snowblindrpg | [log] After All Is Said and Done [closed]

Entry tags:

[log] After All Is Said and Done [closed]

Characters: Stephen, Claire, Angel, and Rhys
Location: Building 48
Date: Evening 201
Summary: Stephen has a ~~doctor's~~ nurse's appointment.
Warnings: Description of suture removal

48: The only doors in this single-story house are the front door and the bathroom; all other doorways are separated by faded green and yellow curtain beads. Even the bedroom gets this treatment, and it's the same for the living room and kitchen. The beads seem to be made of glass; moving through the house is a bit of a noisy affair. The bead curtain leading into the living room has been torn down, with half of the strings now scattered on the floor and some of the beads shattered, leaving a small mess of glass. The sharp bits of broken glass have been swept to one side, out of the way of anyone walking. Small, finger-sized slits have been cut into the couch. "ALPHONSE ELRIC, MAMI TOMOE, FREYA CRESCENT, GREED, EDWARD ELRIC, STEPHANIE BROWN, DAY FORTY THREE, TRAVELLING NORTH-EAST." has been written on one of the walls. "ALPHONSE ELRIC, STEPHANIE BROWN, EDWARD ELRIC, GREED, DAY SIXTY-SIX, TRAVELLING NORTH-WEST. DEAR FORMER RESIDENT, WE ARE FRIENDS, PLEASE DO NOT FEEL YOU NEED TO HIDE FROM US. CONTACT LELRIC." has been written on the walls. "ALFIE SOLOMONS, 1922. Camden Town, London, England, UK, Europe, Earth. Day 133, January 23" is carved onto a wall.

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[It's been kind of A Day, and the rush of adrenaline that is only now starting to ebb away from the lot of them hasn't helped. Claire has been feeling twitchy, her hands shaking too much to even contemplate walking up to Stephen and offering her help yet. She retreats in the bedroom for a while, fingers counting beads on her mother's rosary as she sends out prayers, the litanies and rhythm of the words slowly calming her down.

It's only when she feels a little more in control of herself that she darts back into the main room, giving herself the time to give Stephen a once-over. He's taller than she remembers him being, and that coat on him is something else, but still, seeing him in person is like a punch to the stomach, a wave of homesickness making her stomach clench.

She takes a step forward, running a hand through her hair before speaking, feeling vaguely nervous for reasons she doesn't really understand.]

Hey. Hi. Sorry about... [She gestures towards the door.] All that, really. You okay?

[Her eyes dart over his face, the stitches there, and she motions to them.]

Where d'you want to set up?

[Coming here was a mistake. Choosing to run from that thing was a mistake. He came very close to being killed -- and maybe worse, he could have fallen and smashed the microscope. He said his brief hellos once the door was barricaded again and the pounding against the door died down, but since then he's been huddled on the couch with his cloak wrapped around him and the microscope and his pack tucked in beside him. His eyes are shut when she comes back in, his breathing slow and deep.

He slips back out of his shallow meditation to open his eyes look at her, his own shakes more or less gone as well now. He offers her a tired smile as he stands and reaches for his bag.]

The kitchen should have a table; that's probably as good a place as any.

[Claire nods, turning back to her own backpack and slinging it over her shoulder before she sets off to the kitchen, not saying anything else for now. What is there to say? He almost died. They all almost died, today, and yet he came anyway.

She takes out her scissors, gloves, some cotton buds, and tweezers, setting them on the table neatly. Focusing on the task at hand is better than to think of all the death that's been resonating around them lately. It feels like it's been worse than before, or maybe it's her, learning to know more people, being impacted by more death than before, when she could compartmentalize better. She's not sure.

She pulls out a chair for Stephen with her foot, not looking away from her instruments as she inspects them for a moment. They're not as clan as she wants them to be, but if the wound is closed and mostly healed, then it should be low risk. Still, when she hears footsteps, she hums.]

Do you have anything to disinfect these? I'd rather keep the couple of antiseptic wipes I've got left for emergencies.

Actually....

[He sits, setting his own bag down at his feet and bending to unzip it. Would it have killed them to put bigger pulls on the zippers? He starts digging out supplies, starting with a bottle of hand sanitizer. It doesn't stop there, though.]

I brought presents.

[He'll make his own neat arrangement on the other side of the table:
Surgical gloves
IV bag
Anti-Itch Cream
Baby powder
Baby wipes
Cold compress
Cotton balls
Ear drops
Eye drops
Knee brace
Skin adhesive (liquid stitches)
Syringe (with needle)
Stethoscope
Petroleum jelly
Bupropion (150 mg tablets, 3/4 of a bottle)
Bandages]

[Claire's eyes widen at the amount of stuff Stephen pulls on the table, and she leans on a hand, going through everything with her eyes, without touching any of it.]

