2019-09-30 - Sewn Together

When August vanishes into the fever Dream, there's nothing to mark it. He gets up to get a glass of water, heads back upstairs, and things go silent. That's normal, for the last couple of days. He'll have no trouble going through the bottle of water he keeps up there, the dehydration's been so bad with this fever. He often gets up more than once.

But less than an hour later, there's the sounds of him on the steps again. The movement is hesitant and halting in a way that goes far beyond the flu they're both suffering with. It takes him twice as long to get downstairs. When he finally does, he makes his way to the bathroom, shuts the door, turns on the light...and starts filling the tub. He's left a lovely smeared set of bloody footprints on the floor, marking his slow progress.

When Alexander isn't also in the bathroom, or asleep, then he's roaming restlessly around, trying to do chores in fits and starts, or fetching and carrying anything that August will let him fetch or carry when he's awake and coherent. When he has run out of things he feels energetic enough to do, he tries to read. So, when August comes down, Alexander is curled on the futon, staring blankly at a book, and wishing that his vision didn't keep blurring. He looks up with relief when August's footsteps are heard, but he frowns as he determines that change in tempo. "Shit. Did it get worse again?" How could this possibly get WORSE? He staggers to his feet, putting the book carefully back in its place, then starts to pad after August.

He doesn't MEAN to be nosy. He just is. Perhaps a good thing, in this case, because he stops when he sees those bloody footprints. "August? August, what's happened?" There's a sharp rap on the door, three rapid knocks. And then he opens it, if it's unlocked. Because bleeding is bad, and he'll take the scolding for busting in on the other man over other options.

August is slow to reply. He grunts, and there's a light *tink* as something lands in the sink. Something metal, or glass. "It was...we were, Over There. Isabella and I." He sighs, opens the door in an implicit invitation to look if Alexander wants to. It's a good thing the cabin is entirely wood floors with rugs, because any carpet would be destroyed.

He's in the same set of Husky Sweats he went to bed in, but they're destroyed now, sliced up and torn and filthy, and covered in blood down his right side. Much of that's coming from a long, ragged gash on his right shoulder. The ruins of his socks, filthy and bloodsoaked, are in the trashcan, and he's even now working at getting the last bits of glass out if his feet, which are fairly well sliced up. He's sitting on the toilet; the tub is about one forth filled with lukewarm water.

"Isabella? How? Is she?" Alexander looks up as if she might be coming down the steps. There's a moment where it's clear he's got the urge to race upstairs and find her, if she looks like August does.

But August looks like August does, and so he moves forward. "Where's your first aid stuff? I'm pretty good at patching people up, and you look...like you need a fair amount of patching." His voice is raspy and hoarse from the effects of the flu, but his eyes have sharpened from the glassy preoccupation that they've had most of the time. He starts checking bathroom cabinets before August can even answer, grabbing anything that might be useful.

August's focus wanders; he's definitely still feverish. "At some point, I want to not be sick, anymore." The main medicine cabinet has the expected things--toothpaste, floss, deodorant, Xanax, shaving soap and razorblade, etc.

After a second of Alexander rooting around,August realizes Alexander has asked him some questions, sorts out how to answer them. "Uh, lower cabinet in the vanity. She...was mostly okay. I think. I healed her." He sighs, sags where he's sitting. "Should call her, make sure she's okay."

Inside said vanity cabinet are the goods: antibacterial saline wash, sterile gauze pads, tape, forceps, various shapes, sizes, and types of bandaid, antibiotic ointment, aloe, even a suturing kit.

August starts, reaches over and turns off the water for the tub.

"Agreed," Alexander croaks. "At this point, I really just want to find a nice hole and lay down in it for...a while. Maybe forever," he says, shoulders drooping as he quickly goes through the available supplies. He makes a pleased sound at the available spread. "I knew I liked you," he adds, with a weak but genuine smile. He grabs the forceps and the sterilizing materials, and comes to crouch near August. Ignore the heat radiating off of him, especially since it's just a match for August's own. "I will call her as soon as we make sure you're not going to bleed out or anything." He eyes the tub. "I'd like to check you over for anything that needs treatment and the like before you get in. I'm betting that's well water, right? Rather disinfect everything first. May I?" He gestures at August's feet with the forceps. "And what the hell did it put you through?"

