snowblindrpg | [log] It is colder now... [closed]

Entry tags:

[log] It is colder now... [closed]

Characters: Ink!Rhys, Wilson, and Ecks
Location: Building 97
Date: Night of 313 into Day 314/315 (Event)
Summary: On their way to the library...or not
Warnings: Various illness warnings, plus cursing.

97: A standard two-story house with an attic. The first floor has a kitchen, living room, and dining room, while the second floor has two bedrooms and a bathroom. The attic's roof has collapsed and can't be accessed at night. During the night, footsteps can be heard in the attic. "@winston, third day. Someone is in the attic." is written on the wall in pink gel pen. "ALPHONSE ELRIC, STEPHANIE BROWN, FREYA CRESCENT, GREED, EDWARD ELRIC, BIFF, RHYS, DAY FIFTY, TRAVELLING SOUTH-EAST" is carved into the wall. "SHEENA FUJIBAYASHI, ZELOS WILDER, DAY 058, HEADING NORTH" is written on the wall. "ALPHONSE ELRIC, DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY NINE, FOR ANY HELP OR ASSISTANCE PLEASE CONTACT @LELRIC" is written on the wall.

Rhys had pushed hard to get through the tunnels, mainly because he still wasn't comfortable in those close, dark spaces that he wasn't familiar with. The risk of getting lost, or stranded, or attacked down there had been far more menacing to him than the stress of traveling through the night.

The pace had been a little more relaxed once they'd come up in more familiar territory. A stop and rest to search the suspicious bomb house, then settling into the next house that looked habitable to beat lockdown. Because this was just a leisurely exploration, and totally not a mission to commit arson, right?

Which, of course, will be foiled on the morning of 314, when, upon opening the door, the wall of deadly frigid air and snow results in a quickly slammed door and a return to as much warmth as possible. No more travel today, apparently.

...which is good, because they are probably not feeling that well anyway...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It starts with a cough.

It's not strange for the cold, dry air to leave a tickle in Rhys's throat, and he's used to constantly reaching for sips of water or tea over the course of the night to chase the cough away. He does it several times, in fact, over the course of the morning, before he decides that it's not going to let him sleep anymore and opts for sitting up and browsing on his tablet for a while instead.

Still coughing. But another hour, and it's no longer just a tickle: it's a harsh cough, hacking, and leaves him hoarse. Restless shifting, as aching bones make it uncomfortable to sit up or lay down.

He might be coming down with something. Drinks a little more tea. Tries to lay down a little more. Then to walk around. Lays down again, when the walking leaves him winded.

Then comes the blood. The cough gets worse, bringing up both fresh bright and old dark red. By afternoon, he's doubled over with it, and his voice is almost completely gone, from his normal light tenor to a raw whiskey-and-three-packs scrape. It comes with a fever, and mild disorientation, though he's more than lucid enough to realize that something is very, very wrong.

Fuck this place. Fuck it sideways.

"Rhys?" Wilson's voice sounds raspy and rough, thanks to the frequent coughs he's also experiencing, but checking in with him is important. Never mind that to get to where Rhys is required a lot of holding onto walls or anything that would help him stand. The room seems to be spinning even while he's standing still, but he has to see how Rhys is doing.

Judging from his own coughs, Wilson would classify it as not well. "Something's wrong." Well, that's not very enlightening, so he adds, "How are you feeling?" He thinks he knows the answer, but again, checking in.

Were they all getting sick from the same thing? Something in the air?

Rhys is moving, though he's not doing well at it. When he sees how bad Wilson looks, his first reaction is to get up, wait for the room to stop spinning and the pain to pass, and then to get to the other man and help him into the pile of blankets and sleeping bag that is Rhys's bed.

He's only been sweating a little. It's still plenty warm and mostly clean due to diligent airing. More importantly, it gets Wilson off his feet before he falls over.

"You look like shit," he observes in that rusty creak. "Something gone wrong again. Nanites. Or in the air. Or something." There's a pile of used toilet paper in the corner that's spotted...way too liberally...with blood to illustrate that. "Think I got pneumonia. Maybe something worse."

Rhys tumbles down onto the bed next to the doctor, just to catch his breath. Just for a minute. The cough comes in wracking fits, deep and hoarse, and then passes. It's not a pneumonia cough, though there's a hint of wetness at the end. When it passes, Rhys stays frozen for another few seconds, body stiff as he waits for the pain to pass and to be able to breathe again.

