Gambit has to (playforkeeps) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-02-03 21:03:00 |
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He was very good at not flinching. That was good. Unlike his brothers, Jan wasn't a doctor, but he had patched up his fair share of people. No one in this man's state, that was for sure, but still. He smiled as the stranger told him his... name? The boy waited a beat or two, wondering if there was more to the 'seven.' He'd almost asked, 'seven what?' - but the pause and the lack of follow-up explanation told him that it was, indeed, his name. Cool. Jan just nodded pleasantly as he tossed the now bloody cotton ball onto the table. He turned where he sat to fetch up another. "That's true," he admitted in the same soft voice, continuing to dab Seven's face, cleaning up the cuts and scrapes that tore at his otherwise very nice skin. Under all the swelling and blood, he probably was a good-looking guy. Jan smiled wider, setting aside the cotton ball again. This time he took up a warm wash cloth from the table and he, tenderly, with one hand cupping the man's chin, tried to rub away the crust of dried blood that ran from his nostrils. "I'll re-answer then. I wouldn't leave someone half-dead on the sidewalk, that's why I'm helping you, Seven." Though perhaps they should have been, no alarms were as of yet going off in the boy's head. As far as he knew, this Seven was just someone who had had a bad night, likely got into some kind of bad fight, and didn't want the trouble that came from going to the hospital or calling an emergency number. It made sense to Jan, anyway, that that should be the case. No, he didn't know what the man did for a living, but he wasn't prone to suspicion. Everyone had bad days, after all. Seven was a good patient - he had that much going for him, anyway. Shiftless criminal scum though he may be, he could at least hold still while January ever-so-gently attacked his face with peroxide and cotton pads and butterfly strips. He busied himself with watching his very own medic, following the cautious motions of his hands and the worried furrow that made itself known in his brow. Seven was still unsure of the young man’s motives, despite the protestations that he only wanted to help; having lived in Las Vegas for the better part of a decade, Seven was all too aware of the fact that no one here was ever truly good. Not in this sort of town. Not in this sort of life. He stayed quiet as the boy cupped his chin and turned his face this way and that, green eyes closing for a quiet moment or two as Jan went to work with the washcloth and Seven felt the whisper of cool air against his battered face. He was obedient to the extent that he would turn his face here and there as needed, giving a raw cheek or a bloody chin over to the cleanup. “So you’re a good guy, huh?” He asked in a soft rumble, glancing at the bowl of water that steadily turned a deeper shade of red with every wring of the wet cloth. “How noble. Tell me, January - “ here he took a moment to slide out of his filthy, oversized hoodie, flinching only once or twice as he put the wrong sort of strain on his ribs. “What the hell do you do when you aren’t saving the world, one dirtbag at a time?” “Jan,” corrected the boy in a soft voice. He always introduced himself by his full name, as it was his name - and that was the point of introductions, right? But Jan had been his nickname for as long as he could remember. The boy smiled, to show Seven that he wasn’t trying to be rude, and that he was simply letting him know that he didn’t have to go around saying ‘January’ each and every time he wanted the boy’s attention. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he focused on getting a particularly stubborn bit of blood from the stranger’s chin, once he’d managed to get himself out of his hoodie. The rag went back into the warm, pinkish water. Jan sat back on his feet and surveyed his work. Seven already looked much better, his cheeks somewhat rosy from the boy’s ministrations. At the very least, one could tell, upon first glance, that he was alive - that seemed important and noteworthy. And without all the dirt and blood, he definitely appeared human. Also important. - Collecting the little bag of ice he’d put together in the kitchen, Jan wrapped a small hand towel around it and passed it to Seven to press against his swollen eyes. “I guess I’m a good guy,” he said eventually with a bit of surprise in his voice. He’d never really thought about it. The boy shifted on his knees and smiled, watching the man on his couch. “I’m an Elvis impersonator at a drag bar very near to where I found you.” Jan’s grin widened. “Why? Do you want me to sing for you?” It was a strange thing, to be seated on an unfamiliar couch with his face beat half to hell while a stranger offered to serenade him. In spite of the whole absurdity of this situation, - or indeed, perhaps because of it - once again Seven could not help but laugh. It was a real laugh this time, something that started in his belly and worked its way up in his throat, sending bursts of white-hot pain through his ribs and his chest. He