August is a furnace, just like Alexander is; his eyes are bloodshot, and he's still much too pale. Ah, the misfortune to get the flu when you're not younger and sturdier. He somehow still manages to cough a laugh. "Well, I've banged myself up enough times to know you don't want to be fucking around with infected cuts. You know? Got the hook caught in my hand, or sliced myself cooking, or...whatever."

He eyes the tub. "Uh, yeah, it is. Well water. Got a filter on it, but," he shrugs as if to say 'it's not exactly sterilized'.

The answer to what did this to him is slower to come. "I did. Except the shoulder." Another laugh, bitter and fierce, papery from his sore throat and congestion. "We were in some sort of...tower, it was a hospital. And there was a thing coming after us. Looking for us. And there were mirrors, showing me..."

He falls quiet, stares at a spot on the floor. Swallows. "Some things." If he doesn't say it, he might not see them again. He can feel them, like craters inside him, but avoiding the visual of the impact is what's most important just now. "I broke the mirrors, but the glass went everywhere." And of course, he wasn't wearing any shoes. Did he need to wear shoes to bed now? God Almighty.

"And you're in the ass end of nowhere, and you don't like hospitals," Alexander adds, with a crooked smile. "I get it." He watches August with dark eyes, brighter than usual due to the fevers raging inside of him. He sits crosslegged before August, wedging himself into place to take the man's feet, one by one, and start pulling out glass bits, and disinfecting those cuts, one by one. It may be noticed, or it may be not, that his free hand is sketching odd little patterns into the wooden floor, and none of it hurts as much as it probably SHOULD. Alexander can't do much in the way of healing, but he can deaden a little pain, and he tries, now. Because having glass dug out of your feet is not fun.

"Sounds rough." He doesn't miss that silence. But doesn't pry. Mostly doesn't pry. He does say, "But why was Isabella there? She's nowhere near the cabin. I think." He grunts. "Half the time I can't even think straight, much less concentrate on people's minds." A frown. "Do you have any major wounds I can't see?" A quirk of his lips upward. "Not trying to get you naked, I promise."

August musters just enough presence of mind to focus on Alexander and say, "Exactly. See? It's nice when someone gets it." He even smiles, fleeting and faint; it disappears when Alexander gets to work on his feet, and his expression turns contemplative. "I'm not sure. It was weird, she--once we got out, she disappeared, through a door." His eyes narrow, and he focuses on remembering. Already it's becoming hazy and uncertain in his mind. "She was...fighting something, when I found her. Some kind of thing made from." he swallows, "dead people." He pauses, hesitates. Gives Alexander a long look. "She was having trouble with Gohl. He---that infection, in us. It was pushing her. Hard."

He shakes his head at the question. "Just the shoulder," he adds, gesturing at his right shoulder with his left hand, wincing as soon as he does it. "Some bruises, but, nothing else really bad." He snorts, amused again. "I don't have anything you haven't ever seen, and anyways, neither of us is looking. Wouldn't matter."

"I have a full kit in my house. Not the suture stuff, though. I should add that," Alexander muses. He quiets when August continues, and his expression tightens with pain. "She has a lot of passion. But a lot of will, too. I wish I could be there," he says, rough and low, "and not hiding out here because I don't have a lot of will." A quick breath, then, and he focuses with a set jaw on disinfecting the wounds and bandaging August's feet after the blood has been cleared. "I don't know that I'd recommend a bath just yet. Not in the tub." He then rises on his knees and gestures at the shirt. "Off, then. So I don't get any fibers in that shoulder." He mutters curse words under his breath as he stares at August's face. "This is intolerable. This stupid flu, and now getting dragged into the lost places while you're half-dead from sickness? That's not right. That's not fair." It's indignant.

"Well, good news, her will held out. She was herself when we were running for it. So." August gives Alexnader a sympathetic look. "I know this probably isn't how you'd want to be helping, but I'm glad your here, or I'd be hopping in that bath and damn the consequences. So." Because he's like that when he's injured: ornery, not exactly careful with himself. Such is life. "We'll give her a call, yeah? Make sure she's okay."

