[log] Grave Men, Near Death [closed]

[jumpthegun]

Characters: John Watson, Rhys, Enoch, Beckett, Stephen Strange, Nathan Young, David Bouchard
Location: Building 327 and Building 317
Date: Day 377 and Day 378
Summary: Meeting up with Stephen and co for antibiotics and then mercy killings in the clinic.
Warnings: Possibly character death, violence

Comments

Day 377, Building 327

[jumpthegun]

[One small corner of a bus garage--the rest has been lost to time. Luckily, however, it seems like someone has built walls onto the structure. It's clear the walls are different because they're made of plywood and lack windows, unlike the more solid brick structure of the corner that remains.

The long-faded remains of a map have been redrawn on the plywood. "медпункт" for the "clinic" (Building 317), "магазин" for the, "convenience store" (Building 321), "церковь" with an accompanying Prophet eye symbol for the "cultist church" (Building 323), "автовокзал" for "bus station" (Building 327), "Двадцать семь" for "twenty-seven" (Building 333), "морг" with an accompanying Prophet eye symbol for the "cultist funeral house" (Building 334), and "препятствие" for the "bunker" (Building 335) have all been written in.]

[thewarningafter]

A - for John

How is he?

[It's the first question out of Stephen's mouth, spoken quietly as soon as the two doctors meet. He's already slinging off his backpack to tug at the zipper of an outside pocket. He expects this meeting to be brief; they can't keep seven people in one building for long.]


B - OTA

It's only two days to the clinic from here. It's...about as close to a spa as this place gets.

[The smile he offers one of the other men is weak. He knows how bad this is.]

A

[jumpthegun]

[John glances briefly toward Rhys before ushering Stephen into the farthest corner possible to hold this conversation.]

Bad. No sepsis, but he lost a lot of blood, and it's hard to get him to drink anything, let alone eating. That glass hit his spleen. I've been checking him every few hours for signs of hemorrhaging. That's still clear, but I'm really worried. I can do a proper surgery, but with the tools I've got... I'd be worried more about controlling the bleeding if I opened him back up again to do it properly.

[Instead of in a dark bunker with inexperienced assistants and a shaky light source.]

[thewarningafter]

[Stephen lets himself be led; he'll continue to keep his voice down. He listens attentively without interrupting, a frown tugging at his lips. He sure as hell doesn't like the prognosis, but he came here expecting it to be bad.]

I have a few things I can give you beyond the antibiotics, at least. How is he handling being transported like this?

[jumpthegun]

As well as can be expected. Enoch and Beckett are both doing well, all of us switching out so we can keep Rhys' stetcher steady. Rhys just doesn't say much. Worries me more than if he were complaining.

[thewarningafter]

Yeah....

[He glances Rhys's way at that, but tries not to let his deepening frown show before he turns his face away again.]

Didn't get the impression he was usually the stoic type. Do you have any options nearby for a transfusion?

[jumpthegun]

Kunsel, maybe? [John rubs a hand over his face.] Rhys is O-negative. We don't have many people who're that to start with and a lot of them have MN Poisoning. I'm almost willing to tempt fate on that. I'd rather deal with the after effects of that than him going hypoxic or dealing with the potential tachycardia.

[thewarningafter]

[Yeah, he'd kind of suspected he wasn't a candidate, but he'd wanted to nudge John regarding the possibility.]

All things considered...yeah. That's the route I'd be inclined to take.

[jumpthegun]

[John nods.]

Yeah, I'll... if Rhys doesn't improve by tomorrow, I'll give Kunsel a call to check on his availability. We'll have Rhys in that makeshift hospital up north by then. It'll be as good a place as any to do the transfusion.