"...you?"

Unless suddenly cancer had become an airborne disease, Wilson's ruling out it being the air. Well, there's still the possibility of the air being infected with multiple diseases, but- that's a little difficult to wrap his head around. Everyone appears to be sick with something, and there don't seem to be very many common factors. No, he doubts it's the air.

Still, he's having difficulty forming coherent thoughts relating to diagnosing people, and it's not helping his headache either. When Rhys comes over to help, he tries not to lean too much against him. He's fine, of course; this dizziness and difficulty standing is nothing. At least that's what he keeps telling himself. But when he reaches the bed, he can't pretend it doesn't feel good to just lie there and not move any more than is necessary.

"Yeah. I know. Sorry you have to see this." It's not what he wanted anyone to see, let alone Rhys. "It's messed up that they're doing this to us." And messed up what they've given him. "Pneumonia? I'm sorry, if I felt more up to it, I'd try prescribing you something to help with that."

A fine sight they make, both lying on the bed, both coughing like they're going to spit up their lungs. Rhys's wet cough gets him a look. That, combined with the blood on the toilet paper, puts two and two together. "Bloody cough, huh? Well, that makes two of us."

He pauses to cough a few times, frowning at the metallic taste in his mouth. "I never mentioned it because I didn't want a lot of people knowing, but back at home, I have cancer. Terminal." Someone must really have a messed up sense of humor to be doing this to him now.

Rhys fumbles for one of the bottles of juice that he's been doling out carefully, and passes it to Wilson. It's half-mixed with water to make it last, but it's still good. Important fluids, electrolytes. If they can keep it down.

"Fuck," he says, giving Wilson a long look at the announcement. There's a moment to process in silence, because what do you say to that? He could ask if House knows, but that's not his business. This is a secret Wilson chose to share with him, and that...kind of means something, awful as it is.

He could say that in Rhys's world, he could find a cure. It would cost, but there are ways. But that would be needless, cruel. Unless he had a way to get his magic back here, it's too bitter a pill to even mention.

There really isn't a lot to say to that, is there?

"Devil and the deep blue sea, man." He reaches over to gently lay a hand on Wilson's back, light enough not to disturb the man in his pain. He looks back at the bloody toilet paper, and is silent for a long moment. "This place...fuck. I don't know." He sighs, a hard rasp.

His cough isn't pneumonia, he knows that. And there's a bitter laugh behind it, bottled up along with years of quiet thoughts that he deserves this but Wilson doesn't. "I couldn't get sick at home. Sure as hell making up for it here." He pauses. "Paying for a lot of bad decisions that I should've, I guess. I can deal with that. But it's shit when it just...happens."

It takes a moment for the coughing to subside, and if Rhys is looking closely, there's now flecks of blood on Wilson's hands, which he surreptitiously tries to wipe off before they can be noticed. He accepts the bottle of juice, but doesn't open it just yet. The lingering taste of blood makes the idea of eating or drinking anything a little distasteful.

"It's funny, isn't it? The oncologist getting cancer. I said it once to House, but it's like the universe is just giving me the big middle finger." That was to the House he knows, not the one who's here presently. For him, Wilson having cancer isn't a reality yet. Well, it is, because he told him, but he's still on a different timeline than he is.

He breaks off there with a sharp inhale of air as the pain in his chest worsens, making him feel like he's being stabbed repeatedly. "Don't get cancer if you can help it, all right?" He laughs dryly, but it comes out sounding more like a wheeze. It's not funny, but trying to go for the sardonic humor is better than the alternative.

"Why couldn't you get sick at home?"

Of course there's blood. They're both dying. How far the town will let them get is up for debate, but there's no questioning the sickness inside them now. Even though Rhys can't see it now, he knows what it looks like, poisonous black and purple fruit on malignant vines, weaving through whatever organs it can spread through, gathered up in wicked bunches.

"Best advice I've gotten today," he returns solemnly. "Also add 'don't smoke meth' to that list. Probably a bunch of other things, too." A lot of things...well honestly, he probably would have done them anyway, warnings or not. View of the future or not.

The coughing has stopped for now, but the pain hasn't. It wears on him like millstones, grinding down every bone. He puts his head down, because it's just that tiny bit easier to tolerate when he's not moving.

"Y'know how the world I come from is full of weird magic shit?" He gives a crooked, worn-out smile, tail dangling limply over the edge of the bed like a dead snake. "Well, I'm one of 'em."

