ways_infirmary | (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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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.