Day 378, Building 317

[jumpthegun]

[Judging from the outside, this was definitely a house, but going inside, it seems to have been converted into something like an infirmary. There are a lot of metal tables neatly arranged in the living room and kitchen, and the bedroom has a mattress lightly-stained with blood: it seems like someone at least tried to clean the thing up as best they could, and even flipped it over so the cleaner side is on top. The toilet and shower still work: the shower even has hot water. Makeshift shelves have been attached to one of the walls.]

cw for suicidal ideation, whole thread

[headjacked]

[ Someone like Rhys can handle a hell of a lot. Slowly mounting pain, persistent illness, racing thoughts, all things he’s been able to grit his teeth and bear with smiles and jokes.

Usually.

And it’d been no exception the first day John moved him. It’s just how he deals. Make it through each day, because he’s come so far and it’s be a damn waste to give up.

The second day he was quieter. More whimpers than smiles even though dammit, he was trying. He was trying to hard.

He’s very quiet now. Trying to sleep while bundled up on the dirty mattress and failing, unable to overcome the ugly fusion of mania and searing pain. It’s only getting worse. He opens his eyes and looks around the room. His speaking voice is barely audible. ]

Someone there...?

[bookofnope]

[It used to be that Beckett could smell death coming.

Not in the mystical sense. No doubt some Kindred could, but with him it had been a plain, perfectly natural animal instinct. Human bodies broke down a certain way. Even as a mortal he'd learned a fair number of them, and as a vampire he'd both witnessed and caused death, slow death, enough times. He knows when people don't make it, and how that ugliness, one of the ugliest things in the world, looks.

He thinks they all know. That's why he hadn't slept much the night before, and isn't sleeping this night. He's practically waiting to hear Rhys's voice.

He's already close by, kneeling with his head drooped on his chest - no one needs to know he's listening. But when Rhys speaks, however quietly, he's there. With a bottle of water at hand to offer to the man's lips, because it is something to do.

Something.]

... do you want some? I feel like I've been drowning you.

[ha ha jokes]

[headjacked]

[ No, no more water. Rhys waves his flesh hand, the motion limp and - frankly - pathetic. Everything about him right now is pathetic. He knows this, and it burns hotter than the wound at his side. It's pretty friggen' close, though. ]

Ngghnn -- enough. ...sorry.

[ He didn't think his voice could get softer. Rhys blinks rapidly, eyes still struggling at times for focus.

It takes him time to register who it is, and he's very thankful it is who it is. He manages something of a smile, just for him. There and gone in seconds. ]

If only.

[bookofnope]

[Fuck knows why Rhys is grateful, because Beckett is the one person there least likely to tell him the lie that he's going to be all right. Or maybe that is it. Morosely, Beckett starts thinking what he would tell Rhys if he has to. The best thing at this point would be for it to be in your sleep, or quick...

He returns a smile, if just as fleeting, because he would rather not be thinking that thought.] I don't think we have water.

[In lieu of that, he starts winding off his scarf.] Maybe I can roll this up and pad you a little more. It might help you sleep. You should... try to sleep as much as you can. [The best thing, if you just let sleep come...]

[headjacked]

We both... b-both know it's not gonna help any. Hell, I'm -- I feel like I've only gotten worse. Much worse. Doesn't matter what pills John gives me.

[ So he waves away the scarf, arm flopping down to his side with the effort of a second motion. Hand now over the stitches holding him together, he traces a gentle finger in sad little patterns around the wound. ]

We were kidding ourselves when my brain melted too.

[bookofnope]

Yes.

[As simple as that. Trying to argue will only force Rhys to argue back - with the facts on his side - and Beckett can't see how that would be in any way productive. This whole line of conversation only leads one way.

Instead he abandons the scarf, leaving it half unraveled on his shoulders. He almost absently runs a hand over Rhys's hair. The kind of gesture of tenderness he had physically been barred from for centuries, when his hands had bore their Beast Mark. They seem to come naturally now.]

It almost makes you miss the spiders, doesn't it? I only wish I understood why it had to be spiders. The least medically comforting animal I can think of. Except maybe ants...

[So distracting nonsense it is.]

[headjacked]

[ He breathes out a shaky sigh when agreement comes so quickly. The hand on his head is very grounding. ]

The... the bugs on Pandora are bigger, badder, a-a-and much grosser. Awful planet. Miss it.