It's especially galling, because as a doctor, treating people is what he does. But he's just as helpless as anyone, and no amount of wishing things were different will change that.

"It's not really useful advice, but- I'm still offering it anyway." He hopes Rhys has a long and mostly healthy life ahead of him, with this place being the exception.

While Rhys is talking, he shifts positions on the bed, trying to find something that's comfortable. Nothing really is, not right now, but he rolls over anyway, before propping his chin up on one hand. "So, you're immune to disease," he replies, still mulling this over a little. "Is that the extent of it, or are you immortal too?" It's a question he can't believe he's asking, but his horizons have been broadened a bit since coming here.

Rhys huffs a slight laugh. "I tested that a few times, m'definitely not immortal. I age pretty, but that's most of it." He's thirty-three and looks in his late twenties, though Norfinbury life has put some extra wear on him. It's a nice little perk, but nothing startling.

"Most things in my world can die, even if they don't age. If it's got a body, there's probably some way to kill it. S'like a dragon. You might not be able to do it, but there's a way."

He doesn't mean to chatter on about his life and his world, but on the other hand, it's a distraction. It's something to think about besides why they're both laid the fuck out. So he'll keep talking, because it's something.

"I heal better then normal, but it's slow. Takes a couple years for a scar to vanish. Broken bones heal in a few weeks instead of months. That kinda thing. I still lose a fight with a plumbing van." He shrugs, even though the grinding ache down his back and shoulders makes the gesture feel like a bad idea, gives a crooked smile even more crooked by the fact he's laying sideways.

"Don't know what I am, though, so I just mostly have been learning by trial and error. Mostly error."

"What most of us wouldn't give to 'age pretty'." Wilson laughs dryly, because it's just a fact of life that there are people out there who would give an arm and a leg to stay looking young for as long as possible. "Too bad you can't bottle that up and sell it. You'd make a fortune in no time."

"Are you in the habit of killing dragons?"

It's said in jest, but he figures that Rhys isn't pulling his leg with all this talk about dragons and aging pretty and immortality. It's a lot for his own brain to consider, since things don't work that way in his world, but- open mind, and all that.

"The more you talk, the more you're making me jealous. Healing faster than normal? I wouldn't mind having that ability. And right now, that would be really nice." He feels like death warmed over, so yes, in this situation, an ability like Rhys's would be much appreciated. Still, it doesn't appear to be doing him much good right now, since as far as he knows, people's special abilities don't quite work the way they should.

"Well, I've said it before, but I'm going to say it again: you're an interesting individual, Rhys."

"I could bottle it and sell it, but high price, man. Magic isn't cheap, and you don't wanna know what would go into that bottle."

Rhys could even heal Wilson of his cancer, but it would cost someone else dearly. He gives a little half-shrug. "Magic has its rules, too, like any force of nature. Equal and opposite reaction, y'know?

"And as far as I know, dragons have been extinct for pretty much forever."

Just for the record. He takes a small sip of his own juice, and curls up a little tighter for warmth. Normally, he's good with staying warm, but right now he just doesn't have the resources.

"You know, you're kinda working out to be my number one fan." He gives Wilson a small smile, a faint tease in his dark blue eyes, but thoughtful in the heavy quiet of the room.

"I really don't know anything about magic. It doesn't count as knowing things from talking to people who live with it. But I'm guessing the price you're talking about is the kind that's along the lines of life and death."

Or perhaps more than that, but again, way outside his sphere of reference. "I'm sure. I mean, in real life, you can't get something for nothing, so I'm sure it's the same with magic."

He's just going to curl up too, because suddenly, he's starting to feel the cold. Being sick doesn't help. This conversation is an excellent distraction, however. He chuckles in response to Rhys's comment. "Everyone needs a fan, don't they? Or just someone to support them." It wasn't what he expected to happen, but as far as he can tell, Rhys is a good guy with interesting stories and an interesting life. If he was going to end up being friends with anyone, he's glad it's him.

"Well, that's it exactly. Just like anything in this world, or the normal world. If you're smart, you can work it out so it doesn't hurt, doesn't kill you with debt. If you just grab the credit card and start spending? You're gonna be in a world of trouble real fast." It's the best way to draw aparallel he can think of, but it works. It's a universal constant, really. "And saving up for a rainy day is never a bad idea. Did it all the time." He jingles the charm necklace around his neck softly. Dead now, but once they'd had a purpose.

