Gambit has to (playforkeeps) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-02-03 20:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | hook, spock |
Who: Seven and January
What: A knight in shining... bowties? (Part 1 of 2)
Where: The gutter -> Jan's house.
When: Backdated to the morning after Seven disposed of Sophie.
Warnings/Rating: Implied murder/violence.
If there was some awful, swollen part of his body that did not ache, Seven could not have named it. The night would have to end eventually, and then he would take stock of his various injuries and his fragile sanity. And he would discover which appendages were intact and which parts of his mind were left in tatters. He would not have to worry about the details until morning’s light, and then - and then it was upon him. Somewhere during the walk from Sophie’s house and his current location, he had ditched the gun and stashed the silencer in a safe, secluded place where he could return and find it later. And somewhere after he’d ditched the gun he had stumbled upon three large men that fancied themselves thugs, and he had picked a fierce fight and lost within a matter of minutes. To be honest, Seven had been losing his grasp of time ever since he’d first swallowed Sophie’s little capsules of horror, and he was nearing the end of his very frayed rope. He had blacked out between furious flurries of punches and woken up some unspecified time later with the morning’s rays. It took a few seconds to get his memory caught up to the rest of his brain, but eventually he realized that he was sprawled across the sidewalk with his face swollen half to hell. Something had woken him up. Something warm and light. At first he could only register the swelling in his face, around his eyes and his nose and upper lip - but then he felt it. His ribs were tender and aching, and just above - the touch of a hand on his shoulder through the ripped material of his t-shirt, tentative and gentle. Can you hear me... The boy’s voice seemed to filter through the warm, copper wetness that filled Seven’s ears and mouth. Somehow his eyes managed to find the face that hovered somewhere above his own, and his gaze narrowed from within spectacular purple bruises. Even when his vision managed to focus on the boy’s features, Seven didn’t recognize him. He was younger than anyone Seven knew or spoke to on a regular basis, and the look on his face was a cautious mix of fear and apprehension that suggested he was both horrified and wholly unaccustomed to discovering beaten men in his neighborhood. Seven raised a hand to feel the swelling around his nose and mouth, and realized that it was no wonder: the men he had picked a fight with had left little of his face intact. “Where am I?” he managed to croak, one bruised and battered hand reaching up to cover the other man’s where it touched his shoulder, wheezing out a wet, sickly breath. It was like watching a horror movie. That’s what it reminded Jan of, he realized after a long minute of waiting, there in the middle of the sidewalk on his knees. The constellation-sized purple welts, the fluttering eyelids, the dried, flaking blood. But the man’s pulse beat back hard against the boy’s fingertips where they were pressed firmly against his wrist. That was good. It was difficult to know for certain how long he’d been here. As temperatures the night before had been near freezing, Jan hoped the man hadn’t been out overnight. Oh, no. What if he had hypothermia and died of overexposure? Crap! What were the symptoms of hypothermia besides falling asleep? He didn’t know! The boy bit his lip hard, only coming back to the sidewalk when the stranger opened his eyes. Jan exhaled a sigh of relief, not having realized he’d been holding his breath. Had he not suspected he would do further damage, he might have even gone so far as to hug the man out of sheer joy that he wasn’t dead - which, this morning at least, was quite an accomplishment. It took a beat or two for Jan to understand the question that fell, broken and confused, from the stranger’s cracked lips, and when he finally did, he hastily swept his eyes about them, even though he knew where they were. His mind was racing and he needed a moment to collect his wits. He squinted at their surroundings and a frown briefly creased his brow. How was no one else out? The wind bit at the boy’s exposed fingers. “The sidewalk. Uh. Fremont and Las Vegas Boulevard,” Jan smiled as reassuringly as he knew how and squeezed the man’s shoulder very, very lightly. With his free hand, he fumbled with his phone, frozen fingers flubbing and failing to find the right numbers. He nodded at the poor man, hoping he could see him through all the swelling. “Just hold on. I’m calling 911 right now. You’re going to be okay.” A quick sweep of his surroundings, or what he could make of them through his bleary eyes, confirmed what the boy had told him. Most certainly he was sprawled without ceremony on the sidewalk with god knew how many dirty needles and bodily fluid samples spread around him, and most certainly he was close to the intersection of Fremont Street where Las Vegas Boulevard split into North and South. The question was, how was he - no. No hospitals. Hospitals meant cops. “Don’t,” he growled out with a sudden ferocity that surprised even him, and even as he reached out and grabbed the boy’s wrist in a vice grip he was already wincing with the exertion of effort, at the pressure it put on his ribcage. He squeezed so tight that the skin under his fingers turned white, and he glared up at the young man to which the the offending limb was attached. “You’re not calling anybody. Not if you want to keep that fancy phone you got.” And those green eyes spoke more threat than the fiercest snarl ever could, and after a few endless moments he finally released his grip on the boy’s slender wrist and struggled to push himself to his feet, using the building behind him for support. After some grunting and a few choice expletives, Seven managed to stand on his own two feet and stagger away in a direction that he hoped would bring him closer to his house. It scared him - the voice. It was low and dangerous, even coming out of the mouth of a man who didn’t look like