A/N: Hey, everybody - so sorry for another late chapter. If you didn't see my announcement last week, over the course of the last three weeks, I've been extremely sick (very stubborn chest cold) and ended up being hospitalized for a kidney stone. I'm feeling much better now even if I'm not completely 100% there in terms of my health. Because of that, though, this chapter will be a bit shorter than normal. Just wanted to keep you guys updated!

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Trigger Warning: accidental self harm, brief mention of suicide

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Note: This deleted scene happens in between "Instinctual Development" and "Bad Timing". It follows Marshall as he comes to after being bitten by Red Eyes and is forced to ride out the debilitating effects of her potent venom.

I've thought about this a lot since "Instinctual Development" came out—like, the mental, physical, and emotional hurdles Marshall would have to get through after having to (pretty much) relive what it's like to be turned. How, as someone who depends on having control, Marshall would feel while having to remain helpless in an unstoppable agony he physically can't suppress.

This might read a bit like a character study, so it's going to be rather brutal. Viewer discretion is advised.

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"Going from human to vampire- that's a type of pain I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy."

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Before falling unconscious, Marshall thought the horrible burn radiating through his upper body was at its peak. Since a ferocious sting remained constant when moving from his bicep outward, he figured the pain itself wouldn't change in any degree. It would make a temporary home in his body, yes, but his discomfort wouldn't escalate further. If anything, the sensation would be more a nuisance than something to worry about.

At least, that's what he'd hoped.

Upon slipping back into the world in a hazy fog, however, with Red Eyes' venom having forged a path through Marshall's entire system—crawling and worming its way into the tiniest of nooks and crannies within him— he couldn't help but wonder.

Was this what death felt like?

Was this how he felt without the coverage of fractured memories blanketing him from harsh clarity after being bitten for the very first time all those years ago?

If so, a dark part of Marshall was thankful he was too out of it to fully grasp his situation.

Granted, his body was facing enough torment to force guttural moans and shallow breaths out of him. But he knew his shock-induced mental fog was helping to blind him to a certain extent. Not enough to be of substantial aid; just enough to keep him from passing out again.

Still, it was this metaphorical curtain of murkiness draped over him which kept Marshall from being able to clearly perceive his surroundings.

He didn't know where he was or who he was with. He figured he was in someone's house since the prickly, scratchiness of grass blades rubbing along his skin was no longer present. Instead, the feeling had been swapped for something soft and warm. Something with a strong fragrance of dog, and slightly of apples, attached to it. 

The scent actually reminded Marshall of a domestic warmth. An aroma he could tie a blurred perception of comfort to.

Unfortunately, he couldn't focus on those details.

His attention was trapped, held hostage against its will, as foreign matter belonging to a deceased opponent was still creeping its way along his insides.

The unhinged, unforgiving sensation—coupled with a brutal realization of there being no end to his pain within the near future—was violating. 

Ever since he was killed and brought back to life as a vampire, Marshall made it a habit to always ensure he was in control of his own body. When it came to the type of blood he drank; when it came to the way he presented himself; when it came to the company he kept; when it came to choosing sexual partners—it didn't matter how small or minute the degree was. If Marshall was involved with anyone or anything, it was because he made the decision to be a willing participant.

There were times he couldn't control certain things, of course; like his struggles with mental illness or the way he reacted to his family members. As was life for anyone capable of drawing breath.

But the degrading sense of helplessness he was going through at the moment hadn't been experienced in decades.

Marshall was the one who called the shots. Marshall was the one to start and stop things when he felt like it. Marshall was supposed to be the captain of his ship; the pilot of his plane. The one to get the final say.

His own body couldn't comprehend that right now, though.

So he had no other choice but to remain a shackled prisoner in a shell he desperately wanted to get out of.

A shell which continued to make him suffer no matter how much he begged for it to stop.

Was this the universe's way of getting back at him for something? For all the anguish, corruption, and humiliation he forced onto others he viewed as a waste of his time? Or was this some strange form of divine intervention to shun him for helping someone he cared about? For saving someone's life rather than letting nature take its course the way he normally allowed?

Marshall couldn't say for sure.

Jumbled, frenzied thoughts screamed at him without fail. They promised to end his torture if he got rid of the agonizing source causing it. They promised a euphoric peace if he freed himself of a body no longer serving its purpose. They promised glorious relief if he did what was necessary to force the venom out, out, out.