Rhys frowns slightly, and tries to creep a little closer to Wilson when he starts to shiver. There's blankets, and the sleeping bag, but that would take effort. He should get them, the blanket at least is right on top. Not even that far away, but... Moving.

He will in a minute.

"Not always sure I deserve it, but...I appreciate it." He smiles faintly. "Shitty that it's all gotta be a place like this, but on the other hand, it's...nice to have a reason to keep kicking. Some kind of direction, even if it's just groceries and not freezing. It's a lot more of an accomplishment than it was back home."

Wilson nods slowly, doing his best to keep up with Rhys's train of thought. "You seem smart, which is why you're still around, I'm guessing." He doesn't know for sure, but he's willing to bet that Rhys has crossed paths with those who weren't so smart, and because of that, they're either in over their heads, or they're not around at all. "What do those charms do?" Or what did they do, as the case may actually be.

Reason tells him that of course he's cold; they're in a cold place, but this is more than just that. It feels like the kind of cold that seeps into the bones, and while he knows it's not logically true, it feels like he won't ever be completely warm again.

"Hey, everyone deserves support." Well, maybe not the world's worst criminals, but again, he thinks that Rhys is just overall a nice guy.

It's the kind of cold that comes with sickness or being injured badly, the kind that no amount of blankets seems to help. Rhys is all too familiar with it, and he's grimly resigned to the numbness and shakes, even though he does, eventually, reach for the blanket and tug it closer for the both of them.

There's no heat, no way in hell he's going to manage to make a fire, so this is what they've got. And if he gets out the sleeping bag, he'll start sweating. This will have to do.

At Wilson's question, he smiles faintly, and reaches up to touch the charms. Some of them look old, some of them are still new silver, and they jingle softly on the steel chain. "Little bit of everything. Amethyst, that's for dispelling negative energy. Silver's for purity." He thumbs through them with the familiarity of something he's worn for many years. "The coin is Assyrian, it's brass. It's a charm against demonic possession, but works on ghosts, too." Clink, clink. Hey, exorcism is a dangerous line of work.

"And the triquetra is a Celtic symbol of threefold, and protection." He fingers the smooth-worn silver of the pendant. "It's a pretty common symbol, but most people don't realize how old it is, or how powerful the number three is in the Druidic faith. Well, a lot of faiths." He shakes his head. "The triangle is the most stable shape, you know? The strongest. Plus a lot of other things."

More than he wants to go into, right now. He brushes off another coughing fit, or tries to, but it bubbles up anyway, and he grabs for toilet paper to catch the spotting that comes up. God, he wishes his powers worked, here. It takes him a minute to settle again, but he does.

"Some of the symbols and charms, I got tattooed on myself later, but kept the pieces. Just...like having them, y'know? I don't have a lot of things, back home." He thumbs the necklace again, and a copper leaf pendant. "The leaf's simple. It's 'cause I'm a druid. Trees, y'know?" He laughs quietly. "I dunno."

It's absolutely that kind of cold, and on Wilson's part, it makes him think of the time he used House's place as a sort of base of operations for a risky and potentially lethal treatment of his own disease. Of course, they had the luxury of real heating, not like this place. The added warmth of the blanket is much appreciated, and when Rhys drags it over, he unconsciously pulls himself a few inches closer to the other man.

Sharing warmth is important under any conditions, but it's especially important now. That's what he's telling himself.

He lies there silently while Rhys tells him about each one of his charms. There's something comforting about the sound of his voice, and as miserable as he is right now, listening to him is helping him relax. When Rhys's bloody coughing starts up again, Wilson inches still closer without a second's thought. He hates this feeling of helplessness, of being able to do nothing remotely useful, and of course he knows that just being there won't solve anything or make the symptoms go away.

"How do you learn about all this? I'm sure there's more to it than just finding a handful of books on symbols, mysticism, and the properties of stones. I know that it's mostly because we travel in very different circles, but I've never encountered anyone quite like you before." And in his eyes, that makes Rhys fascinating, but also incredibly smart, at least as it pertains to the mystical.

"What does being a druid mean?"

Even when he's healthy, Rhys's insane metabolism means he runs about a degree hotter than normal. He's an excellent source of warmth, and right now, even though he doesn't feel warm, he's running a fever.