If it wasn't wildly inappropriate, I'd say I'm turned on right now. What can you afford to be without? I don't want to put you out, but I'd definitely have uses for plenty of these.

[Stephen grins, all but preening. He'll take this moment, even if he's really only passing these things along from House.]

This is what I can afford to be without. I'm doubled up on stethoscopes and itch cream, and I was planning to hang on to the antibiotics and whatever hand sanitizer you don't use.

[The joy fades as he holds up one of his hands to show her.]

I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not much use with my hands. You can actually use all of this.

[Claire takes a hold of the hand, taking a closer look at his scars, wincing.]

I'm sorry. Makes being a surgeon difficult, I imagine.

[Letting go, she turns back to everything on the table.]

I've got most of a suturing kit but I'm definitely lacking in ointments and clean-up stuff. This is great, Stephen. It'll be very useful. I've got disinfectant, though, if you need to keep the hand sanitizer.

[Turning back to him, she holds her tablet up to be able to illuminate his face and the stitches there.]

What would also be great would be a pen light. These look good. Who closed you up?

[He has to laugh at that, even if it's just a half-hearted huff of amusement.]

Yeah, just a little difficult.

[He pushes down the thought that it would have been pretty easy to get House's pen light off him -- like hell is he going down that road. His hands go to his collar to start unfastening his shirt.]

Doctor Palmer does good work. I'm also going to need your help with the sutures on my chest -- puncture wound, looks to be healing pretty well.

[The name is familiar. So, this happened before he came here, good to know that he didn't get into a scuffle a hot minute after he landed in town. She takes a look down at the wound on his chest, lowering her tablet a little to get a better light on it, then hums.]

You look like you've had a fun few days, here...

I had a disagreement with a very bad man.

[He got his ass kicked, more or less.]

Oh yeah? I know that story all too well. I have a friend that likes to do that, too.

[She brings up a chair, sitting in front of him and holding out the tablet for him.]

Okay, hold the tablet while I get those out.

Do you?

[Color him curious. Stephen braces his elbow on the table to make it easier to hold the tablet steady, doing his best not to put his arm in her way.]

Anyone I'd know?

[Claire starts on the sutures, pulling at the threads and cutting them off with practiced ease. She shakes her head.]

Doubt it.

[He's most probably heard of the Daredevil, but Claire isn't going to go ahead and tell him that she knows him - in any shape or form. Natasha might have known him - a version of him, anyway, but not the Matt that Claire knew, not the Matt that lived in hers and Stephen's world. They are different people with different stories, and on the off-chance that they actually might make it home, she needs to preserve Matt's anonymity.]

What kind of bad man did you disagree with? It wasn't - Fisk, was it?

[He frowns, not immediately connecting the name with the news stories in which he's heard it.]

Fisk? Fisk who?

Wilson Fisk.

[She keeps working, wondering what it means if Stephen has never heard of him. She can't tell if it's good or bad news.]

[Stephen's eyebrows climb as the name finally rings a bell.]

You're asking if I got in a fight with a businessman who was picked up for racketeering a few years ago?

[Claire's stomach drops, and she stops moving entirely, scissors just a breath away from his skin. She looks up at Stephen, her heart picking up in speed.]

Do you know who prosecuted him?

[She can only hope that he sees just how important this is to her - if Stephen has any idea, if... Oh, she'd completely forgotten he was from her future.]

[He frowns back, not having expected this level of investment.]

It hadn't gone to trial yet when I left New York. It was a big deal, there was a whole slew of arrests after some cop who'd been on his payroll came clean. His lawyers were....

[He squints, trying to remember. It had been weird, and it had been big news in Manhattan, but it hadn't concerned him personally.]

Little lawfirm, nobodies before that. I take it you have a lawyer friend you think would've been tied up in it?

Edited 2017-02-10 17:20 (UTC)

[Claire ducks her head, forcing her heartbeat to slow down. She's not going to say his name, give Stephen knowledge that he could retain when they go home. She has to keep Matt safe, even here.]

Yeah, something like that. He would have liked to be the one to bring Fisk down, I think.

[Because of all the guilt, and thinking he's the one that has to save Hell's Kitchen. What an idiot. With a small grunt of frustration that she can't help, Claire gets back to work, finishing to take out the stitches on Stephen's face.]

Sorry. It's weird to think we're from the same place, but you've seen more of it than I.

It does raise a few questions. Taking people from across different dimensions is one thing, but taking two people from different times in the same world? Shouldn't be possible.

What if you tell me something that breaks the space-time continuum?

[She's joking, looking up at him with a smirk, but it's still, maybe, a possibility? And it's terribly scary.]

I don't know.