[ He's looking away from Beckett now, ability to focus back yet refusing to make eye contact.

He's shaking, just a bit. ]

...I-I don't. [ Stops. Swallows. Looks like he's lost his nerve, then presses on anyway. ] I don't know if I can ask you...

[bookofnope]

You can ask me for anything. Though I might not let you capture it on video.

[Beckett gives the first response while still in Distracting Nonsense mode. It seems to make sense. It takes him a moment to clearly interpret Rhys's shaking as something more than weakness and pain.

Then he goes very still and quiet. The scary vampire kind of still and quiet, where life is given away only by the most minute of shivering on his own end. Always, the cold and fever. They're both so used to it. They just slog through.

Everyone is entitled to draw their line.]

What do you need me to do, Rhys? I'll do it, but I need to know you want it.

shower meltdowns, because more angst! (pre-mercy killing obvs)

[warriorscribe]

Before

[Rhys is doing so badly. But he needs to keep himself together. John and Beckett are, he can't be the weak link that encourages despair. Can't let his battered mind be drawn to it. So he focuses on the things he can offer. Like the soap the other Rhys had traded - practically gifted - him. He does intend to indulge in one of its few uses, but he'll offer it to his companions first.]

I have soap, if it will help or if anyone wants to bathe while we have hot water. It isn't much, but it's something.


During (character nudity in this prompt, of course)

[Whatever's left of the soap, he takes for his own shower. It's been a long time since he's bathed - his experiences with Clayton and his unfortunate lack of shoes on arrival have taught him to be warier than is strictly necessary of frostbite. He thinks it will help him. Make him feel better, and more useful for morale if nothing else.

Coming from a life largely lived with communal bathing, he finds himself wishing he had invited John or Beckett to join him because being alone under the water, however warm, isn't a comfort. It leaves him to his thoughts, about how he had spoken to Angel before her fight with Rhys. How he could have tried harder to get her out of there. If he'd just picked her up and carried her, her hallucinations of Jack surely couldn't have stopped him.

It's his fault. Her death, Rhys's condition, he could have prevented it all. Perhaps in an earlier month, in the time when he actively pursued and fought Jack when they were in danger, he would have. He looks down, and for the first time sees how much more weight he's lost now that he's gone to half-sized meals. The metaphor for his weakened, withered spirit is too apt. He sinks against the back of the shower, sliding to the cold floor with both hands over his face, muffling the sobbing he can't stop, didn't even see coming. He spends a while in there, unable to bring himself to get up, to move out of that confinement he's put himself into. Out of the warmth that is no comfort, back to the company that is too good for him. He just can't.]


After

[Eventually, whether it was because someone came into the bathroom or not, he does get out of there, and his misery is on full display. He huddles in a corner, shivering from not properly drying himself beneath his - admittedly warm - blanket. The yin-yang-patterned one, that the collective gave him when he had basically given up. He had thanked them for their generosity, but, much like the shower, it had been of less comfort than was ideal. He's staying far away from the bedroom with the bloodied mattress, as if his pain is contagious, though occasionally his reddened eyes stray that way, like he could somehow check on him without getting up. Pathetic as it is, this low has completely blindsided him. He was supposed to feel better...]

sup shower meltdown

[bookofnope]

Beckett certainly doesn't intend to disrupt anything as incredibly important in Norfinbury as a hot shower, but after a while - well, Enoch's been there a while, and something about the absence of any sound of business or movement is alarming. And it's easy to convince himself that he just wants his turn, because don't they all.

"Enoch?" He starts with a knock on the shower door, but isn't sure the sound carries through the running water, and anyway this being Enoch he's not very worried about more modern notions of decency. He nudges the door open with his shoulder, ready to turn away if Enoch does want him to. But it's very quickly clear that Enoch wouldn't.

The door snaps shut as Beckett quickly moves forward, dropping to one knee on the damp floor just outside the shower. He thinks he can tell what's going on - emotional distress only, which isn't to be dismissed but in a Norfinbury context is often a best case scenario - but he's not taking chances. Not when just in the other room...

