it had to contend with reality, and the part of Shiloh that had been beaten down by it. Everything had gone wrong, hadn’t it? He had no idea where he stood with Ian, of what he was to Ian. Did Ian even want to see him? Jack’s text, and advice, though a bit backhanded, had been so out of the blue, and from Jack, who rarely seemed to feel anything at all… Shiloh didn’t know how to make heads or tails of any of it, let alone what to do about it. He did know he wanted to see Ian, to make sure he was okay and so he went with that, deciding to worry about the rest when he got there.

When he finally pushed his chair back, it was some early morning hour and he stretched as he stood, trying to work out the kinks of having sat every which way the chair had allowed in an attempt to distract himself. It hadn’t really worked, and his head felt groggy as he made his way immediately to the infirmary.

He didn’t know why he was rushing, it’d been a month since that day and he’d seen Ian only sparingly since. Were they even friends anymore? Would Ian want to see him? A month, he thought, against all the rest, and that was all it took to make him hesitate at the infirmary door, desperately wanting to see Ian, but at the same time not wanting to see him at all. It had been sort of easier that way, to pretend he didn’t exist, to avoid the shock of seeing him and the awkwardness of dealing with feelings he’d never had to deal with before.

What was Ian to him?
Things hadn’t changed for Shiloh, at least not in the basic sense. He still cared about Ian, and he missed him. Slowly, he pushed open the door and made his way inside, searching around for where they’d tucked Ian away until an attendant pointed him in the right direction, only after he promised over and over not to disturb him. It was away from the everyday hubbub of common injures, away from the broken legs and dislocated shoulders, in a place that ushered a sort of quiet even though the machines beeped and hummed louder than most voices. That was where he found Ian, eyes closed and hooked up to everything it seemed, covered from head to toe in stitches and bandages.

Shiloh put a hand to his mouth to stifle his gasp, exhaling softly.

“Oh, Ian…”

What had he gotten himself into? Shiloh couldn’t stop himself from drifting closer, from checking the machines and when he didn’t understand, settling for watching the gentle rise and fall of Ian’s chest, the movement weak but there, he was still alive.

He hadn’t really thought Jack would play such a cruel joke, but for all his hope, the Island had instilled a new sense of fear in Shiloh and he of all people knew they weren’t infallible. But Ian was alive, Shiloh breathed in relief, hurt but alive and Shiloh ached to touch him, to press his fingers against his cheek, to kiss his forehead, to just hug him, to sink into him because the thought of him ever getting taken away was unbearable, even if Ian was no longer his to give. His hand moved, hesitated, before falling back against his side.

There had been a chair left near the bed, and he sank into that instead. Jack had said be aggressive but the only thing Shiloh felt now was small. Moving around until he was comfortable, his legs tucked up beneath him, he stared at the floor intently, as though it might suddenly provide him with some answers.

Shiloh had noticed the faint stirring, because, after all, no matter how hard he stared at the floor nothing blotted out the fact that Ian was right there, only an arm’s reach away, and instinctively Shiloh glanced up, looking over. Ian’s eyes were still closed and he chalked it up to simply moving in his sleep, and the thought vaguely worried him, hoping that it wasn’t nightmares that made his eyelids flutter. Shiloh’s gaze shifted to the numerous bandages covering Ian, too many to possibly be hidden by a blanket, and he wondered again what Ian had possible gotten into, what real life nightmare he’d found. Shiloh wasn’t a vengeful person, and though the idea of anyone hurting Ian made him livid, all he needed to do right now was be here.

At least, that’s how he felt, but the feeling was perhaps more of a hope, a hope that grew more anxious when Ian continued to rouse, his lips moving just enough to utter a name and a request. Quickly, Shiloh looked around for water, and found Jack or one of the attendants had been kind enough to leave all necessary supplies.

“Not Jack, chicken,” he spoke, his voice soft. He kneeled one knee gently on the edge of the bed, leaning over to bring the glass to Ian’s mouth, to save him the effort, and he was sure pain, of moving. Prepared for what might happen after introducing himself, Shiloh pressed the glass against Ian’s lips, encouraging him.

“Drink first.”

“Jack texted me.”

