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Dirk pulls you out of work for another week.

At this rate you're actually anxious about losing your promotion or even your job with how many absences you've been taking lately.

(Well it wouldn't be a problem if you'd just man up and deal with this.)

You notice he's more cautious about showing skin around you now, and you guess you are too, what with your disgusting half-healed wounds. But Dirk is still unbelievably supportive, preparing perfectly proportioned meals and helping you with each bite. Soon though, you get irritable.

A few days in you begin ignoring Dirk, pushing his food away and sulking like a child in your room. He gets frustrated, trying but failing to stay calm as he tries to coax you out of hiding.

You can't help it! You haven't gone this long without self-injuring in a long time- even if it's just a few shallow cuts on your arm. You crave the burning feeling the razor leaves across your skin.

Thankfully (for your sanity's sake) the Saturday before you're due back to work, Dirk receives a call from a co-worker of his. From what you can gather something was interpreted wrongly in his plans and they need him there to figure out what to do to fix whatever they were building.

"Are you fucking kidding me that's gonna take all day!" Dirk shouts into the phone, adding a few choice obscenities every once in a while. The voice on the line frantically tries to calm him down and after several minutes of argument, Dirk relents and says he'll be there within the hour. He kisses you goodbye and you mumble something along the lines of "be safe" but honestly, you're too focused on the fact that Dirk isn't going to be home all day. For the first time in ages you are going to be alone.

You don't know if you're thrilled or frightened.

(Obviously you should have asked to go along with him because you know you are going to do something you're probably going to regret.)

You spend a good half hour frantically looking for your tools, scouring the apartment for anything sharp. Somewhere along the way you find a bottle of whiskey and begin to take swigs of it every once in a while despite not being too big on alcohol. Maybe you are just drunk on the fact that Dirk isn't here to mother-hen you.

Eventually you find them. Amidst the hats in Dirk's half of the closet, a stray smuppet lays with a zippered pouch within its stomach. Opening it, you find a bag with no less than ten blades.

Now wait a second- you may be slightly inebriated, but you're present enough to know that you only had four blades at the time when Dirk took them away. But that means the others are...

Fuck.

You drop the bag about as quickly as your stomach drops to your knees, barely making it to the bathroom as you once more heave up the contents of your stomach. (Mainly alcohol at this point.)

You wipe off your mouth and flush the toilet when you're done and, against better judgement, you take a swig of the bottle still in your grasp.

Stumbling back into the hall, you pick up the bag and bring it to the bathroom. You place the bottle on a little ledge meant for bath whatnots as you strip your shirt and look for a first-aid kit. (Dirk keeps one in every room now, just in case.)

You settle into the tub, back against the wall, resting your arm on your bent legs for easy access. You fish out a blade that you know for sure is yours (you know because it has a little bit of a bend from when you tried breaking it the first time you tried to quit.) and hold it to the spot right below the crook of your elbow. You're shaking with either fear or anticipation you can't tell so you quickly take a gulp of Jack Daniels and throw caution to the wind and make the first slice.

It's not too deep, and is only about an inch long but quickly turns red and beads up with blood. You gaze at it, mesmerized for a moment before dabbing it away with a cotton ball. Moving down you make two more cuts in relatively quick succession. The first three cuts are usually the hardest.

You continue until you're about half way down your forearm, horizontal and diagonal cuts (never vertical) ranging from long and thin to deep and bloody. The alcohol dulls your senses, and you dumbly poke at a particularly deep cut, hissing in pain as your finger comes away stained with red. You're not sure how many there are, but you know it's enough to stop for now and clean up a bit before moving onto another body part.

The bandaging process comes easily, putting pressure on your wounds to stop the bleeding before wiping away excess blood and wrapping it all up in gauze and bandages and the like.

You vaguely note that the last cut you made is probably needs stitches, but you decide to leave it for later, instead taking another gulp and picking up a less bloodied razor.

By the time you're finished bandaging your self up you're too tired depressed tired to move, choosing to stay curled up in the bathtub, aching arms (one from the cuts and the other from gripping your tools so tightly for so long) wrapped around your legs as your head rests upon your knee. You vaguely feel your thighs tingling and your abdomen protesting from being pressed against your legs.

You know you've been out for quite some time because the next time you wake up you're in bed being smothered by Dirk and not in the bathroom.

X

There's no other way to put it. After your little episode, he pretty much puts you on lockdown.

Dirk tells you after you've fully waken up that yes, some of your cuts did need stitches and he did them himself. (You know exactly why Dirk knows first-aid a little too well and you hate it so much.)