He sighs at the potential delay to his bath, but works off the sweatshirt without complaint. Three scars on his abdomen: two that look like puncture wounds, one at his left shouder and another on his lower-left belly, and a midline incision scar. He turns so Alexander will have easier access to the gash on his right shoulder--it's significant, but should be manageable with cleaning and stitches--which also allows Alexander to see the enormous tattoo on his back: an elk skull, the seam in the bone formed by a long spinal scar. The tattoo reaches from shoulder to shoulder and clear down to the top of his lower back; flowers and vines curl in the antlers, while roots drape down from them. There's another scar on his left clavicle, long and thin, from his neck to his shoulder.

"Yeah, it's bullshit," he says, making a face as he turns. "I guess not a surprise it's from Over There. The Gift kept coming and going the whole time--practically got us both killed by the...thing, that did this to me."

"Of course it did," Alexander says, with no doubt in his mind. "She's strong." But there's a flicker of apology as August goes on. "I didn't mean that I didn't want to be...I want to help you, August. I just," he gestures with the disinfectant, "I want to be in both places. And not sick. And not just as likely to try to hurt as to help." He grimly nods at the suggestion to call, and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his sweats, operating it one handed as he studies August's gash. Well, the gash and the ink and other scars. The low whistle is probably for the tattoo. "This is amazing," he murmurs. "The ink, I mean. The gash is...significant, but I can handle it. If you'll trust me to stitch you up?" He leans back to get a look at August's face. "If not, I can probably just rig something to keep it kinda closed long enough for us to call someone. A real healer, maybe. Miss Celaeno?"

"I know," August says. He pauses to clear his throat. It takes him a few tries. "I just meant, don't beat yourself up too much, yeah?" A lift of one eyebrow, then he sighs and closes his eyes for a spell. Oh, how he wants to sleep for a year, or forever.

"Thanks. Got it because, you know, wanted to kind of...reclaim them. The scars, I mean. Took forever and it was expensive as fuck, but worth it." He mmmmmms, nods at the question of being stitched. "It's fine, you can stitch it. I can have someone heal it...later, at some point, if it really needs it. Once I'm not a fucking mess." Once they're not dying of the Martian Death Flu and being sucked Over There and who knew what else. "I was thinking of another one, on the left side. Maybe a...moth, and a bouganvillea. Or something." He scratches his beard.

"Self-flagellation is my third favorite hobby, August. You can't take that away from me," Alexander mutters, only half joking. He peers at the phone, which is ringing without answer, and scowls at it, like that might make it pick up. "She's not answering. Why the fuck isn't she answering?" His hand tightens on the phone until his knuckles turn white. "I should go. I can take your car," without asking?, " and I'll make her--" his teeth click shut on whatever he was going to make her do. He takes a deep breath. "I'm worried. I'm not angry. I'm not angry with her. I'm just worried." Another deep breath, and then he hangs up that connection, and calls 911. He's actually able to sound reasonably calm as he requests a wellness check at Isabella's houseboat, with a fear that she might be badly affected by the flu and that she hasn't been answering her phone. He gives his contact information, and hangs up.

Another deep breath as he sets the phone aside. "If she's okay, then she can just be pissed at me." He offers a weak smile towards August. "It'll be okay." He doesn't mean that to sound like a question, but it kind of does. "This too shall pass. Let's get you stitched." He rises carefully to his feet and gestures for August to shift on the toilet so that the shoulder doesn't have to twist for Alexander to get access to it. He starts prepping and disinfecting everything. "That sounds lovely. Both in design and intent. I've never been much for ink, but that's...a way of changing the narrative, and that makes a lot of sense."

August watches all of this with a wary eye, ready to...what, exactly? Alexander is vastly more powerful than he is, in terms of the mind Gift. It's unlikely August can calm him down even if he tries. He'd have to resort to his usual disarming tactics, all of them underhanded but quite effective and not damaging long term. Or at least, something he can easily heal.

