They only get one or two steps into the clearing, maybe not even that many. Corrigan isn't sure how he makes it to the treeline so fast, only that he does -- maybe he flies there, maybe he just reappears closer through sheer force of will, who knows. All he's conscious of is those wide, haunted, gorgeous eyes locking with his, their chapped lips calling for him, forming the title he'd all but abandoned after losing them.
And then he's there, he's scooping them up without thinking, without pausing, not caring about the grime or the blood or their shorn hair and hollow cheeks. He softens his grip only so he won't crush the baby (another miracle, something Corrigan's mind can't even take in yet, even as his instincts are singing with joy and delight, thrumming messages of love and welcome and pure happiness towards the tiny bundle between them). He cradles Kurt against his own diminished form, feeling how fragile they are, smelling layers of blood -- their own, Miles, an unfamiliar human's -- and beneath it smelling them, just as they were the day he lost them.
Corrigan might be weeping. He might be laughing. He might be both, it's hard to really tell with his face pressed to Kurt's neck, feeling the bandages against his cheek, smelling the old blood, the new flesh that had knit over the wounds there -- a horror that part of him wants to recoil from, the notion that Miles had stolen even the physical reminder of the pack's link with their mate. But later, all of it later, every nightmarish moment, ever monstrous act. Now Kurt is alive and warm and soft in his arms, fitting there perfectly, beautifully, like they'd never been gone.
"Kurt, Kurt, you're here, you're here," Corrigan repeats it over and over, the joy of it singing through every fiber of his being, singing in the link, and he can feel the disbelief and wonder and hope of his pack like an echo in the back of his mind. Nothing exists except Kurt, though, except their bright, teary eyes, their soft cheek beneath his palm when Corrigan finally pulls back, presses their foreheads together and breathes them in. "You're home."
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And then he's there, he's scooping them up without thinking, without pausing, not caring about the grime or the blood or their shorn hair and hollow cheeks. He softens his grip only so he won't crush the baby (another miracle, something Corrigan's mind can't even take in yet, even as his instincts are singing with joy and delight, thrumming messages of love and welcome and pure happiness towards the tiny bundle between them). He cradles Kurt against his own diminished form, feeling how fragile they are, smelling layers of blood -- their own, Miles, an unfamiliar human's -- and beneath it smelling them, just as they were the day he lost them.
Corrigan might be weeping. He might be laughing. He might be both, it's hard to really tell with his face pressed to Kurt's neck, feeling the bandages against his cheek, smelling the old blood, the new flesh that had knit over the wounds there -- a horror that part of him wants to recoil from, the notion that Miles had stolen even the physical reminder of the pack's link with their mate. But later, all of it later, every nightmarish moment, ever monstrous act. Now Kurt is alive and warm and soft in his arms, fitting there perfectly, beautifully, like they'd never been gone.
"Kurt, Kurt, you're here, you're here," Corrigan repeats it over and over, the joy of it singing through every fiber of his being, singing in the link, and he can feel the disbelief and wonder and hope of his pack like an echo in the back of his mind. Nothing exists except Kurt, though, except their bright, teary eyes, their soft cheek beneath his palm when Corrigan finally pulls back, presses their foreheads together and breathes them in. "You're home."