[log] I JUST DIIIIIED IN YOUR ARMS TONIIIIIIGHT [closed]

[devoutish]

Characters: Alfie Solomons, Emily Kaldwin, Fiona, Royce Melborn
Location building 41
Date: evening of 157 through morning of 158
Summary: Alfie bleeds to death in the blood house, for maximum Snowhell fun
Warnings: graphic injury, death and dying

Step into the only remaining room in this house and you'll be in for a shock--at first blush, it looks like you've stepped into a room that has blood all over the floor and walls. Look closer, though, and it's actually paint. This was once an artist's studio, judging by the canvases stacked up in the corner. It seems like there were paintings on the canvases once, but now they're muddy or blacked out entirely by thick paint. Some of the paint on the walls has been scraped away, revealing yet more paint. Some of the canvases have had their paint scraped off, or have been taken apart entirely.

Comments

[plundering]

[Fiona settles down next to him at some point, after every other option has been exhausted. She sits beside him with her knees drawn up to her chest, and she stays strangely quiet. She isn't squeamish in any sense of the word, but there's a lot of blood, and knowing what it means—that he's dying, there's no way around it—makes it hard to look at. There's an ache in her chest and in her throat, and she lets out a soft, shaky breath, reaching out to smooth the hair away from his forehead.]

Alfie?

[devoutish]

[By now the wound has been wrapped as well as it can be, and he holds a hand over it, pressing down - not nearly hard enough to make any difference, especially in his weakened state, but it gives him the illusion of doing something, and he decides to allow himself that.

He doesn't open his eyes when Fiona comes back over, but he turns his head in her direction.]

Water?

[plundering]

[Fiona has her bag next to her, full of a bunch of useless things they could probably use as bandages, not that it matters at this point. Even if they could stop the bleeding, they can't fix the damage. Not even John could help at this point, and she's fully aware they're just waiting for the inevitable now. She's trying very, very hard not to think about it. Not to panic.

She digs in her backpack for a water bottle and uncaps the top.]

Think you can sit up a little if I help you?

[devoutish]

[It's not an idea that he likes the sound of much - it'll hurt more. But it's not likely to make his injuries worse, so he gives a small nod.]

Shouldn't be wasting the water, but--

[He's so thirsty.]

Just a small sip.

[plundering]

Shut up, Alfie. You're not wasting it.

[It comes out a little sharper than she'd intended, and she frowns, scooting over to help him up. She does it as slowly as she can, but there's no way she can avoid hurting him, not with that wound. As soon as she's got him propped up a bit, she tilts the water bottle to his mouth, biting her lip as she does it.]

[devoutish]

[He hisses loudly when she starts to move him up, but nods again, letting her know it's okay to keep going. He's grateful for the water, and does drink more than just a sip or two before pulling away with a sigh.]

Thanks. Down again?

[plundering]

[She lets him down again, wincing when he hisses and setting aside the water bottle.]

Still okay?

[She should be saying something more than this, she knows. He's going to die and he might not come back, she just... she doesn't know what. She doesn't know if any of the crap in her head is even worth voicing.]

[devoutish]

[His lips twist into a wry smile at the question, because... nope. He is definitely not okay.]

[plundering]

[God. Fiona hesitates, leans down to press her lips against his, soft and brief, and then pulls back just slightly.]

Shit, Alfie. [She says quietly, just above a whisper.] I'm sorry.

[devoutish]

[He catches her hand and holds it.]

Teach me to go sprinting up the stairs.

[It's an exaggeration - he'd been going at a fast walk - but he knows she deals with things by being flippant. He's not going to sit here and crack jokes, but he can still give her a little bit of that.]

[plundering]

[It's obvious what he's doing, and she appreciates it, but she can't manage to force a smile. She lets out a shaky breath, tangling her fingers with his and squeezing tight. For one awful second she thinks she might start crying again, but she swallows hard and the moment passes, at least for now, and she just rests her forehead against his.]

You have to come back. I still need to steal your bracelets.

[devoutish]

[It's nice, having her close. It helps, even if it doesn't really do anything. He gives her another quick peck on the lips, then threads his fingers into her hair.]

You already did steal one of them.

[plundering]

You said it didn't count.

[She doesn't know if this is helping him, but she doesn't really know what else to do.]

[devoutish]

[He shakes his wrist, trying to slide one of the bracelets off.]

Keep it for me until I get back, then.

[plundering]

[Fiona pulls back a bit, frowning, and hesitates before she helps him pull the bracelet off.]

Are you sure?

[devoutish]

Mm. But don't think you're getting away with keeping it forever.

[He nudges her.]

No pawning it.

[plundering]

[Fiona laughs a little, but it's weak and forced. She slips the bracelet onto her own wrist and then takes his hand again immediately.]

Never.

[devoutish]

[He glances down at the bracelet on her wrist, eyes a little unfocused.]

It's big on you. Looks nice, though; yeah.

[plundering]

Told you. Gold is my color.

[She brushes her fingers through his hair again, teeth worrying at her bottom lip.]

I'll take care of Emily.

[devoutish]

Poor kid. Shouldn't be seeing this.

Duster will take care of her, too. I know what you think of him, but he is good with her.

[plundering]

Yeah. I bet you wouldn't put up with it if he wasn't.

[devoutish]

I'd give him a smack, is what I'd do.

[He presses his forehead a little harder into hers.]

Fucking hell, a bit of wood. We're gonna have to tell everyone it was an anomaly. I died valiantly.

[plundering]

[Fiona closes her eyes, soaking in the contact.]

I'll come up with something. Something good.

[devoutish]

[He lowers his voice to a whisper, partly because he's tired and partly because she's so close that he doesn't need to talk any louder.]

Spread it around on the obituary. Give me something to look at when I'm back.

[plundering]

[This is an awkward position to be in, curled over him, and her ribs and shoulder are both starting to ache, but she doesn't dare move away. She can't bring herself to.]

Sure. Any requests?