Fortunately he doesn't have to find out. Alexander does the sensible thing--he calls 911, and talks himself down. Bullet dodged.

August shuffles on the toilet, lets out a long, slow breath. "Thanks. Tattoos aren't for everyone, it's true. Now, that said, you'd look good with one, I think. Something on your shoulder, maybe--that way no one can see it except if you want them to." Possibly a commentary on his, since this isn't visible in the least under most circumstances.

Once everything is sterilized, and August's shoulder wound has been cleaned, Alexander begins. There's not a lot of warning; he appears to come from the school that you can't tense up to resist if no one tells you when the first stab is coming. But at least he's a competent stitcher, and doesn't waste any time or pain with dithering. "It's an idea," he says, although a bit dubiously. "I'm not a big fan of needles. I mean. Other people with needles. Pointing at me. And who knows what else people can put in you while they've got you in a chair, injecting you with ink."

"But it looks really nice on you, August. I think the other one would, too. And Itzhak and Javier both look nice with them." A pause. "They're really beautiful when done well, honestly. And it's interesting seeing the meaning that they have for people. And people are more willing to talk about it, even if it's personal, when you ask them about their ink. It's interesting." At least the rage seems to have passed quickly; the only real benefit to Alexander's emotional instability is that rage doesn't last very long, and he doesn't seem to hold grudges over whatever pissed him off in the first place. He glances back at the phone after he does the last stitch, and then moves to clean, disinfect again, and bandage it.

August grunts at that first stab, yet manages to keep his upper body still. It takes him a second to get used to the pain, suss out its level and find a place where he can tolerate it and still think. He'd forgotten what it was like to be stitched without lidocaine.

"Ah, yeah, needles are kind of part of the whole process." Though he's not facing Alexander, the grin is audible in his voice. "Kind of lucky that's a thing I didn't walk out of the VA with. Thank Christ." And given how Alexander describes it, maybe that's why August doesn't mind. How many months did he spend, going through surgeries, going to followups, getting blood drawn, talking to doctors? It all blurred together. What was one more person in a chair with a needle, ultimately.

"They do," he says, of Itzhak and Ruiz. "Kind of what's been making me think about a third one." He sighs when the stitching is done. "Not like I don't have plenty of scars to do. Except the midline--don't wanna deal with shaving all the fucking time."

"See? It's a flawed process," Alexander says, grinning back. "Get back to me when it's all lasers, or something really interesting like that." He quiets, doing the last bits of clean up and then bandaging the stitched wound before moving to clean up all the stuff he used, sterilizing it carefully before putting it back with meticulous care. "How long? If I can be nosy." Because he's totally going to be nosy. "After what happened, how long were you caught up in the surgeries and recovery and things?"

Then there's a short laugh. "No. That would be irritating. The shaving. Although, who knows? Might be worth it. Some people do really like nice smooth skin on a guy." His tone is teasing. "Speaking of, how is Miss Lake doing in all of this?"

"I'll freely admit I'd get a ton more of them if it was all lasers and 'hey man, we're good here' after a couple of hours." August follows that with a soft laugh. "I'd be covered. Hands, arms, all of it." He grins, seeing it now. Yes, if it weren't for the pain.

"Yeah, it's fine. Ah...they flew me to Germany to get me stable. Landstuhl. That was about four weeks. I don't remember that month very well. Then they flew me to the Portland VA Medical Center. And that was about, three months of recovery and PT, some final surgeries to take out any hardware I didn't still need. After that it was all out of home, just going to appointments and more PT and counseling. PT ended after another year, but the counseling was a while." A lift of his left shoulder for that, followed by a coughed laugh that becomes a real cough. Once he has his breath back, he says, "Well they can date a guy who doesn't have to wax for that." He pats his particularly not smooth belly. "It itches like a bastard when it grows back. No thanks."

He sighs to think of Eleanor. "Okay, last I checked, but I should text her. Or call. Make sure she didn't catch it." He misses her. How long have they been convalescing like this? Here they were, separated from Isabella and Eleanor, miserable, stuck. The Glimmer and William Gohl had a lot to answer for.