"Enoch. Are you all right? Should I be getting John?"

[warriorscribe]

The presence of another, particularly as well-loved as Beckett, draws him out of the crippling loop of pain and guilt his mind locked him into. It was loneliness that enabled this spiral, so it's only natural that his company should break it. He peeks over his fingertips at the sound of Beckett's voice, hiccuping as he tries to stop crying and fails.

"I'm- not hurt." His voice fails him and he weakly shakes his head to emphasize. "Can't stop, I-" A wracking sob pulls itself out of him and he chokes back only the very end of it, burying his face again in shame Beckett has to see him so distraught when he already has so much to worry about. He can't even say he's sorry he can't stop crying.

[bookofnope]

Not hurt is a good start, though really it just makes the situation considerably more awkward. Hurt, Beckett could deal with, or get John to deal with. This, though, this is squarely outside his expertise. Those visceral, human tears.

He quickly decides against words. Nothing he can say will sound anything but idiotic to his own ears. The physical intensity of Enoch's emotion unnerves him, as a creature intimately familiar with the worst driving depths of some feelings. And since this is Enoch, he's short on all his other tools. Dark humour won't help him here. There's no practical action he can think of taking. And the one thing he still will not do is lie and say things will be fine.

He lets all of that go. There were other things he'd learned, ways of dealing with inner demons that completely eradicated reasons. Sometimes giving way to the bare physical instinct was the only right way after all. He moves in, and wraps his arms fully around Enoch, drawing him in. It's more than a hug, more physical contact in its most total, rawest form. He'd held Anatole like this, through his madness. He knows how.

[warriorscribe]

Madness makes a good comparison, when Enoch feels like he's crying for five different reasons, all right and all wrong. Touch is as powerful as it has ever been, though, and the effect of being drawn into Beckett's arms is immediate. He curls tight into him, into the secure circle of his hold, burying his face in his shoulder. One instinct tells him to return it, another keeps him from moving his arms too far away, and his water-wrinkled fingers latch onto the sides of his clothes instead. He is weak and hurting and Beckett is safe.

It helps immeasurably. He can't show it at first, still unable to control his tears, each sob dragged from somewhere deep. But the moments crawl onward, and they begin to wane, until his crying shivers weakly on his lips instead, a soft weeping as he begins to recover.

"Beckett..."

He tries to gather his thoughts to speak, try to explain himself, to thank him, anything. But he finds most of his mind thoroughly drained and still raw, so all he can do is continue to cling and wait for things to start making sense again.

[bookofnope]

"Please don't." He wishes he could make it wry, back to normal form, don't get those soppy emotions all over him. But it comes out more hushed, weaker. Don't talk or he might not know what to do, how to answer. He thinks if Enoch tries to apologize to him he'd probably lose it, some way or another.

He wishes he were warmer. It was different when he held another of his own kind, where their mutual cold stillness was itself a kind of comfort just by merit of being mutual. But Enoch is alive and human, and, God, that changes a lot. He feels almost old in his arms, fragile.

"Don't talk. Let it come and pass."

[warriorscribe]

Enoch nods into Beckett's shoulder. Crying it out is the one thing that's going to happen regardless. And though Beckett may resent it at the moment, his body temperature provides a grounding contrast, something to keep Enoch from falling too far into his own mind and starting this entire mess over again.

He feels empty, when his tears are finally spent. It isn't quite the pleasant unburdened kind of empty, but isn't the upsetting kind, either - it's just exhaustion, an all-encompassing emotional tiredness that barely permits thought. His grip on the vampire's clothes loosens, and he lifts his head a fraction of an inch before laying it back down.

It's the simple thoughts that persist, when he first tries to speak again, breathless still. His self-blame, reflexive as it is, is complex. Too much thinking back, too many what-ifs. So what is left, when he's worn down to the raw emotional core?

"Thank you. I love you."