pain_train | SANCTUM INBOX

"I do. And I'm going to make it so you can paint, and I'm going to spend as much time here as I can." He pauses and licks his lips. "And you take care of me too. You make me happy."

"I do?" How she could take care of him at all while in traction--that's right, she'd broken almost every bone in her body this time, that was why she couldn't move--is something of a mystery to her. Have they known each other longer?

Does it matter? He's here now.

Wrath meets his eyes again, and smiles. "Then you should smile," she says quietly. "You have a really cute smile." She disengages her hand just enough to poke him in the palm with her index finger. "Beep."

That's her. With a relieved, quiet sigh his expression gentles into a small smile. "That's my smile button," he teases. "Good thing you found it."

Wrath grins. "Hah. You thought you could keep it hidden forever." But rather than engage in further poking, she nestles her hand--still a little fear-chilled--back in his.

"I put it where you'd least expect it," he says. He glances at their hands, looking pleased, then says, "I brought you breakfast."

"Clever. My first guess was your big toe, but for all I've seen for myself you might not even have feet."

"Breakfast? It must be love. You don't want me to starve." The words are tossed off casually as teasing, nothing more. She's more focused on contemplating the idea of food right now. It's not a good idea. Her stomach still feels strange and cramped up from the stress. Which is annoying, since North always brings the best food. Her lips twist wryly for a moment. "I... should probably try to drink some juice first. Then breakfast."

Because throwing up while immobilized? Not fun. And not a thing her friend needs to see her doing, either.

He laughs. "No, my big toe is a kicking button."

It might not be love proper yet but it's certainly somewhere on the spectrum. And that doesn't scare him off, not at all. "I'm just trying to make Whiskey's life easier so you don't get banana pudding on the ceiling again," he teases. "Are you sure you don't want milk? I brought you a danish."

"Oooh. I'd better not step on your feet when we go dancing then." Because this is your punishment for being friends with Wrath, North. You will get taken out dancing whether you like it or not. And you will discover that she is enthusiastic but absolutely terrible at it.

She laughs. "But if Whiskey doesn't have anything to bitch about, he'll lose the source of his power! I'm just trying to help." Yep, totally.

Milk... Milk sounds good with a danish, for sure. But stomach cramps. She licks her lips. "Juice first," she says firmly. "And if I... If I don't get sick then definitely milk. With the danish." She grins. "Thank you. You didn't have to."

Edited (Swype errors) 2014-11-04 22:20 (UTC)

"You're welcome; you know you are."

He releases her hand to turn to hit the call button—and another image flashes across his vision. He hadn't caught the source the first time, but it seems to be reflecting off the bracket that holds her in traction. He flinches, a slight turn to his head, trying to keep the light from winking off of the bracket into his eyes. This time it's her—her who wins grappling match, her who manages to throw him through the window; it's him who falls ninety-nine stories to the ground.

His brow narrows slightly, and he turns back toward her. "Wrath," he says. "Look up at the ceiling for a minute."

She glances toward the door, then looks up at the ceiling. She trusts him. Her tone goes flat, serous, all business. "What's wrong?"

"When I got here, how you were...before that happened, did you look at your traction pulleys? The bracket here beside your head?"

Still staring straight ahead, trusting he'll explain himself soon: "I don't remember." She licks her lips. It's all too confused still. "I'm sorry." Her fingers curl; she wishes she still had his hand, but better to keep then free. She might trust him, but she's also completely helpless and this is making her nervous.

Edited 2014-11-05 00:20 (UTC)

"That's okay." Had it just been him? Just his mind, thinking of tragic alternatives to what he gets to enjoy now? "I...it must be nothing. I just thought..."

"Safe to look?" She asks.

"I tell myself that all the time. And then I realize that all the little things add up to a lot more than nothing." She tends to be gullible, but that also means that when something is weird, she doesn't discount that immediately. "But if you're sure..."

"I'm not," he mutters. He returns and takes her hand. "There's one way to know."

Wrath squeezes his fingers. "What is it?"