May as well take advantage of it, Wilson. He certainly doesn't mind sharing, and he just gives a wan smile as he realizes the doctor is creeping closer. Warmth is important, and so is company.

"The books are around, they're just hard to find. People's basements, weird old bookstores, tiny little libraries. And in my world, people who do magic, or know about it, they keep this stuff safe because there's so little of it." He pauses. "I've been keeping notebooks and journals, myself, trying to add to what there is. A lot of it is passed on just by stories, you know? Someone who was taught by their grandmother, or met a guy one day in a bus station or a bar. I spent almost a year in Seattle learning Russian folk magic from an old strega, and you wanna talk about an experience..."

He chuckles, a rough rasp of a sound. Then tilts his head, thinking about the latter question. It's a big one. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft, thoughtful and reverent.

"Being a druid is...keeping the earth sacred. There are deities, but it's not really about that, you know? Not to me. It's about finding magic in everything, in respecting the spirits in the trees, in the water, and the sky and the sun. Energy never dies, it always comes back. It just changes, over time, and that's kind of what it is. And the earth? That's where it all comes from." He traces a lazy pattern on the bare mattress, watching the path his finger makes. It's probably some symbol or another. "It's the first thing I ever found comfort in, spiritually. The sense that there was something bigger than me, that I could see and feel every time I stepped outside, and would always be there no matter what."

Propriety aside, Wilson intends to take full advantage of it while he has it. Things like observing the rules of proper behavior tend to fall by the wayside when in survival situations, or when deathly ill, which they both are right now.

"I wouldn't know. I enjoy a good book as much as the next person, but I don't regularly go into people's basements or what you'd consider a weird old bookstore." He smiles wanly as well, the attempt at levity tempered by how sick he feels. As Rhys launches into his explanation about being a druid, Wilson files away a question about the other man's year in Seattle learning about Russian folk magic. He may never have a chance like this again, to ask questions of someone as steeped in magic as Rhys is, so he figures he might as well get all the questions out of the way now.

"Well, if that's it at the core, that sounds like something we all could stand to believe in. I wouldn't call myself an environmentalist, but you don't have to look very far to see the effects of pollution, for example." Although he's not sure that's exactly what Rhys means when he refers to keeping the earth sacred. Still, it's fairly clear that destroying the earth would be detrimental to everyone.

"Estate sales are amazing for picking up stuff that you shouldn't have," he grins, curling a little closer into the bundle.

Also remember, Wilson, that this is Rhys and "propriety" is a very vague thing here. As long as there's warmth to be had, pretty much anything goes.

Considering the shape they're both in, though, it's all about the quiet comfort.

"Environment's part of it, yeah, though I try not to nag too much." He chuckles quietly, trying to keep it from turning into a cough and failing. It takes him a minute to continue.

"It's one of those things that encompasses everything, it makes it easy. You wanna believe in God? That's cool. You want to believe in whatever you want to believe in, like...I dunno, giant Owl Gods, that's cool too. But there's also things all around us, that have their own spirits, and it's its own belief system that doesn't piss on anyone else's, really." He tugs at the bracelets around his wrist idly. Leather, cord, and beads, with a few bits of wire and metal tied in. More of the same work as his necklace.

After a moment, he closes his eyes, and says wearily, "You're a good guy, you know that?"

For Wilson, it starts with an encroaching feeling of exhaustion that grows worse as the hours pass by. He ignores it, because who here isn't completely tired? Even sleeping isn't really a cure-all, because even when he sleeps, there's things like the cold and the constant worry about where the next shelter will be or even where the next food supply will be.

But after he finally falls into a fitful sleep and night turns into morning, upon awakening, he realizes he can't breathe properly. That's a new symptom, but again, he's not worried. At least, he isn't until the shortness of breath morphs to coughing which brings up blood.

And it's not over yet. Over the next several hours, like a bizarre parade of symptoms comes the chest pain, dizziness, and extreme headache. By mid-afternoon, Wilson is lying down because he no longer has the energy to sit up. It occurs to him to maybe check on his traveling companions, but his efforts to call out only result in more coughing.

... Great.

"Doctor Hhhhouse will know what is wrong." The sentence comes out with too much difficulty. Ecks is floor-bound as well by now, though she's deathly quiet compared to the other two. Her tablet is in reach, but she's struggled to pull her blanket back over herself since she fell and couldn't get back up.

