2020-06-03 - Out of Hand

Probably, Vyv ought to be appreciating the fact that the parts of him that reappear on the couch, where they left from, are dry. He is, however, not feeling at his most bright-side oriented right now, and instead looks down to where his likely-ruined shoes and trouser cuffs are dripping onto the hardwood. "Oh, for the love of Lobb," he mutters darkly, and he's already pushing up to vertical to head toward the handily-tiled bathroom when that thump reverberates. Loud enough to hear from where his is; that's unlikely to be good.

He picks up the pace, striding that way with suddenly less concern for the amount of water he's still shedding. "Bax?" he calls, a touch of concern in it, and turns the knob when he reaches the door, not currently inclined to knock first.

Inside the room there's the rustle of a towel being pulled down and fumbling to get the tap open. There's a frustrated grunt and a mildly panicked sound of someone slipping. There's a sharp inhalation of air between clenched teeth. "Oy gavalt, sunnova... mother...fffffffff-" The f dragged out turns into a hiss. His name is being called. His head is utterly swimming with the expansion of billions of years of stars jammed into their head. Thankfully this is not his first rodeo having his mind hella expanded. It is however his first time having his hand impaled by a shard of obsidian and it is bleeding like a sieve. The hissing is water making contact and him trying to keep it over the sink, and like an idiot trying to pull it out. That's... something. Luckily it's not moving or he'd have a bigger problem. One leg shot back behind him to brace himself from falling over. That hand towel is going to be toast though. He's trying to use it to make the wound go away by... what? Wrapping it up and forgetting about it? There's an almost pitiful sound of a grown ass man trying to keep his shit together while having a very Boromir level day. "Vyyyyv..." the next word is help but he doesn't really ask.

Vyv likes those towels, but importantly for the current moment, he likes that Bax more. That is his personal Bax, and they're much harder to come by. No matter how plush that cotton might be. He steps inside, assessing what he can see, and the immediate reaction is a rather sharp, "Stop that. It'll make it worse," even as he moves closer and in beside the skater, taking the wounded hand by the wrist for a closer look. King of bedside manner, him. Unlike the words, the grasp is surprisingly gentle.

His jaw shifts as he looks at the damage. "Shame we could only kill that thing once," he murmurs, and takes a small breath. "All right. Keep your hand still, darling, I'm going to wrap it up. You should hold it higher than your heart, once I have. And then we're going to the ER." The hand towel really is doomed, because he pulls a small pair of sharp scissors out of one of the drawers and cuts it into strips, using those to wrap around the hand and try to keep the shard there stable... while touching it as little as possible.

Leave it to a chef to know first aid with hands. While this is not a kitchen it's just as likely he's dealt with similar. All it takes is someone dropping something once and you retain that process too. Does he hear him? Eh, not exactly but he reaches out with a message that sounds about as clear and similar to, windchimes in a flurry. "I think it's bad." Yup. expert assessment right there. He gets the gist though the actual endearments might have been lost, but all together still seem understood.

There's a few images that disrupt what signal he's established to commune one way "Star metal... hurts...~Ow * ..." The mental impressions of flying through space and seeing time stripped into its composite particles, pulled apart like string cheese, his self flaying apart faster than light and becoming energy moving through the darkness as if all of everything were standing still. There's traces of overwhelming elation and fear. This guy's been torn into tiny molecules and turned into a ghost this year more times than he can count. Oddly, the pain is focusing. Maybe Alexander was onto something about that too.

Oh yes. A cavalcade of cuts and burns. Not nearly his speciality, but it's familiar. The quality of the mental comment makes Vyv blink, pausing in his work to study the rest of Bax for a couple moments, and there's something in that expression he recognizes, or thinks he does. Something of the way the skater looks when his hearing aids are out and Vyv's forgotten to try to sign, though in this case some of that is likely pain. Well, he definitely can't sign right now, but he can think, at least.

[Well, it's not good,] he sends back, and sighs. [I'm not surprised it hurts. How did you even manage this?] There's an exasperation to it that's somewhat undermined by the care he's taking in trying to bandage it; they meet in the middle as a kind of unhappy concern. He manages to tape down the last free end of the towel-bits with several bandaids, in a complicated and awkward ballet of one-hand-and-teeth before it occurs to him he's a damn telekinetic and finishes the job rather more elegantly with his mind. A mental note is made to get better first aid supplies in here. It'll suffice, though, for now... probably. [Keep it higher than your heart,] he repeats, [We're going to the hospital. ...try not to bleed on the upholstery.]

He does not ask whether Grant's okay. Grant is manifestly not okay. The question hovers somewhere nearby anyway, pushed a little closer with every bit of mental static that leaks through.

The question Vyv's really asking is are you going to be ok? and more of a concerned request. It's slow adaptation. At least that's how Bax is translating Vyvlish. One really has to look beyond to the goal and what purpose it serves calculated by how much effort is involved to facilitate such, carry the one,and not wear socks with sandals. The latter is much like dividing by zero. It just ends badly, and maybe that's how this black hole that sucked up Grant Baxter and Joe Cavanaugh was made in the first place: One book, one vortex, and the combined incredulity of the masses. Alas.