[His voice is somber in reply. Could they fracture time? It should already be fractured by the very fact that they're here to have this conversation with one another. At least, assuming they're each going to go back to when they came from.

He forces himself to brighten.]

The good news is I don't think we can break it any worse than it already is.

I wonder... if we do go home, and I go back to my place in time but remembers this. I could find you. But you'd know already if that had happened, right? Or would it be creating two different timelines?

[It's way beyond her reach, this kind of thinking. She's smart, yes, but she's not a physicist. This is... time travel.]

I'm probably not making sense. [She shakes her head, looking back down. She gets back to getting his stitches off. She should have been done already.]

No, it -- you're making sense. If you told me what was going to happen to me....

[He'd think she was absolutely nuts, actually. But if she got through to him somehow, if he was a little more careful on the road that night, his absence in the struggle against Dormammu and his followers could end the world.]

If we get back to when we came from, you can't tell me anything.

[She nods, solemnly. This is no joke, and she wouldn't want to fuck around time and space. That's... more his thing, apparently.]

And I guess you should probably tell me as little as possible about what changed, in between our two times.

[He lets out a sigh, but nods -- or rather, starts to nod and then very quickly aborts the movement at the first tug on his stitches.]

2015 and before only. Scout's honor.

[She tsks, but smiles.]

Stop moving. I don't want to break your face.

Yes'm.

[Following the nod with a wince probably didn't help things.]

[She gets back to work, making quick work of his face stitches. When she's done, she brushes a thumb against the barely visible scar, nodding.]

All good. Looks like it healed fine.

Like I said, Doctor Palmer does good work.

[That's why he'd demanded her help specifically. No other reason, of course.]

The chest wound went deeper, but I haven't noticed any signs of complications.

[She inspects the second set of stitches, moving his hand holding the tablet for a better light.]

Well it certainly doesn't look infected or anything. Good. Shall I remove the stitches now?

[Ah, good, he's been promoted to exam light stand. Stephen braces his arm against the table in the new position, trying not to let the tablet shake too much to be helpful.]

Please.

[She immediately gets to work, not wanting him to have to hold the light for longer than necessary - it has to be uncomfortable for anyone, but it's the only way she can actually see what she's doing.]

So, you got this before you got here. But how have you been faring, here?

Well, John punched me because he thought I was Sherlock.

[There's no malice in his voice. In hindsight he thinks it's kind of funny.]

Other than that I'd say I've gotten off easy.

He - why did he think you were Sherlock? How? They're best friends!

[That makes no sense to her. But she has never seen Sherlock's face.]

Oh -- oh, you haven't seen him, have you?

[That makes sense; Stephen hadn't seen Sherlock's face for himself for days after he'd first heard about the resemblance.]

He looks like me. He looks a lot like me.

Huh, no, I haven't. He does? Odd.

[Thinking of it, she's never really spent any time thinking of what Sherlock might look like. It was like he was a character in her head, with the herringbone hat and the pipe, an absolute cliché. But apparently, she would be wrong.]

That's very, very weird, actually. How is that possible? I guess... we have doppelgangers, in these different universes?

Quite possibly. Could just be we come from two versions of more or less the same family, genetically speaking.

[It's fine, there's no need to have an existential crisis.]

Hmm.

[She focuses again on his stitches, wondering about the fact that he and Sherlock have the same face. It's definitely weird, especially considering how different they are.

This place. This place is the strangest.]

Does it bother you? That you look alike?

I don't think it bothers me any more than him and Doctor Watson being fictional in our world.

[Or vice versa, but he's not sure if Claire has heard about that and "they think our world is a bunch of comic books" is a lot to lay on someone.]

[She hums.]

Yeah, that's fair. You know, the more I learn about this place, and the lot of us being sent here, the less I think it makes any sense. I expect some kind of Deus Ex Machina. Maybe it's the same as Lost.

What, so we're all in purgatory?

[He says it as a joke, but he's only half joking as he gives a thoughtful little frown and a wag of his head.]

I'm not going to rule anything out.

Is it that impossible? I feel like... I mean. Nothing makes sense here. So why not, you know?

We're almost certainly not in our home dimension, I'll give you that.

[Purgatory's probably another dimension, right? If it exists.]

[She sighs, and then finally pulls away.

It feels like talking in circles, wondering where they are and why they're here. They're no closer to an answer and it frustrates her to no end.]

There. All done, Stephen.

[Stephen sets down the tablet as soon as she's done, raising one hand to run his fingers over the healed wound.]

Thank you.

[And he'll just get his shirt done back up now, because it is cold as balls in here.]

No problem. Glad I could help.

[She puts her instruments down, smiling to herself.]

So where are you headed next?

The school. I need to resupply and I'd like to eat something other than potato chips in the coming week.

What about you three?

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[log] After All Is Said and Done [closed]

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