he would be able to do much in his current state. Though, what did Jan know, honestly. - The stranger was suddenly gripping his wrist, crushing it, and the boy mentally retracted his opinion. Okay, so he could do something. That much was evident in the strength of his fingers, circled around Jan’s wrist, stopping the boy as he tried to finish dialing. Wide-eyed, he just nodded at the man, his hand going numb and white. He wished the stranger would stop looking up at him like that. Something about his gaze was unnerving. Jan thought there was some kind of promise in it. A warning? Nothing the boy wanted to puzzle out, regardless. He frowned, though he remained kneeling on the sidewalk, as man struggled to his feet, using the building as leverage, and started to walk away with a boozy-looking step. “But -” Suddenly, Jan was on his feet. He rushed up behind the man, gingerly taking his arm and ducking under it in an attempt to support him. He really didn’t look fit enough to be walking on his own. The boy steered them in the other direction and tried to make for his car without earning more menacing looks from those green eyes. He shot the stranger a glance, noting his swollen features and the grimace of pain caught on his lips. “I won’t call anyone, I promise - but at least let me take you to my house. You can leave whenever you want, once you’re better. Please.” Getting to his feet and actually trying to walk away from his pathetic situation had exhausted Seven’s very last wisp of energy, and he found himself leaning on the boy’s shoulders before he even realized what was going on. Found himself being turned around and led in the wrong direction - and then he was leaning up against what had to be this kid’s car. Some kind of compact little Italian two-door number. A girl’s car. Seven had the nerve to consider refusing the boy’s help, just crawling away and finding a cab or even some tourist’s rental to boost from a side street. He wavered, leaning against the sun-warmed metal frame of the car and imagining what it might feel like to just sit down in that passenger seat, only for a minute. “You don’t call nobody,” he grunted as he opened the door and lowered himself in, shooting yet another warning glance across the center console to the young man in the driver’s seat. All their talk had opened up the gashes on Seven’s face and made blood begin to flow freely from his nose once more, and somewhere in the very back of his mind he realized that he was undoubtedly turning the poor guy’s passenger seat into a bloody mess. “You don’t tell nobody, neither. You don’t need the trouble.” That was certainly a blue-ribbon understatement. The kid looked like he was just about ready to have his eyeballs fall out of his skull, and Seven had a feeling that he didn’t stumble on half-pulped thugs bleeding out on the sidewalk every goddamn day. He resisted an urge to laugh maniacally as he squinted out the window from beneath swollen eyelids, trying to figure out where they were headed. “Where d'you live?” The car had once been Toby’s. Off to the East Coast and the land of public transportation, he’d given it to Jan several years ago. It was a good little thing. It really hadn’t ever given him any problems, despite it now being nearly a decade old. The boy would’ve patted the thing fondly had he not been trying to help a man whose face was suddenly bleeding again. From the driver’s seat, he just nodded at the stranger as he was warned, in no uncertain terms, to keep this little encounter between the pair of them. He gave a nervous sort of laugh as the key turned in the ignition. Quickly, his hand sprung forward to push the power button on the radio. The man probably didn’t want to listen to Chuck Berry, his head in the state it was likely in. That was okay. Jan swallowed, tried not to look over as blood dripped from his passenger’s nose. He didn’t even realize he hadn’t answered the question posed, he was so focused on getting them out of their parking space and on their way. It wasn’t a long drive. There was a small subdivision about ten minutes away full of mid-century ranch houses and a spattering of two-story houses from the 70s. Jan pulled up in the driveway of a tall brown house and cut the motor. He was a careful driver, and on the ride over, had been especially mindful not to hit any of the bumps or potholes he knew littered the roadway. He made this drive nearly every day, thankfully, and he did a good job of keeping the whole thing smooth. They did go over the curb to park on the steep driveway, but that they couldn’t avoid. “Sorry,” whispered the boy as the garage door closed behind them. He hurried and let himself out. He rounded the little car and opened the passenger door and extended a hand for the man to take. He gave a small smile. “I’m January, by the way.” The drive itself didn’t quite register for the man in the passenger seat with the very swollen, bloody face and two sets of knuckles to match. Time sort of smeared together in streaks of dull colour and early-morning light, and main streets turned into side streets that turned into alleys of neat little residential neighbourhoods as Seven daubed at his bleeding nose with a dirty sleeve. On some level he did feel grateful for the caution with which the boy - his rescuer - drove, avoiding each of the Strip’s potholes like the plague as they wound through the streets. It was a journey that could have lasted ten minutes or ten hours, and Seven would be hard-pressed to make the distinction. His agony was still a length of fire and spark, burning straight through the worn parts of his soul. Eventually, they were there. Eventually, he could breathe. “That’s not a name,” he rumbled softly, chuckling on a ragged breath as he determinedly ignored the boy’s proffered hand and hoisted himself out of the clown car with barely a wince. “What, you just take a look at your Power Rangers calendar every morning when you get out of bed? Decide what you’ll see is what you’ll have people call you?” It was far from his best material. Truth be told, Seven would have ridiculed himself for the weak nature of his barbs - had he been slightly less concerned with both the state of his face and his ribcage on this