He almost, almost thought it had all been in his head, but it was the way it flashed, like it was contained in the shiny surface of the bracket, that made him feel like there was something to this. He'd had a ghostly sort of sensation that morning in front of the mirror, a moment where it felt that something like a shroud had dropped over him, and this had the same flavor to it.

He folds his hand around hers and presses gently. "To look," he says.

"There is absolutely nothing creepy about that at all, North," she says, rather dryly. But she's holding on to his hand rather tightly when she tilts her head the little bit that she can, looking to the side with eyes alone.

There is something not right with the reflection. She quickly looks back at the ceiling. "Oh fuck me."

He squeezes her hand, gripping it like a lifeline. "You saw it too?"

"I don't know what I saw." Deep breath. Cling to North's hand. "But that's not right. Something's not right. And if it's... if it's in the metal it's touching me. Oh fuck, North."

"I don't want that to happen to you again." He never wanted to see anything like that again. It had been horrible.

Deep breaths. She holds on to his hand like a lifeline. But her voice is calm, focused when she says, "All right. Strategy." Everything like a battle plan. "Can those be covered?" She can't see. And maybe it won't make a difference but maybe it will. "And then... shit, I can't think."

"I'll cover them," he says. He gently tugs his hand away, exits her room, and goes to the nurse's station to get a roll of medical tape (requesting the juice and milk while he's at it for efficiency's sake). When he returns, he places the items on the tray table and rips off a strip of the tape. "I'm going to wrap this around the bracket," he says. "I need to be careful. Don't move." He'll have to do the bracket on her leg, too, but one thing at a time.

He's gentle as he presses the tape to the shiny parts of the metal, being sure not to yank or put pressure on the pulleys. Still, he's sure she can feel minute movements of the cords. It's just inevitable.

The hard part about doing this is the only way to accomplish it is to look at the bracket. He looks away several times, training his gaze on the ceiling. He sees other things, just glimpses, impressions, but they're enough to disturb him. Some of them are of the past, with little things different, some of them are of an altered present. It's not that the images themselves are so bad, it's just the fact that this is happening at all.

"Okay," he says with a strong exhale once he's finished. "Now for the other one."

He begins wrapping the bracket at her feet. This one is larger and turned at a different angle, the broad shiny side facing upward rather than sideways. He looks down at it, judging where the first strip of tape should be placed, when he sees it. His own body, with South and Wash standing over him.

This time he should look away. He shouldn't let his gaze linger this time. But it's something about the sight of him, dead, and as he watches South's death is faked over the radio. Why did Wash do that? Was any of this even real? Was this what had happened, or was this another distortion?

He rubs at his forehead, but keeps looking, reaching slowly to grip the edges of the bracket. He sees the Meta attacking, sees as South has Delta implanted immediately before the fight. North's riveted; he can't look away. He sees South shoot Wash in the back. He sees as South leaves with Delta. He hears her call in to Command as Recovery Two. Just as Delta had said.

Just as Delta had said.

Edited (elaborating) 2014-11-05 03:18 (UTC)

Wrath holds still and just tries to breathe. Seconds stretch to hours for the few minutes he's away. It's not pleasant, any of it, when he starts taping up all the brackets and other shiny metal bits, but she just grits her teeth and maintains, because it needs to be done. Whining about it isn't going to accomplish anything.

And then it's just like he's... entranced. She can't see him that well, from the angle she's at, but it can't be good. From the look on his face, it really can't be good. "North?" she tries. "North, what's wrong?"

That seems to snap him out of it and his eyes blink slowly, and they trace up her body to reach her face. He's blanched and his jaw is slack. He firms the line of his mouth and swallows and blinks a few more times. "I need to cover this," is his eventual answer, but his voice is halting, and now as before he makes himself continually glance away as he places strips of tape on the metal. That had been so clear compared to the flashes of images he'd gotten before and the ones he's getting now. For all he knows that longer one was as much of a lie as these others—visions of himself receiving Sigma as his AI, or of killing his sister during the break-in.

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