Bodhi Rook

With the time of cherry blossoms coming up, Bodhi's been spending lots of time in the kitchen lately. Mostly when Galen has been out of their rooms and distracted with other things. He's been rather secretive about it. Up to and including getting their parrot droid Ester to keep an eye on Galen.

But now it's ready and just in time.

He wakes Galen in the morning with a kiss, shifting carefully so he doesn't dislodge the cats. "Happy anniversary, my love."

{From here}

Bodhi takes Galen's hand and walks back through the door and back into the base. The cerebration is in full swing, happy shouts echoing from the hall. They run into only one other person on their way to Bodhi's room. The young lieutenant who had escorted Galen earlier.

Nika salutes, eyes drifting from Bodhi's face to their joined hands and back again. "Sir, Dr Erso."

"Lieutenant." Bodhi acknowledges, his voice a tense growl. Ready to deck the young man for a word out of place.

Instead the young man stutters shyly. "Sir?" He starts uncertainly. "I hope- have a good night, sir. You- you've earnt it."

Bodhi relaxes a little, resting his metal hand on the youth's shoulder. "As have you, lieutenant. Now go and enjoy yourself."

The boy nods, freckled cheeks warming with a blush. "Sir, yes sir." There's something about the way he steps aside to let them pass, watching them go. A crush perhaps? Or something more like hero worship?

Bodhi doesn't speak again till they're inside his room, the door firmly closed.

He waited till Myrrh went out.

He wasn’t sure why. He just didn’t want to do this while she was around.

Was he ashamed? Or was this just a private thing he didn’t want company for.

Even the company of a cat.

He handled the knife with care as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn’t want to pain.

Just… the brightness that came with the blood.

He wanted the colour back. Even if red was the only colour he could get.

He rested the point of the blade high on his forearm.

Just… feeling the cold of the blade.

Feeling the metal warm against his skin.

Blood welled. A single bright crimson drop blooming at the point.

He wasn’t aware of pressing down but the blade bit, the skin parting.

A shallow cut. The blood running clean.

He set the knife down, holding his arm between his parted knees. Letting the little rivulet of blood slowly inch down towards his fingers.

A slow line of colour.

Of light.

Of life.

Bodhi laid down and let the warmth of the flowing blood soothe him.

Bodhi hasn’t been back downstairs for the better part of a week.

And he doesn’t look good – deep shadows under his eyes, pallor under the olive of his skin. He’s losing weight and muscle tone.

He hasn’t really eaten – some fruit, mostly tea. The tea that makes him sleep. He asked the rats to bring him pills. Pills to make him sleep. And they do.

And he has. He’s safer in the drugged sleep. He doesn’t dream there.

When he’s not sleeping, he lays on the bed and looks at the knife.

It’s a little tomato knife. A red duroplast handle. A clean, simple blade, ever so slightly serrated.

He doesn’t cut himself. He hasn’t touched the knife at all.

The blade has been sitting there for days. Just… sitting.

He can’t take his eyes off it.

He doesn’t think doesn’t about cutting himself. Not exactly. He doesn’t think about the act of pressing the blade to his flesh. Or how the bright blood might well and flow.

But he does think about how it would feel. That it would feel.

He doesn’t feel. Not anymore.

The colours have bled out. Everything is grey.

He breathes. His heart beats in his chest.

But he’s not alive.

He doesn’t feel alive any more.

All the colours are gone.

Leaving the red of the handle. And the red under his skin.

Instead he takes the pills. And sleeps. And lets a little black cat watch over him.