ways_infirmary | (no subject)

(no subject)

[After this.]

Frank Black hasn't regained consciousness for more than a few seconds at a time since they brought him in.

A blood test a few hours ago revealed the presence of a drug in his system, disquietingly similar to randinol. When he started to thrash and cry out in his sleep -- murderers, killers, all of you -- Simon mentally took a deep breath and administered a half-dosage of one of River's medications, watching intently for any signs of a bad reaction from the combination. There was none; only the expected result, calming and soothing. And, Simon hopes, controlling the perceptions somewhat.

In the meantime there were Frank's injured hands to treat. Cleaning, mostly, and only a little liquid bandage needed; none of the cuts still bleeding, and none of the bones broken, thankfully. (Nothing like as bad as ~~Kitty~~ Kate Pryde's similar injuries, last month.)

Maybe sometime later Simon will ask him about how he got those, and about how that drug got into his bloodstream. After he's recovered.

The sense of deja vu is not going away anytime soon.

Time passes.

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Between the medication in his system and his injuries, Frank is asleep.

He doesn't look to be resting all that easily, however. From time to time he shifts restlessly, turning his head from side to side.

River sits on a spare bunk, knees pulled to her chest, watching him.

Simon was here, and left. And came again, and stayed, and finally left to check on dinner on Serenity. ("You have to eat, mèimei," he said, and smoothed back her hair. "We can get something from the bar if you don't want to come home.")

She's been watching for a long time.

The problem is -- and Simon pointed this out, too -- that there's only so long anyone can stay alert at a stretch. Only so long, before her attention slips anyway.

And she's been watching for a long time.

River closes her eyes, and pushes her hair back with fingers that tangle absently in the strands, twisting the locks fretfully and undoing any tidiness she might have achieved. Her head lifts again, and she casts a quick glance at Frank's slackly twitching face.

"Scary monsters," she whispers.

Coming to a decision, she slips silently down from her cot. Running a light hand along the edge of Frank's bed, she hurries out of the room.

Peter's tossing back Advil at a booth not far from the infirmary door, and he looks up when River steps out.

He waves, but he doesn't say anything. She looks like she's on a mission.

The motion of Peter's hand seems to catch her eye; River's head turns sharply, and her eyes focus on him a second later.

She changes direction to head over.

And apparently that mission includes him.

"River, hey. What's up?"

It does now!

"I've changed the roster."

Fantasy football, absurdly enough, is Peter's first thought.

Probably not what she meant.

"Are you helping out in there?" he says, jerking a thumb toward the infirmary. At least his thumbs aren't sore.

"Sentry rotation." River's voice is impatient. "Up the tree. You're on duty."

"On duty," he echoes. "On duty for what? Is -- who's in there?"

Kaylee's pregnant.

River rolls her eyes.

"We're altering the specialization." Her gaze flicks down and away, chin twitching sideways, and her face tightens; it's a moment before her gaze meanders back to Peter.

"Forgets how to see the sun," she tells him, voice softer and a little distant. "Can't trust the eyes. There's too much blood inside them."

"I...didn't understand any of that," Peter says apologetically, but he slides out of the booth, wincing when his back complains. "Maybe you could show me?"

What's that, Lassie? Timmy's been drugged into a psychotic state?

"You don't want me to," River says softly. Her face is blank, and her eyes not quite focused on anything.

Beat.

She glances at Peter sharply, as if startled. "Yes," she says, and turns to lead the way.

"You're kind of giving me mixed messages," says Peter, puzzled, but he moves to follow her, hands in his pockets.

River's less distracted than sometimes, and the path they follow to the infirmary is quick and direct. She slips through the door, glancing left and right quickly, and leads the way to Frank's bed.

Peter inhales sharply.

"I saw this guy the last time I was here," he says, moving closer to Frank's bed. "He knew who I was, he knew...what happened to him?"

Frank stirs in his sleep as Peter draws near.

(In his dream, disjointed and uncertain, he finds himself standing on a street, looking up towards the roof of a building.

There's a figure there, standing at the edge.)

He mutters something unintelligible.

River rests two fingers on the sheets, millimeters from Frank's hand. Her head is bowed, her face sober and sad.

"Trip and they catch you."

"Two by two. Hands of -- no." Her eyes squeeze shut. "No. We will be stones. Let the needles close my eyes and close my ears and I will not hear the thunder."

She sucks in a shaking breath, and her fingers shift against clean white cotton.

Peter glances sideways, concerned, but all he does is reach forward to feel Frank's forehead.

Not a fever.

"Did somebody..." He's thinking: what Kaylee said about Sylar; what Nathan and Mohinder said to him. "Did somebody...I don't know, drug him?"

"Hold still," River murmurs, staring at or through Frank's arm. "It's in your genetic potential. We're doing such good work."

Beat.

Her head snaps sideways; her eyes are red-rimmed and damp, but her focus is intent. "Hit him if he needs it."

She scrutinizes Peter for a moment.

"You can use a chair."

And she turns away.

Peter stares after her.

Okay. He's on the roster.

(In your genetic potential, he thinks, and frowns.)

There's a chair nearby; Peter settles onto it, and exhales. "Guess it's just you and me."

There's no answer from the unconscious man.

(The sun is bright behind the figure's back as he falls from the roof, coat outspread around him like wings.

Except it's not the sun-- there's an eclipse, a corona ring of light around darkness-- so where is the light coming from?

In his dream he looks around, as the sky turns white with fire.)

"Kaboom.", he mutters.

He studies the man's face. There's a nasty bruise forming on his temple, and tiny glints of splintered glass sown across his jacket. His hands are in terrible shape.

Dreaming. About the explosion?

For a moment he has the insane urge to wake Frank up and ask him what he's seeing. It passes, but Peter keeps listening.

Time passes, as well.

Eventually, Frank's restlessness stills.

He sleeps, breathing evenly.

By now Peter's got a soda -- the old-fashioned kind, classic Coke in a glass bottle -- and a newspaper, though it's not one from any time or reality he's ever lived in.

Charles Deveaux liked Peter to read him the stock pages. He keeps quiet, now.

Then one of the patients on the other side of the room says, "Peter?" and he turns, surprised.

It's a little while after that when Frank stirs, opening his eyes. Every muscle tenses.

Where am I? What--

He turns his head, cautiously, and sees the form of a man (nurse?) across the room, talking to (another?) patient.

Taking advantage of their distraction, Frank slips from the bed and out the door of the infirmary.

It's not long after he slips out the door that Peter glances back over.

Oh, shit.

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