cracked a lopsided grin, one that quickly turned into a grimace. “Christ, don’t make me laugh,” he half-groaned, half-chuckled, wincing and clutching one arm against his torso. He accepted the bag of ice wrapped in cloth and held it against his face with his free hand, just under the swollen mess that was his left eye as he eyed the boy ruefully. “Right now I’m starting to regret designating you as my savior.” Seven had a nice laugh. Jan’s smile was all the happier for it, only faltering when a spasm of pain flashed across the man’s bruised face. By then, the boy had climbed to his feet for a second time and was halfway across the room, heading back toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. He was gone for half a minute or so, and when he returned, he did so with a Ace bandage in his arms. After settling back down on the floor, he turned his eyes back to Seven. “No, don’t say that - here -” Jan set the wrap to the side and reached for the grimy hem of the man’s t-shirt. He didn’t lift it, because he wasn’t going to undress a stranger without their permission, but he was prepared to start. “Let’s get your shirt off and then we can wrap you and you’ll feel better.” It was almost too much - the sheer vim and vigor with which January flitted about the room, darting here and there with his apparent surplus of medical supplies. Seven could manage little more than a bemused expression that, thankfully, did not pull too hard at his knitting wounds. And then, of course, there was the small matter of the boy’s fingers clutching at the hem of his soiled shirt, pale fingers contrasted against the splatters of blood and the smears of dirt that Seven would be hard-pressed to explain in specifics. His smile was more akin to a smirk as he leaned back from the other’s grasp, eyeing him with an unreadable expression. “Awfully eager to get a stranger out of his clothes, huh? Gotta be honest, I had you pegged as the prudish type,” he said with mock sincerity, leaning forward again and tugging the shirt over his head in slow, painful movements. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience - the shirt smelled about as ripe as a barn, and the unsightly bloodstains weren’t doing much to subdue the grotesque effect. When he finally glanced down at his exposed torso, Seven realized that it was worse than he’d thought. Dark purple bruises littered his chest and stomach, and there were angry red welts down the sides of his ribcage in the unmistakable shape of bootprints. “So, January. You gonna tell me it’s not that bad?” The words and their accompanying insinuation brought a blush to Jan’s cheeks and cracked a flustered smile on his lips. He dropped his hand from the shirt and sat back as Seven peeled the filthy shirt from his body. The t-shirt’s underside told Jan it had once been a soft gray, though it was now hardly any recognizable color - oh, God. It was with wide eyes and a small sound of sympathy, that the boy looked at the broken canvas of Seven’s chest and torso. Whatever color had risen to his cheeks drained away. His eyebrows peaked in an expression of extreme worry. “No,” he said in a shell-shocked tone after sucking in air through his teeth, only now managing to tear his eyes away from the grisly sight. He looked at Seven with a frown as he picked the bandage up. Situating himself on the sofa next to the man, Jan decided that, before he started wrapping Seven up, he should clean the few welts that had manage to break the skin. He took up the rag from before, wrung it out, and began a slow, methodical wiping down of the stranger’s chest. His eyes didn’t even manage to look beyond the ugly wounds to appreciate the cut of Seven’s body. Not yet, anyway. He began to wind the compression wrap around the man. “I’m really sorry. I totally forgot to ask you - do you want some painkillers? I have some ibuprofen.” “Good. At least you’re honest, if a little painfully optimistic,” he said with a shake of his head, bracing his arms against the back of the couch as the young man wiped the cloth over his torso with ginger care. The boy’s hands felt cold in the slow, careful shifts of his attentions and Seven could hardly catch his breath against the heated pain in his chest. He felt raw and empty, and wondered in a vague sort of way what this kid thought of his circumstances. “I’ll be fine without the pills. I’m a big boy.” There was something that brought all of Seven’s worried movements to a halt, something that flickered across January’s anxious expression as Seven felt the urge to succumb to the boy’s attempts at first aid. There was an uncomfortable tightness as January wrapped his ribs up, but he would manage. He was alright. He was whole, no matter how unstable he might be feeling. And the fear that flickered there in the back of this boy’s eyes - it was not enough to hold him back. “Look - I need a place to crash. Just for a few hours, if you don’t mind. I can make it worth your while.” Jan sucked on his bottom lip in concentration as he attempted to bandage the man up - tight, but not too tight. His dark eyes only flicked up once, and that was when Seven told him, very matter-of-factly, that