He calls your workplace and tells them some crackpot story about how your grandmother was sick and she needed you to take care of her on the island for another month, give or take a few weeks. He goes with you to transfer your files onto a USB stick so you can work from your laptop, and as soon as you're settled back at home, he takes the smuppet with the sharps and puts it in his car, telling you that he'll dispose of it properly at work.

The apartment is soon completely free of anything capable of aiding (both of) you in self-harm or anything of the like.

Keyword apartment.

You find out that Dirk has been a lying hypocritical piece of scum that should quit trying to fix you when he should be fixing himself dealing with relapse as well, a few days later.

Self harm is a horrible thing, but possibly the one thing comparable to it is the unbearable itch that comes along with the healing process. When self control failed to keep you from irritating your cuts, Dirk tried to put you in thick mittens, wrapping your arms in thicker sleeves and bandages and the like.

The second Dirk leaves for work though, you rip off the bandages and go to town on your arm. Of course you have no blades, but instead you scratch to relieve the itch- both figurative and literal.

You end up tearing a few cuts open and undoing some stitches. Dirk just re-bandaged you today so he won't be doing anything for a while.

You re-wrap your arm and hope that the cuts heal a bit more by the time Dirk sees them again.

But of course they don't and the night after you're reduced to tears by the pain of your now infected cuts.

He rubs your back in soothing circles after caring for your wounds, promising you that it won't be too bad for much longer and that the pain should go away soon.

You have his arm in a vice grip (despite the tears you can see him flinching at the tightness of your hold) and try to nod. An infected cut was nothing! But if there were several on one area, that's another story.

You hiccough and lighten your grip, instead rubbing the spot that was sure to be red by now. The way his sleeve moves over his arm raises sirens in your head. Shirt-cotton catches on arm hair and would stay if you rubbed a spot. It would only move with your hand if there was something smoother underneath it. You know this from experience.

Hesitantly, you move away, tugging at the hem of Dirks shirt.

He looks at you for a moment confused, before quirking an eyebrow. "Jake you sure you're up for that tonight?"

You furrow your brows, tugging more forcefully this time hoping he'd get the message because you honestly can't move your arms much at the moment.

Dirk frowns and shakes his head, prying your hands off of his shirt and putting them in your lap. He pulls you against his chest and rests his head atop yours, and while you would enjoy the closeness, you need to see what he's done.

"Dirk take your shirt off."

"Oh my so forceful Mister English!" he says in a dramatic southern falsetto.

"Dirk, you've got bandages on your arm. I know it."

He heaves a sigh, nuzzling his face into your hair for a few seconds before replying. "It's not as bad as you think."

You struggle from his grip, ignoring the pain in all over your body. You swear you feel a few cuts opening up. Curse your skin's inability to heal quicker! "Dirk one cut is bad enough!"

"Look who's talking."

His words bring an intense ache deep into your core.

Fuck.

You're aware you messed up. He doesn't have to tell you.

Trying (but failing) to mask the hurt you feel, you cup Dirk's cheek and lean in to give him a kiss, soft and lingering. When you pull away, your eyelashes are moist and Dirk's eyes are clenched shut.

"Dirk?"

"Fuck-" he opens his eyes and looks into yours with a piercing gaze enough to make you freeze. "Jake I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that."

You smile and rest your foreheads together, stroking his face with your thumb, "I know dear."

The two of you stay like that for a long time, before you mumble, "We need to get rid of those properly and permanently."

Dirk nods in agreement. "I can take them to the shop and have Sawtooth throw them in the furnace."

"Can..." you pause, "Can I come too?"

Dirk makes a sound of surprise, "Are you sure?"

"...I think so."

Your voice is small and hesitant. You hate it so much what the fuck has even happened to you? You used to be so confident- or at least you used to look confident! What the hell happened to that Jake English?

Recovery is a thing that needs to happen. You're sure of it.

"I want to go too, Dirk." you repeat, a little louder and a little more sure.

"Okay."

After you two share another kiss Dirk helps you maneuver onto your sure under the covers before getting in himself. Once you're both situated he wraps your fingers together and places a kiss to your forehead. "It'll be okay," he whispers.

"I know."

"..."

"..."

"I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you."

"..."

"Can we go grocery shopping afterwards?"

"Yeah. You can ride in the cart if you want so your legs don't get all torn up again."

"Thank you Dirk, that sounds great."

"..."

"..."

"Goodnight Dirk, I love you."

"I love you too. "

lol ok bye