particular morning. His nose and mouth seemed to be clotting once more, but that would hardly stand up to any more incidental beatings. Having ignored the boy’s offer of help, Seven limped along the path to the front door and squinted against the mid morning's light. It took every ounce of his will to keep a pained grimace off his face, and an even greater effort to keep his chin held high. He eyed the young man as he waited to be let into his temporary sanctuary, wiping at the blood that coated his face. He felt warm. Sick. The jibe did nothing to ruffle Jan's feathers, just as the man's obvious refusal to take his hand didn't bother him, not so much as it surprised him. Pride had always been somewhat confusing to the boy. In his limited experience, all it seemed to do was get in the way - to blind people to their feelings and to the feelings of others. He honestly didn't understand its usefulness at all, but he wasn't going to tell anyone that everything they did had to be useful - that was both unfair and untrue. So, instead, he trotted along behind the stranger as the man limped to the front door. "My father was a bit eccentric," he said by way of explanation as he stepped around the man to turn the lock. The door swung open to reveal a home straight out of the late 70s, save for the strange artwork that hung on the walls and the silly knickknacks that inundated most surfaces. After ushering the man inside and closing the door behind them, Jan dumped his jacket (and check) into the nearest armchair and hurried to the hall closet to fetch up an armful of blankets, in a rainbow of colors and outdated designs. He tossed them on the plaid green couch as he passed back through the living room, moved through the dining room and into the kitchen, where he grabbed some paper towels, ice, water, and wash cloths. "Here, sit down on the sofa there - we can get you washed up." The boy spread everything out on the dark wood of the coffee table, hopped back to his feet, and went off to fetch up some hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and bandages. When he returned, he added it all to the collection. Jan sat on the burnt orange shag carpet on his knees and peered up at the man. He wasn't going to force the obviously secretive stranger to divulge any information, including a name, if he didn't want to. He wasn't rude or anything. He smiled and reached down to fidget briefly with his gray bowtie. "Are you hungry?" Jan asked as he held up the beaded, deep yellow cup (hello, 1977!) of water for the man to take. “Eccentric,” he repeated thickly, with audible skepticism. Seven allowed himself to be ushered inside, stoic as ever and immune to the boy’s borderline-inappropriate enthusiasm as he zeroed in on the couch as his ultimate destination. Yes, that would do nicely. He managed to lower himself into an upright sitting position without a whole lot of painful grunting, sinking into the plush cushions and deciding that he would be happy to stay there for the rest of his goddamned life. He gazed around in quiet interest at all the bizarre little details of the house, and the fervor with which January rushed around gathering up his arsenal of supplies. Eccentric. Right. “So that’s what they’re calling crazy people these days.” For all of the acid that his words usually held, this time Seven couldn’t quite muster the energy to do more than tease. Besides, this kid had willingly brought a bleeding, half-intoxicated stranger into his home without a second thought. He was either a saint or he was criminally insane, and neither of those options made Seven particularly inclined to torment him. Not to mention the fact that getting his face cleaned up sounded like the next best thing to heaven. For a moment, he wondered if the kid’s parents were somewhere to be found, perhaps sleeping in an upstairs bedroom at this early hour. Seven dismissed the notion nearly as quick as it came, reminding himself that no matter how questionable this boy’s instincts for self-preservation were, a relatively sane person was not about to bring a battered, bloody miscreant into their parents’ home. All the better. Seven had never been one for small talk. “No thanks,” he mumbled, low and gravelly as he took the cup and clutched it with both hands, black-and-blue knuckles a stark contrast against the tacky yellow beads. He drank the cool, sweet water in several gulps before he came up for air, eyeing the boy over the rim. “Why are you helping me?” Even someone like Jan could hear skepticism. Most people in the neighborhood - at least the ones that had been around for more than a few years - knew the story of the Fischers. Of the father's suicide and the mother's mental illness - the way she tried to kill her two sons and her late husband's bastard child. Any one of them would have accepted 'eccentric' as a descriptor for Mr. Fischer. The stranger, however, likely knew nothing of the family's past, and, the boy supposed, had every right to be skeptical. It was the word 'crazy,' though, that made him frown. He didn't answer what he decided was a rhetorical question. His mother had schizophrenia, which, to many people's eyes, made her "crazy." And, although he was far from close to the woman - and although she had tried to drown herself and the three boys, she was still Jan's mother and something about having someone who didn't know her or the family use the word "crazy" upset the boy - at least a little. He tried not to let many things bother him, and after accepting that maybe the man was just a bit upset due to his injuries, he let it slide. His usual smile leapt back into action. Jan sorted through the items on the coffee table after the stranger took the water. He unscrewed the cap from brown bottle of peroxide and, after pressing a cotton ball to the mouth of the thing, tipped it upside down to wet the ball. It was just as he was turning toward the sofa, still on his knees, that the man asked his obviously not rhetorical question. Jan noted the look he received from over the rim of the yellow glass. "You wouldn't leave someone half-dead in the street, would you?" He asked gently, leaning forward to daub the cotton ball to a particularly nasty cut on the man's sharp cheek. |