Cappie was a mess. After the news of Octavia’s death and saying goodbye to Rebecca, he had convinced himself that reaching out to Buffy, telling her how he felt, would make him feel better, fill a bit of the horrible empty feeling inside him. It had been a mistake, though. A terrible mistake. All he’d managed to do was hurt her and make himself feel lonelier than ever. The realisation that he may have lost three people he loved had been too much for him to handle and even the fondness he held for Buffy couldn’t stem the flow of that pain.
He’d intended to go back to his temporary accommodation but, not for the first time when he was hurting, he found himself reaching out to the one person he knew he could count on to offer exactly the kind of support he needed with absolutely no judgement and no questions asked: Terry. After a few garbled texts, he found his way to the place where she was staying and knocked hurriedly.
Terry had just finished taking a shower in the temporary house they had assigned her to when she got the texts from Cappie. She smiled softly and went to put on some clothes and blow dry her hair while he made his way to her place.
She didn’t have much things to care about what she could’ve lost, but it infuriated her to no end she hadn’t been able to stop the destruction. Granted she hadn’t been there when it all started — she showed up as soon as possible — but she should’ve heard something. That was what her powers were for, goddammit. She felt so useless.
She headed to the door when she heard the knocks and smiled warmly at him. “Hey.”She knew he was going through a rough time after losing his friend. That was never easy. She stepped aside to let him come in and closed the door.
Cappie couldn’t quite muster a smile in return but he did feel a rush of relief to see Terry alive, well and unscathed. He knew for a fact that he didn’t look either well or unscathed, although he was, at least, alive.
“Hey,” he replied, his voice sounding hollow and worn out. “Thanks for letting me come over. I… didn’t know where else to go.”
She shook her head lightly. “No need to thank me, Cappie. That’s what friends are for,” she said softly, letting her hand squeeze his arm gently. “Do you want something to drink or eat?” She wasn’t going to push him to talk about Octavia or how he felt or anything like that. She knew everyone took grief differently and they shouldn’t be forced to talk if they didn’t want to.
Cappie lifted his hand to cover hers on his arm. It felt nice to feel her warm fingers, the gentle pressure as she reassured him. He shook his head in response to her offer, even though he couldn’t remember the last thing he’d actually managed to eat. Even the idea of getting drunk didn’t appeal to him in the way it normally would have. He just felt… numb.
“Can we go to your room?”
She nodded and took his hand in hers gently, leading him to her room. There was no urge this time, no rush to get there to do unspeakable things to each other’s bodies.
Once there, she closed the door behind them and waited for him to do or say something that would tell her what he wanted, though she could already tell.
Cappie crossed to the bed, hearing Terry close the door behind them, and sank down to sit on its edge, placing his face in his hands. He ran his palms over his unshaven and bruised face, up into his hair. Even though he’d showered since the attack, his hair still felt ashy and unclean from the smoke which had filled the air on Friday night. He wondered how long it would take him to feel normal again.
Lifting his head, he looked up at Terry before reaching out an arm to her, issuing a silent plea for her to come to him so he could wrap himself around and hide some of the grief he was sure was showing in his stricken expression.
It was breaking her heart seeing him like that. She hated seeing her friend suffering. No one should lose a loved one like that. It wasn’t an easy thing to move on from.
At his silent plea, Terry walked to him and stood in front of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, resting them on his neck and caressing the skin there.
Cappie wrapped his arms tightly around Terry’s waist, burying his face against her stomach and screwing his eyes shut. He could feel all the emotion from the last few days welling up inside him again and he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to hold it in, that he would either burst into tears or start maniacally laughing. He didn’t want to do either so he slowly sucked in a long, deep breath, ignoring th painful lump in his throat.
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, him clinging to her like a limpet and her gently stroking the back of his neck, like she might a small child. It felt like a while but it might only have been a few minutes. Eventually, however, Cappie lifted his head so he could look up at her. His eyes were moist, pink and bleary but, by some miracle, his cheeks had remained dry.
Cappie sighed, lowering his gaze again and moving his hands so that his palms curved around her hips. He pushed up the hem of her top and leaned in to press a kiss against the smooth, white skin of her belly. It was an affectionate, familiar gesture and one, Cappie realised, that wouldn’t have felt appropriate with anyone but Terry.
He was broken inside, she could feel it. She had been in his position before, broken and feeling lost, but she had dealt with it differently. She cried and drank until she couldn’t stand anymore. She wasn’t particularly proud of herself now that she thought about it, but at least she had gotten out of it.
She held Cappie for as long as he needed it. The physical comfort could be more effective than any words she could’ve said. When he pulled back and kissed her stomach, a soft smile curled her lips. “When was the last time you had some decent sleep?” She asked softly, her hand caressing the side of his face.
“I slept last night,” Cappie replied, nuzzling his cheek against her hand and letting his eyes flutter shut. “But I’m still exhausted.” The kind of tiredness he was feeling was the kind that went deep, deep inside. Neal Burke would have another name for it, no doubt, and, from his Psychology studies, Cappie could have a pretty good guess at what that was but he wasn’t in the mood for psychoanalysing himself.
“Can I stay here?” he asked, looking up at Terry with wide eyes. He didn’t much like the idea of being alone right at that moment.
Terry nodded. “For as long as you want,” she said, giving him a small smile. She didn’t care if he slept for hours or days there. Whatever he needed, she’d give it to him. She didn’t want him to be or feel alone in a time like that.
He managed a small but appreciative smile before returning his lips to her stomach. He pressed a few more kisses over the skin there, ruching up her top as he went, before he closed his eyes and lay his cheek flat against the dip just below her breastbone, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing.
He could have stayed all night in that position, hugging her close to him, having the sound of her heartbeat smooth him, but it wasn’t fair to keep her standing there just for him. Toeing off his dirty Vans, he scooted himself backwards on the bed and curled up with his head resting on the pillow.
Terry kept her arms around him, caressing his neck and running her fingers through his short hair until he pulled away. She would’ve stayed like that all night if that made him feel better.
She got in bed and moved behind him, wrapping her arm around his waist and holding him tight, letting him know he wasn’t alone.
It felt really comforting to feel Terry’s snuggling against his back. He’d always loved being the little spoon. Still, after a few minutes, he rolled over so he could hug her against his chest, pressing his lips against her forehead. He felt like he needed to feel her skin against his, the warmth of her, the rise and fall of her chest against him as she breathed.
Terry snuggled against him, hiding her face on his chest. She sighed and closed her eyes again, relaxing in his arms. Her fingers caressed his jaw and neck lightly.
Gradually, lulled by the gentle rhythm of Terry’s fingers on his skin, Cappie felt himself beginning to relax. He still felt the pain and guilt and loss pressing in from the outside but Terry had created a little bubble for him which was safe and warm and quiet. While he was here with her, he could close himself off from the negativity that threatened to swallow him. Avoidant Coping. Hell, at least he could recognise what he was doing when he was doing it and stick a nice, shiny, psychological label on it.
Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes close and tucked his stubbly chin over the top of Terry’s head, resting his cheek against the pillow. Before long, he was asleep, snoring softly, with Terry encircled by his limp arms.