Wilson glances over at Ecks with a sympathetic look. No one is spared from this, apparently, not even her. It also doesn't make sense why some people are unaffected. "He knows what's wrong with me, but he should be able to tell what's wrong with you. Or I can. He's better at diagnosing than I am, but-" He trails off, because that's not really helping the situation.

Judging from her position on the floor, he figures there's something wrong with her legs. "Can you walk?"

"No. I cannot walk. I am not certain whether I can sit up or crawl. I do not want to try right now."

Falling had hurt. Moving had hurt. Everything hurts.

"You shouldn't, if you feel that badly. Just focus on resting. If you want, I can try moving you somewhere more comfortable." Emphasis on try, because he's not exactly at the height of healthiness right now.

Ecks lets out a long, toneless moan just to make sure he knows how she feels about the whole situation. Her limbs are trembling even now.

"Yes," she decides, though she doesn't move to try to get up.

"All right, then."

It isn't much, really, just a pile of blankets and coats, but it's better than the hard floor, so assuming Ecks would prefer that to a hard floor, he attempts to lift her. It's easier than he thought, and supporting her weight isn't difficult. At least the makeshift
bed isn't too far away.

She does her best to work with him rather than against him, and at least her frame is lean -- too lean these days, really. The moment she makes it into the pile of blankets and coats she's squirming to get comfortable, the tremble in her limbs making it hard to situate herself.

"I want Red Cat."

For the first part of the day, Ecks is in better condition than the others. She shivers and stumbles more than usual, not always certain it's in response to the cold, but there's no coughing, no fever, no real sign of illness other than the joint pain that eventually makes her sit down and nest up in her blankets, still shivering harder than she should.

It's when Ecks tries to get up and cross the room after some time sitting that she realizes something is very wrong. She lets out a soft cry as her legs collapse from under her before she's even done standing, sending her sprawling across the floor, limbs shaking.

He's still trying to take care of them, even though he's a wreck. He's never let it stop him before, so why should a little chest cold (ha) stop him now?

And the fact that he can keep an eye on Wilson where he's collapsed in Rhys's room, but not Ecks, worries him. So pain or not, he's going to get up and check on her. Slowly shambling out to see where she is, and if she needs help.

Of course she needs help. This goddamn town. Rhys's voice comes out a barely audible croak, until he repeats himself to make himself heard.

"Ecks? Ecks?" He shouldn't be this out of breath, enough that it starts another round of coughing, but once he's at her side, he'll just...sit down here for a minute. Yeah. That's a good idea. Not like he can catch anything worse from her, and the floor is a perfectly good place to rest as he puts a hand on her shoulder.

"C'mon, Ecks. Talk to me."

"I am in pain. I cannot walk. My body is not functioning correctly." At least she still follows orders well? And she even talks about the correct topic, look at that.

Ecks doesn't move to get up, though her hands and feet are still trembling. After a moment's pause she adds in more rapid speech, "Do not cut me. I do not want you to cut me."

Rhys blinks, then shakes his head.

"Not gonna cut you, Ecks. It's okay. Do you want to be back on the bed?"

Rhys is running through the possibilities of what could be affecting Ecks, but he's coming up blank. If he had his powers, he could see it, but he doesn't, so he can't. He can only see symptoms- puzzling, confusing, useless symptoms, and try to help her based on those.

Which boils down to making her comfortable until they get better, or they don't.

She turns her head to look at the bed, feeling a sort of dread wash over her at the thought of trying to get back into it -- but all the same she answers truthfully.

"Yes. I want back on the bed. It was softer and warmer. I tried to stand and I fell. Will you pinky swear that you will not cut me?"

Oh, Ecks. That plea breaks his heart, and he nods at her, without hesitation.

He doesn't even want to think about why she would ask that of him so seriously.

"Of course I'll pinky swear. Only reason I would cut you at all was if I needed to take a little blood. To help find out what was wrong with you. And I'm not going to have to do that, okay? I wouldn't hurt you like that."

He has a feeling she's not talking about standard medical care.

He's shaky, but Rhys has also done his best to keep his strength up, and when he got here he was in good shape. He can probably get her to the bed, he thinks, if he moves fast and she cooperates. He offers his hand for the pinky swear, first, because she deserves that.

"I think I can just carry you, if you think you can hold onto me? Do you think you can do that, or do you think it would hurt too much?"

She shudders at the admission that he could cut her if he needed to find out what was wrong with her, but even so she immediately latches on to the reassuring parts of what he's saying, too.