"Right? I'd even consider a couple, myself. Although only if I could undo them. It seems like a lot of commitment, a tattoo." He turns around in the small bathroom, eyes the bloody footsteps with a look of determination. "I'm guessing those go all the way up to your bedroom? Do the sheets need to be changed?" He's already moving to grab a rag and start cleaning them up, even as he listens. "Jesus." It's soft. "No wonder you don't mind needles. That sounds miserable. Necessary, maybe, but miserable." A grimace at the coughing, quick and worried.

"You should," Alexander agrees, softly. "And...August, if you need to go to her, you know you can? There's not a lot out here to...set me off. And without a car, even if something does, I won't be able to get to it before it wears off. And between the constant headache, bouts of nausea, and my abilities fritzing out unexpectedly, I can't even concentrate enough to kill someone remotely at the moment." He says that like he's thought way too much about the logistics of remote murder.

It takes August a second to get his chest clear. He runs a hand over his face. He'll need more tea. A lot more tea. Fortunately Eleanor restocked them. "It is. You want to think about it a long time. I did, with the back one--a few months. The leg one, like a year. Got some sketches done, didn't get started until I knew I'd found the right artist. Takes a lot of work and time to do that, which," a wry smile, "of course, we're all overflowing with."

He goes quiet for a few seconds. "Yeah, it was a hell of a thing," he admits, voice low. It's on his mind not the least because of the nightmare he'd just been subjected to. The smell of concrete, the taste of blood in his mouth. The shells raining down, relentless.

He shakes his head. "I'll see how she's doing. Maybe, once the fever's let up. I'm worried if I drive somewhere like this, I'll just get in a fucking accident." And wind up in the hospital. No thanks.

A sideways glance for the comment about trying to kill someone at a distance, then he eyes the tracks he's left. "No, I wasn't in bed when I came to. So, just the floor." He grunts. Well, blood stains are easy enough to sand out, if necessary. He sighs. "No bath--shower, though?"

"Or, there's the other traditional method, which I understand is getting very drunk and waking up with a new one," Alexander replies, dryly. Once he has most of the tracks up to the door, he stands, carefully, to lean for a moment against the door frame. The wheeze is of an older man than he actually is, but he pushes it away after a moment, to turn and smile. "Honestly, my schedule is rarely as full as I would like it to be, so if I do decide to get a tattoo the sensible way, I guess I could spend time thinking about it."

He watches August, then, eyes dark and watchful. Accepting the decision with a nod. "Yeah. It's not really safe. But I just wanted you to know that you didn't have to stay on my account." He takes a step out of the bathroom. "Shower should be okay. Be careful about standing on those feet, and when you're ready to go upstairs, give me a yell? I'll help you up the stairs. And get this cleaned up before we track through it, while you're busy." His eyebrows go up. "Is there anything else you need, August?"

"Well that's how most 'coverup' tattoos begin their existence, I hear," August says on a sly smile. "But some of those can go on to be nice work, too. If a bit more expensive in the overall."

He tenses as Alexander wheezes like that, doesn't relax until he's talking again. "Just think about it. Pens and Needles does decent work, according to Itzhak. Closer than driving to Seattle or Portland."

A low sound and an equally measuring look for Alexander. "I kind of think I should, though--stay on your account. We're in this bullshit together." A smirk, and he nods about the shower. "Got it. And thanks, for the cleaning up. Me, and the rest. I'll make us some tea once I'm scrubed off. I'm good, otherwise, I think." He eases himself up with a wince, sets the tub to draining and pulls the shower curtain into place.

"I think I'll try to avoid that particular experience," Alexander says, of cover up tattoos. He nods. "And, yeah, if I were going to go, I'd go there. Mister Turner and Miss Falco both seem competent and talented."

He looks away as August measures him. "I'd be fine. I'm used to taking care of myself. But...thanks." The faintest hint of a smile. Then he shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Just get clean, make tea, and then we can both try and get some rest that actually feels like rest, and doesn't involve falling into any sort of alternate hell dimensions for a bit." On that, he closes the door, and goes about scrubbing floorboards, punctuated by occasional outbursts of coughing.