he needed a place to stay. He returned to the wrapping without saying a word, his hands cool against the inflamed skin and the rough texture of the Ace bandage. There was a short silence as Jan finished what he was doing, moving slowly, but surely. He finally sat back after making certain nothing was going to come undone and looked up at the stranger. He smiled gently. “I don’t know what you mean by that, but you’re absolutely welcome to stay,” he said in his soft, rather placid voice, pulling one of the blankets he’d fetched earlier from the nearby chair. It was an old patchwork quilt done in shades of blue. Jan’s grandmother had made it. As a child, he'd been especially fond of it and had demanded its use for any fort building or road tripping that required such. He hung it over Seven’s shoulders, then stood. Not a single second had passed that he considered throwing the man out. Briefly, he thought on the best place to put the injured man. Going up the stairs might be difficult. The boy cocked his head. “Do you want me to bring you a pillow and you can sleep here, or my room’s at the end of the hall by the bathroom, which you can use. Or there’re a few empty rooms upstairs, but I don’t know how up you are for the trek, big boy or not.” He smiled to let Seven know he didn’t mean those last words, then bent to begin cleaning up the bowl and discarded cotton balls. “Money,” he clarified with an amused lilt to his voice. “As in, I can give you some. Although if you have something a little more intimate in mind, I might be open to negotiation.” He raised an eyebrow as the mother hen named January continued to fuss and wrapped him in a blanket. It was nice, actually - soft and cool against his skin, worn with years of use and love. It stood out because it was just the sort of thing that he was unaccustomed to, having grown up without the accoutrements of a loving home. Seven ran the calloused pads of his fingers along the neat rows of stitching as he listened to the boy rattle off his available beds like he was running a goddamned motel. No matter how inclined he might be to argue that no, he was fine, he could handle a few stairs - but he had to admit that the kid had a point. It was amazing what just a few minutes of sitting down on a comfortable couch had done to his muscles and his cracked ribs, and how that fact could make a simple staircase seem so daunting. Of course, the couch might not make the most comfortable bed in the world (Seven was fairly certain that he was taller than the couch was long by about a foot and a half) but it was better than kicking January out of his own room. “Thanks. I’ll do fine on the couch.” The benefit of being bent in half over a squat, shin-height coffee table to gather up used medical supplies was that one's face was hidden from view. And, the normally open Jan was glad for that, considering his own face was currently bright red at the - the - at what Seven had said. The idea of - it - just no. The boy had never even..., and he wouldn't now. This was way worse than that 'ulterior motive' comment. He chose not to reply at the moment and instead, began humming the first song that popped into his head. After leaving briefly to put things away, Jan returned to the living room just as Seven declared that he'd stay on the sofa. The boy gave the injured man a frown as he swept more of the unused cotton into his open palm. The strange expression quickly collapsed into a smile as he came around the coffee table to pat Seven on the back - lightly. "Nonsense." After giving the old sofa a once over, Jan had made up his mind. He knew what Toby would do. Toby wouldn't let an injured person sleep in the drafty living room, on a sofa that was probably older than he was. It was only right that the man take his bed - and, as someone who would also fit better, Jan could sleep on the couch. "Just go to the room down there, end of the hall, to the left of the bathroom. I can sleep here. I'm - uh - my feet don't hang off or anything." With each word that he managed to get past his lips, Seven was growing steadily more exhausted. Some of that slick courage he’d poured down his gullet so long ago was finally beginning to wear off, going from a slippery warmth in his stomach that dulled the pain to a heavy, metallic throb in his skull that wanted to drive him mad. With each minute, it was harder to keep his eyes open. And so, for once in his life, Seven Morgan decided not to argue - to nod and do as he was told, by this kid of all people. In one slow, agonizing movement, he heaved himself up from the couch and to his feet. He was lightheaded and so he wobbled for minute, reaching out to steady himself with a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. It was a casual gesture, but one that spoke volumes to the observant eye about just how very rough a state he was in. Though he would be loathe to admit it, Seven had begun to worry that he might not be fit to leave this kid’s house for a few more days. Somehow, he’d find a way to deal with that in the morning - or the evening, or whenever the fuck he finally regained consciousness after sinking into that warm, soft bed