The answer seemed so simple, as he pulled away the glass. He supposed he could have ignored it and not come, but then he supposed he could also swim in shark-infested waters and neither idea seemed particularly smart or even remotely doable for Shiloh. Of course he would come, there hadn’t even been any question in his mind. There had been delay, and he had his doubts, and sitting next to Ian, wincing at the rawness of his voice each time he tried to speak. Shiloh was terrified, and unsure of everything he’d come to know, but he forged through it anyway, placing his hand gently on Ian’s arm.

“Did you need more water? You sound awful,” he said honestly, the words out of his mouth before he knew it. “Sorry, I mean, well, you know. It’s not awful, just, here, take another more sip okay.” He lifted the glass again.

“I would’ve come anyway, if I’d known, even if Jack hadn’t texted me. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Ian was still staring at him, and Shiloh couldn’t help but shake his head, smiling.

“You can stop looking at me like that, I’m not the friendly ghost anymore.”

Sometime before their moment began, Shiloh's phone received these gems:

He wasn't so sure he could deal with Shiloh's hand on his arm, especially since he already knew for certain that he did not deserve, nor should he expect, Shiloh's kindness. He'd screwed things up already, it wasn't fair to either of them to let Shiloh continue on with taking care of him; and yet Ian didn't have the strength to pull away, or maybe he just didn't want to, because he was touching Shiloh again after over a month of not even speaking to him, and it was very nearly overwhelming.

"I was such a ******** idiot," Ian said hoarsely. "I thought I could handle...I thought I could do a lot of s**t, but as it turned out I can't, I can't do a single thing except make things worse."

He closed his eyes and shook his head, the movement making his throat shriek in agony, making him think he had probably started to tear at least one of his stitches in the process. "I went to the Haunted House because I thought I wanted to end it. I didn't want to be here anymore, Shiloh, not after...not after everything."

Ian opened his eyes again and gave Shiloh a surprisingly level look, his lips quirked up into a sad smile.

"I was ready to just give up but then, well...here I am."

Maybe this was the whole point.

Maybe almost dying, having his throat slit by a terrible creature intent on erasing not just him, but itself as well from the world, was the whole reason for why Ian was lying here now, and not just because of his injuries, but because of Shiloh. Shiloh who, in spite of everything, in spite of all of the hurt that Ian had caused him, all the pain, all the anger and frustration and sadness, was still here, trying to make sure that he was okay.

You were an idiot, Ian, Shiloh had said, which was an understatement, if any. Ian tentatively reached out in his mind for the other person who had called him that, wondering if she would even speak to him after all that he had done to her as well.

Naomi?

It was a while before she said anything at all, but then -

{ I am well. Do not worry about me. Focus on him. That is what you want. }

Relief coursed through him. Ian's shoulders sagged a little and he couldn't help the faint smile that touched his lips as he heard her voice, Shiloh's mingling with it so that he could hear the two of them side by side. His neck was throbbing painfully, but he ignored it, instead turning to look at Shiloh anyway, and it was like looking into the sun. Shiloh's presence was so blindingly beautiful that for a moment it very nearly took Ian's breath away. How long had it been since they had even been in the same room together, let alone talk? And Shiloh was hurt and he was angry and he was frustrated and in pain, and Ian couldn't stop staring at him.

Maybe he was still alive because of this person right here in front of him, the person he had taken for granted all along; the person that he had tried to protect and tried to keep safe for all the right reasons but had gone about it all the wrong ways. As a result, he'd nearly lost not just himself, but Shiloh as well, and maybe there was no getting him back, but that didn't mean that all was entirely lost.

It didn't mean that he was alone.

Shiloh's fingers touched his gently before falling away, and Ian was still staring at him, as though it was the first time he'd ever seen him as Shiloh moved to check his bandages, fussing like a mother hen. Ian didn't reach out to him, didn't try to grab his hand, but after a moment, Ian's expression seemed to soften, a gentle smile tugging at his lips as the affection in his eyes grew.

"I love you," he said.

He didn't expect a picture perfect reunion; a dramatic reenactment of some chick flick where the guy confesses his love and the girl in turn runs towards him with tears in her eyes and flings her arms around him and then they live happily ever after. That sort of thing may have been common in the movies, but it certainly was not part of Ian's life - nor did he think he deserved such a thing anyway, not after how he'd acted.

