Work Text:
His grip shook as viscous sweat slicked calloused palms, blunt nails scrabbling for purchase on rock painted with blood and grime. Sharp teeth, bright among the darkness and then everything else is a blur, vividly haunting his memories.
He pressed money back into the hand that saved him. Repayment. The paper light in both of their palms, not enough, but what else does he have to give? He is empty. That night when they sleep in adjacent rooms the hand is there again, tapping a comforting rhythm on the wall as he is dragged out of his nightmares, irritation a welcome replacement of fear.
The same hand pulls him forward time after time. At first he felt weak. He didn’t need someone to look down on him, to help him, to care. But he found the hold was always warm and reliable, never wavering. A true hero’s touch. And maybe they were equals all along but it took him too long to realise.
Now holding hands is muscle memory and an affectionate gesture instead of a life line. Still a life line. Because what would he do without him?