that was calling his name. Seven glanced down at the place where his hand rested against the kid’s shoulder, as if surprised to find it there, and finally raised his eyes to meet January’s as a real, unchecked smile (or the closest to it he could manage at the moment) formed on his lips. “Thanks, man.” The little bit of life that had returned to the man, all dry words and terse smiles, seemed to be slipping away twice as fast now that they had finished getting him cleaned up. Jan watched with wide eyes as Seven heaved himself from the sofa with effort. And, actually, now that the boy had finished going over the shirtless man’s chest and face with a cloth, he could appreciate how attractive he was - or, as much of him that wasn’t broken, cut, or swollen was. Not that now was the time to be thinking about such things. Ignoring the return of the color to his cheeks, Jan smiled sweetly as the injured man sort of stood there for a second, a foot away, obviously unsteady. The boy came a step closer, his arms half-extended just in case, only to be surprised when Seven’s hand came out to take his shoulder for support. “There we go.” Jan eased his arm around the man to help him down the hallway. Though, before they could start, there was a strange pause as something happened - something that seemed to hold some sort of import, even if the boy couldn’t yet make out what that was. As Seven smiled, Jan couldn’t help but do the same. It was, he thought, the first honest (and conscious) expression the man had made since the boy had found him on the sidewalk. And it was actually quite nice. He laid his head briefly on the man’s shoulder in a sort of half-hug as he propped him up then looked up at him and said: “You’re welcome.” Then they began their trek down the wood-paneled hallway. Jan flicked the lights on as they went until they finally ended in the master bedroom. Once, it had been his parents’ - and then, after his father died, it had been the room his mother spent most of her time in, just tucked into her bed with the television on. And for a long, Jan had found it a frightening place - full of bad memories, of those mornings he had to go into the room to say goodbye to his mother as she laid in bed, her eyes unseeing, her hair a mess, all of it. Long after Toby had gone, he had avoided the room, until finally, one day a couple years ago, he decided it would be a good thing for him to move downstairs and to face the demons he imagined lived in the dark space. And since then, it had been his. The bed was made up, the corner pulled back for Seven’s convenience, the comforter another well-worn, well-loved blanket, this one done up in shades of red with a distinct mid-century look to it. There was a long dresser against the far wall with two tall windows behind it, though the drapes were currently pulled across them. But there were no scraps of clothing lying here or there. It was all very neat. Everything was folded and put in its place in the walk-in closet that led to the bathroom to the left of the door. There was a stereo and an iHome and a few stacks of CDs, but that was about the extent of the room’s clutter. Jan steered his guest to the bed and released him for just long enough to tug the covers back. He then returned to his position of support, an arm under Seven’s, and looked up at him. “Do you want to sleep in your jeans?” It was, for the record, an innocent question. For a few endless moments, the distance between the old couch and the bed that beckoned to him felt like a thousand light-years beyond his reach. The trip was a dizzying one, balanced so precariously as he was on the edge of unconsciousness and obliteration with only the support of the shorter man trying to brace him under his arm. He took in nothing of the walls around him or the floor beneath his feet, nor the furniture that loomed out from the blurry, darkened limits of his vision. And there, the bed was right there - but it seemed there was no end to the kid’s questions. Seven leaned back on his heels and squinted through the early morning light at the brown eyes that peered up at him with unwavering sincerity. Unless he was hallucinating again, dear old January had just offered to undress him without an ounce of irony. The thought of laughter crossed his mind, but he found that he could not summon the energy. Instead he simply smirked, giving a single shake of his throbbing head as his green eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Don’t worry, kid. I promise not to get your nice, clean sheets all dirty.” And as long as he was still upright and breathing, he would be undressing himself. Seven’s voice was low and hoarse, but his expression was just about as gentle as he could manage when he made it clear that the boy was no longer needed. He was grateful, but he was a whole host of other things first and more elaborate thanks could wait while he slept for the next decade. Seven waited and watched with cautious eyes as January finally left the bedroom, and only then did Seven allow a weary slump to take his shoulders. If there was some awful, swollen part of his body that did not ache, Seven could not have named it. |