But it was true. And Shiloh was staring at him with his brown eyes so wide and confused and searching, like he half expected Ian to shake his head and go "Just kidding, I just wanted to see your reaction." Ian looked back up at him with his expression soft and the gentle smile still on his lips, and for a moment everything seemed to melt until it was just the two of them and nothing else.

I never stopped.

Ian didn't have time to react to this wonderful statement before Shiloh was against him, his face in his ear, and it hurt, pain ricocheting up and down Ian's spine as Shiloh's weight leaned into him, but the pain was nothing compared to the nearness of Shiloh himself, his breath against his ear.

"I know," said Ian quietly, and he lifted one broken hand, resting it gingerly atop Shiloh's head. "I know. I ******** up. You have a right to be angry with me, you have every right to be angry with me."

He wanted to hold on longer, to feel the warmth he had so desperately missed, but Shiloh was pulling away and Ian let him go, his bandaged fingers trailing away from Shiloh's hair as he stood. He could see the flush to Shiloh's cheeks, the stubborn resistance, the heavy sadness, and all Ian could think was I made him look that sad. That sadness is my fault.

He had to fix it.

Ian shook his head, this time more slowly, so as to not agitate the stitches like Frankenstein's monster around his neck (it still hurt like the devil, but he ignored this).

"I mean it," he said, and reached out, his bandaged fingers seeking Shiloh's. "I mean it, Shy. It's not the medicine talking. It's not the depression. I love you. And I will do everything I can to make up for the hurt that I've caused you, and for the pain, but I love you."

He managed to touch Shiloh's hand, though with bandaged fingers he couldn't touch very much of anything, and the warmth of Shiloh's fingers was only just barely able to be felt. Still, Ian refused to back down, because he'd already said it - he'd said it, and nothing terrible had happened. He didn't feel like he was suffocating beneath the weight of those three words, didn't feel like what he'd said was wrong, or that it wasn't the right time, or that he didn't mean it. He'd said it and he'd meant it and now the only way to go was up.

Shiloh's question made him flinch; but there was truth in that statement, a truth that he'd tried to ignore, but had still wallowed in for most of his adult life. Why can't you just learn to love yourself? Why do you hate yourself? was what he had asked Alistaire, but it had not been Alistaire that he had really needed to hear the answer from.

"It's hard," Ian admitted. "It's...it's...well, it's a process. Learning to like myself - learning to love myself," he corrected, his head beginning to throb. He chewed on his cracked lower lip for a moment, trying to make sense of the mess in his head. "I've spent most of my life in this...self deprecating state. Well, you've seen it," Ian said ruefully. "You've seen almost everything of me that I've let you see, except the deepest parts of my heart that I've tried to hide away. And instead of letting you in, I just...pushed you away."

It felt too raw still, too painful. The look on Shiloh's face, the terrible anguish of his voice as Ian had walked away from him. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a long breath that shook a little, his chest feeling tight.

"I was afraid," he whispered. "I was afraid, and I ******** up and I let you go."

Shiloh's hand was gentle on his cheek, warm as it trailed up to touch his newly shortened hair. Ian opened his eyes and gave him a small smile. "Possessed by a demon," he said, opting for the less complicated explanation.

He lifted his bandaged hand again and with considerable effort managed to graze the tips of his fingers - the only part of him that wasn't covered in gauze - against the side of Shiloh's face; and the expression in Ian's eyes was pure affection, pure raw emotion.

"Shiloh," Ian whispered softly. "Shiloh, my love."

His hand slowly slid away, the effort of keeping it vertical too much, and he laid it down beside him, though his eyes still hadn't moved from Shiloh's. He took a small breath and smiled, his heart in his throat.

"All I'm asking for is a second chance," he said, even though Shy had said they weren't having the conversation now, he needed to know that all was not lost; that he hadn't yet pushed far enough for Shiloh to tell him no, that they were finished without any chance of reconciliation. "Just...give me a chance to prove myself to you, I swear I will do better this time. I want to make it up to you. I can't take back what I've already done, but please, Shiloh, just let me have a second chance to make things right with you."