He knew what that meant. He knew what those voices were really asking him to do.

But they promised to help him...

Such an uncommon, sorely craved practice...

One that, while writhing and tossing and wailing, caused Marshall's mind to collapse into a frazzled heap and urged him to concede.

He was too scared to realize he was dragging his nails along his arms and face with enough ferocity to leave gashes. He didn't even register the additional pain being inflicted by his own hands.

No—the siren's call leading him to a falsified safe haven was too essential to be disregarded.

It was too much of a heavy weight for him to swim away freely.

Trapped in his affliction, Marshall continued to drown. Sharp claws dug into his muscles without mercy. He was dragged deeper and deeper and deeper into an ocean of suffocating darkness until-

Until hands with a temperature akin to searing flames took hold of his arms.

A new voice called out to him. It was slightly deeper and more gravely than his own. But it was also sweet. Kind. Gentle and honest. The sound was melodic in nature; and whoever was speaking did so in a quiet manner.

They didn't vow to bring release for a bargain. There were no sweet lies disguised as accessible remedies for the sake of assuring temporary relief.

No...the voice was actually rather timid. It sounded...frightened. Uncertain as well.

The most astounding fact, however, was the corporeal nature of the sound. It was there. Solid. Like a raft in the middle of a desolate sea.

And unlike Marshall's screeching thoughts, the voice calling out to him belonged to someone else.

"-lease stop, Honey Bun. You're going to make it worse-"

Honey Bun...

Honey Bun..?

Oh...

Marshall wanted to reach out and hold the hands trying to soothe him. Instead, he pushed them away.

His face was hidden when pulling himself into a tight ball on his side. "Please- please no. It's too- you're too warm right now. Please don't touch me..."

Paul's dejection was evident in the way his face fell. Conflict was present too, shown via trembling fingers clenching and unclenching out of desire to try and help coupled with uncertainty of how to do so.

His actions made Marshall feel guilty.

He knew seeing him in his current state was a terrifying ordeal to witness. He knew, while covered in his own healing yet still menacing wounds, it was most likely acknowledged, from an outside perspective, that he was actively trying to stop his pain by killing himself. He knew his gestures—chest rising and falling with fast breaths, teeth grinding together, hands fisting the sheets, head burrowing closer into the mattress—shouted, pleaded for assistance.

But he wasn't in a healthy or lucid enough state to actually receive any.

Marshall sobbed.

In an open, unfiltered manner.

Fresh tears felt like hot whip strikes when falling down his cheeks.

Encompassing loneliness took over him as quick steps darted out of the room.

No- no, no, no-

He didn't want Paul to leave. Marshall didn't want to go through this by himself. If he couldn't be touched, he at least wanted to have his most trusted person by his side—just to feel his presence. Just to know there was a shred of light to guide his way back home. Back to a sense of normality.

He didn't want to lose his last fragment of sanity.

No.

Not again.

Marshall didn't want to be abandoned.

Never again-

"I've got you, baby. You're okay. Don't worry, I'm here."

It took everything in Marshall to not scurry away when he was grabbed again. He was caught off guard as fingers lightly running along his back felt cold to touch. Same with the connected hands, wrists, and arms. Only when pushing himself to look upward did he realize what was going on.

Paul hadn't left because he wanted to desert his lover.

Paul left to grab a few articles of clothing—a zipped up leather jacket and gloves to match—because the material was thick enough to insulate his naturally high temperature.

Regardless of how his body moved or shifted, his warmth didn't transfer.

Marshall sprang forward, clinging to his boyfriend's torso and nuzzling against his chest.

Golden eyes screwed shut in response to a rather severe bout of pain.

The heart-wrenching cry that followed was full of hurt and alleviation.

Paul held Marshall like he was a precious gem. Large fingers wove through dark, knotted strands of black hair to massage his scalp. Delicate passes ran along the length of his spine and caressed his shoulder blades. Sweet words meant to bring reprieve were whispered into his ear—simply to prove he wasn't alone in his time of need.

Marshall was still in immense agony.

He still felt like he was knocking on death's door.

But Paul...he was the reminder Marshall wanted to know he would, and could, get past this.

A reminder that he would be okay. And he would live.

He would live.