"Only a little blood. You would not have to make a large cut at all for only a little blood."

She seems to be trying to reassure herself as much as clarify with him. She gives him a searching look as she maneuvers her own hand into position to hook pinkies with him, the movements all too jerky and unsteady.

"I think I can hold on," she says, not replying to the part where he asked about pain. That does not matter as much. She can be in pain for a little while if afterwards she will be in the warm bed and he will not be cutting her.

"Of course not. Just a tiny dot. A little finger prick, that's it." He didn't want to keep talking about the topic, but somehow he felt better knowing that Ecks understood he was a healer, not a butcher. That she understood what he meant, the difference between what he was talking about and what was done to her in the past.

He hooks her pinky with his own solemnly, meeting her eyes with his own. 100% honest.

"Let's get you back into bed where it's warm, okay? I'll try and be careful." He shifts his crouch, working out the best way to sweep and lift. It's Ecks, and even under the circumstances contact is sorry of a new thing, so he'll wait till she's ready, and until she can grab onto his shoulders before he actually picks her up.

"Just let me know when you're ready, and we'll go on three."

She's stiff and awkward even in her weakened state, but she grabs onto him as best she can. Hers is the body language of someone not accustomed much to being touched, but trying to work with him rather than against him.

"I am ready," she says, though she is not sure it is true.

It's hard to be ready for this, but best to do it fast, get it done. Rhys isn't sure he's ready, either, but it's as close as he's going to get and he wants to manage before he starts coughing again.

If he was healthy, it would be no problem. As it is, the pain comes hard and fast and he has to lock his joints on the lift, teeth gritted as he pulls her weight up. Step, step. Stay straight. Move her gently. The bed is close, and while he's moving her in something of a jumble, he can straighten it out later.

After he learns how to breathe again.

She drags her feet up under her, trying to push against the floor, trying to remember how to make them move like she is walking. It isn't any use; they aren't connected to her brain anymore, not the right way. She's gasping in frustrated exertion by the time she lands in a pile on the bed, twisting in place as she tries to uncurl her uncooperative limbs.

"I am going to die. I think that I am going to die."

"We'll do our best to keep that from happening, okay?"

Rhys manages. He has no idea how he manages to get her on the bed, but once she's there, no matter how askew, he collapses, panting and coughing, on the foot of the bed. Bad idea. That was a terrible idea. But she's okay, and he can get her more comfortable. In a minute, as soon as his lungs stop trying to come out.

Damn this place so much.

She can't stop shaking, can't get comfortable or make it stop being frightening and painful. After a moment or two, though, she more or less stops trying to move around. She hears him coughing, hears the violence of it, but she can't even sit up to do anything about it.

"Lay down here," she demands. "Lay down here with me and do not leave."

Rhys can't do anything about the coughing, either, but it does stop, eventually, leaving him wracked with pain and exhaustion. Just the fact that he isn't coughing anymore is the sweetest relief he can imagine right now, though, and he lays there for a second at Ecks' feet, until her voice comes through to him, again.

What little comforts they can get.

"Just let me know if I hurt you at all, 'kay?" he offers, and crawls up the bed to her side. It's a good plan, to just stay here and not move, and Ecks is warm and strangely reassuring next to him.

If she wants to get closer, she's welcome to. He settles down at her side in arm's reach, not sure how she feels about personal space, but gives her the best smile he can manage.

"I'll stay right here. Make sure you're okay, I promise."

If it helps, she's not sure how she feels about personal space, either. It has been good, at times, to sleep close to another person, and she likes to sleep with her fake animals. It still does not feel natural to her, though, to touch too much.

"Acknowledged," she says, but it's not long before her hand is snaking out to make a grab for his.

Staying still and not having to move is an amazing sort of paradise when you're this sick, in this much pain, and Rhys is content exactly where he is, once he catches his breath as much as he can.

When her hand searches for his, he accepts it, wrapping his fingers around hers gently without squeezing. He's right there, and not leaving.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[log] It is colder now... [closed]

Rhys - cw: respiratory distress

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cw: cancer

cw: cancer

cw: cancer

cw: cancer

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Cw: suicidal ideation

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cw: cancer

cw loss of muscular control; references to cannibalism

cw's will be in effect for the remainder of this thread

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cw loss of muscular control; references to cannibalism likely in this thread

cw loss of muscular control; references to cannibalism likely in this thread

cw's ongoing

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