ways_infirmary | Curtis and Edgar, initial treatment and visiting hours

Curtis drifts in and out for a while after the doctor's done. Reality blends with memory: at one point, the bed becomes a warm pile of snow, and white flakes spin around his vision as he blinks up at the light. At another, Wilford's the one spooning broth into his mouth. It tastes awful, like liquefied steak, but he's too weak to spit it out -- let alone fling the bowl across the room and go for Wilford's throat.

He isn't shivering, though. Everything aches with a pins-and-needles thaw, but he's suffered worse hurts, and the stinging passes quickly enough -- except in his right hand, which burns like it's inches away from a flame and still can't bend without effort. By the time the delirium passes, he's aware enough to be concerned about that, albeit in a detached way.

(In the next cot over, Edgar's a blanket-wrapped lump with a shock of gingerish hair at one end and some pale turquoise gel-packs at the other, one maybe-shoulder shifting in the slow rhythm of breathing sleep.)

"I said vegetable broth. Next time, listen to me." Dejah's voice, speaking quietly but ferociously to a wait rat who is cowering behind his whiskers. "Get this out of here. And get me a cup of coffee. Black and strong as you can make it."

Her right hand rests on his metallic arm and she holds her left hand over the wrist cuff. Tiny blue threads of light flicker back and forth between the two.

"Internal temperature regulation, offline. Pain sensors, malfunctioning. Myomer isolate strands, damaged with cold. Repair?" She hesitates as if listening to an answer. "Isolate strand self-maintenance engaged."

She realizes he's awake and she draws in a breath, a radiant smile of relief washing most of the worry from her face. "Hello," she whispers.

"Hey."

His voice creaks like ice beginning to thaw; his smile, small as it may be, shakes when it appears. He tries to flex his metal fingers so he can take her hand. Turns out they're not moving much better than his real fingers.

"You're here."

"Yes." Always.

She covers his metal hand and eases it back to the bed. She scoots even closer to the bed, the chair leg scraping loudly on the linoleum floor. She reaches for his flesh hand and gingerly brings it to her cheek, nuzzling his palm.

"You scared me."

Curtis hisses a small, involuntary breath between his teeth when Dejah touches his hand. A bright burst of pain echoes through the Voice, quickly stifled; he doesn't pull his hand away.

"M'sorry." His eyes drift closed. "Didn't think it was gonna be that bad."

He didn't think at all, really. Not beyond I have to get to Edgar.

She cradles his hand as gently as possible, presses the most delicate kisses to his wrist where the flesh isn't as red and tender.

"I know, my love. Edgar is safe. You're safe. That's all that matters."

Her voice is more rough than usual, her throat raw. Beneath the words, a tumble of emotions: fear, desperation, joy, relief, and the deep pulse of love, if not stronger than definitely louder than before. So loud, he can almost hear words.

"I'm sorry."

Curtis's own emotions aren't much above a blank fuzz of exhaustion. When Dejah's feelings crash into him, something flickers in reply, brief and sharp: guilt. The corners of his eyes tighten.

"For what?"

She feels it, along with his own exhaustion, and tries immediately to both reassure him and turn down the volume. It's difficult. She's exhausted, too, but nowhere near as much as he is. And she almost lost him. It's shaken her down to her very foundations.

"That we weren't quicker to respond. That you got hurt." That this whole mess happened in the first place. Edgar would never have known if he hadn't overheard them talking. None of this would have happened. She feels responsible for all of it.

"But you're here, you're safe now." I love you.

He's out of it enough to have some trouble differentiating between what's spoken aloud and what's passing through their link: "Love you too," he mumbles, and tries again to give her hand a squeeze.

Not your fault. I'm " -- still here. It's okay."

She studies his face, his eyes. A memory strikes her, hard and fast, makes her eyes water before she has a chance to bite it back. (John, on his death bed, telling her it was all okay when the last thing it the world it was was okay.) She has to turn away for a moment.

She rests his hand back on the soft blankets and lays her head down on his shoulder. The wrist cuff still shimmers blue every once in awhile, and he can feel the sensations in his prosthesis dulling down to nothing while it repairs itself.

Promise me you won't do something like that again. Promise me. Please.

"Promise."

Barely a breath. He lets his head list to the side until it's resting atop Dejah's. I promise.

A brief rush of thoughts courses underneath -- I couldn't leave him out there it was Edgar I had to find him I couldn't let him die I had to it's Edgar -- and trickles into silence, as exhausted as the rest of him.

I'm sorry.

Edited 2016-03-22 02:04 (UTC)

I know he's your family he's your blood he's yours and by extension mine, and I will always come for you, I promise I will always come for you both.

She leans into his touch, her breath hitching in her throat. He's alive. He's alive and he's going to be okay. She draws in a shaky breath, and another, and another, until the ache in her chest fades.

"You're here," she says, and beneath that thought, the wonder of his words, the deeper sense of him entangled with her. He's here in her heart, as he should be, as she's always wanted him to be.

"Yeah."

A memory flickers, dreamlike: a cold arm around his waist, a person shivering next to him. His forehead creases.

"...You warm enough?"

Some of the guilt reforms, running side by side with a fresh rush of worry.

She nods, turns her face back to his so she can look into his eyes again. Her hand drifts up to touch his face. She shares a memory of some kind of warming blanket and a thermos of soup that someone made her drink. She doesn't feel warm as she'd like, but then, she never does when she's among humans. She's grown used to always being a little cold.

"How is your arm feeling?"

Her hand curls along his jaw, barely touching him.

Curtis nods, exhaling a small sigh of relief. (I shouldn't've made you go out there, whispers another thought, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.)

"Better. I think." He tries flexing his metal fingers; they give way a bit easier this time. "Sorry I kinda fucked it up too."

It's all right, my beloved.

"It's all right." And it is. Limit testing was to be expected.

Well, with the arm, not with him.

Another nod, smaller, just the barest tilt of his head. He closes his eyes again.

He's so tired. Curtis keeps trying to grapple onto Dejah's emotions -- and thoughts -- to stay awake. He doesn't want to slip away again; he wants to be here, with her.

A timid squeak rises from the floor. So does the smell of coffee.

She feels his awkward fumbling, and leans into the connection. It's new and fragile, and she's not quite ready to ask how. She needs it too much to question it.

Dejah looks down and mutters, less exasperated 'thank you'. She bends and retrieves a steaming mug.

"Put the carafe on the table, please." To Curtis. "Can you sit up?"

"I, um..." Uncertainty shuffles between his words. "Lemme try."

With effort, Curtis gets his arms steadied against the bed; when he tries to push, though, he winces hard and sinks back to the pillows. "Shit. Can you help?"

(The uncertainty starts to burn away as frustration wells up, like paper smoldering against a lit match.)

She's moving before he even finishes asking. The mug is set on the odd rolling table beside the bed. "Here, I think the bed lifts."

She has to reach across him to find the controls. She shows him where the Up button is and puts it under his hand. When he's got it and starts the slow process of elevating the head of the bed, she offers herself as anchor.

"Hold onto me if you need to scoot up."

Curtis nods. He can put enough pressure on his right fingers to control the button, even if he has to grit his teeth after a couple seconds. With his left hand, he grips Dejah's arm to begin the arduous process of scooting back.

Christ. It's like when he first got off the train. Worse, even.

But he's upright soon enough, leaning into Dejah with a quiet sigh.

The memory is the same for her. She remembers the grime ground into the creases of his face, the filth that clung to every gather of his clothing. She remembers the smell of burnt flesh from whatever cauterized his wound. She remembers the gash on the back of his hand and the way she had to move so slowly and carefully, so he wouldn't cringe away from her. She remembers holding him as he wept, though to this day she does not know if it was from grief or some sense of respite.

She steadies him, lifts him as best she can, trying to be mindful of his tender skin. When he relaxes back, she lingers for a moment, and only pulls back when she has to.

"Here. Coffee will help." She sits on the edge of the bed so she can hold the mug for him to drink.

They've come so far, the two of them. Silently, she mutters a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for his safe return.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

The response time on his prosthesis definitely seems to be getting better: there's a second or two where all he can do is get the fingers to twitch, but once it passes, he can lift his hand to cradle one of Dejah's against the mug. (Getting his right hand anywhere near a hot surface seems like a really, really bad idea right now.)

One careful swallow. Two. The heat spreads through his chest, buoying up some of the warmth the blankets provided.

"...how long was I out?"

"I don't know. Twelve hours perhaps?"

She tries a sip of the black coffee and pulls a face, but goes back for a second sip. It seems to put some color back in her face. Her eyes skim over the lump of blankets in the other bed.

She glances back to Curtis, opens her mouth to say something and changes her mind. He'll eat when he's hungry. Instead, she gives him a shy smile, and looks down at the prostheses.

"It's taking awhile, but the self-repair seems to be going well. Is there any pain? Do you want to take it off and rest for awhile?"

Curtis frowns as he catches a wisp of her thoughts, but lets it pass, and shakes his head.

"Doesn't hurt," he says. "It's just kinda tough to move. I think it'll be okay."

He tries for another sip of coffee. The extra warmth's doing good things for him -- the bits of his mind that brush against Dejah's seem more present, less like they're clinging for dear life.

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