Really with out pressure on it it's bleeding like it's trying to win a contest. The patient's focus is absolutely shot, however. While he speaks it's really too quiet to focus on . He's got no idea where his voice is being modulated to. O the upside of this they are both telepaths which helps when one's consciousness is not floating ins a haze of stars and endless time. "Fix... fix it. You." Which is not unreasonable to assume one's thought patterns don't flow like they do in one's first tongue. Standing is a challenge. Still the question is out there if he's ok. Desperate for something to focus on he emphasizes this best he can by saying, with a murmur and telepathic coding that in a way has him in echo, "I lost my toothbrush." because that's what he was doing when this happened? This was not how tonight was planning on going; seeing eternity for all of its glory and also being impaled.

...well, tonight certainly wasn't planning on being so literal about it, anyway. Just another reason for Vyv to be irritated with all this, though yes, perhaps not actually with Bax. Might be more so if he knew 'specifically snatching at sharp shards of shrapnel' was the proximate cause, admittedly.

He's done his best to let the fragment and the bandaging create what pressure they can, though it's not enough to keep blood from already seeping visibly into those closest areas. Grasping Grant's wrist, he lifts the arm up for him, going for 'above head', forget just heart. Takes a moment to understand the bit about fixing, and his jaw shifts a little. [I don't think I can fix something like that.] The other arm goes around the skater's waist, and he begins steering him out of the bathroom, bedroom, and across the flat. [And I'm not quite sure who could.] All the same, a glance to the already-pinkening terrycloth, and he tries it anyway, grip tightening around the wrist.

Frankly, it's difficult to be sure whether anything's happened at all. Is there maybe a light warmth or a little tingle? Perhaps he failed; perhaps it really is well past his meager healing abilities. Certainly he misses the rhythm in a step, suddenly a little woozy. As with bumping into the labyrinth walls, he willfully ignores that it's happened at all, lips pressing together as he determinedly continues toward the door. Maybe he can use something else to focus on right now too, as there's a belated, [I have another toothbrush. In the cupboard. Actually, I think I have a couple.]

Grant has a tingle. Most call it trauma, but ya know that could be some healing over time. Not a bad way to have the HoTs for someone. Every party can use a healer. The bandages comply even if Grant does not. Not exactly. He hasn't spaced out this hard since he did veil weed that time. They were in teh middle of something important and now... this and that too is distressing the skater who can't figure out the order of evens at all evidenced by his question of "What'd the doctor say about this? I get to keep it? I need my had Vee."

Up and at em! The chef has at least height and that Bax is not a big dude on his side here. His arm is hoist in the air as they move. There's a wince and a hiss of pain as fingers reflexively try to move and use those muscles in his hand that just took a thrashing. At least the information about the toothbrush he murmurs optimistically confused, "We havin people over?" At least he can be shuttled out the door. It's going to be a long night in the not-fun way.

It already is. Vyv would greatly prefer the fun way, but apparently this is what he gets. Is it some kind of karmic retribution? He's pretty sure he's never done anything to deserve it. [Keep it still,] he instructs at the hiss, and as long as Bax isn't fighting him, it doesn't matter that he'd almost certainly win. Well, unless Vyv cheated somehow. Which he isn't even slightly above. He doesn't always do patient well, but currently it's filtered through determined, so as he grabs his keys and guides the skater out, he also answers, [We haven't seen the doctor yet. That's where we're headed.] A small pause. [They'll fix it.] If they know what's good for them.

Whether visitors are imminent is not addressed, but what are the odds Bax hasn't already forgotten he asked, right now? The chef's starting to radiate more anger, now, with nowhere to aim it. The book, maybe, but he's already ripped it apart. The town in general, perhaps, but it's an irritatingly unspecific target. Free-floating anger just looking for somewhere to roost, right now... but it's still better than the fear unfiltered. He's not chatty, focused on executing the plan. #1, try to stabilize injury, done. As done as it's getting. #2, get Bax out of the apartment and into the car, in progress. #3, get to the hospital and make someone fix him, next. The 'into the car' portion is another moment of perhaps surprising gentleness, opening the door and carefully helping the painter in, buckling him up. It is a little offset by the reminder of, [Don't bleed on anything,] yes, but all the same.

Grant is likely wondering these very things. And since two minutes just went by in reverse for him, yes the toothbrush is forgotten about. There's something about the assurance in the form of thinly veiled threat at not-him that makes him smile in spite of being in a shit ton of pain and hoping shock gets better at it's job. Arm resting atop his head, his teeth chatter quietly, body feeling colder from blood loss. No one's dying, but a lot of folks are about to get a bit busy. He's not so far out of his head he doesn't reply to the mandate driven by anger and concern with a , "Yeah, I'll yell at my blood to go back ins-s-s-side and th-think about what it's d-done." There's a pause and his eyes close wanting sleepy sleepy sleep but knows enough to know to stay awake, "V.... sorry for making you put on shoes again."

"See that you do," Vyv replies, as though there hadn't been any sarcasm in that response, but the chances are reasonable Bax won't be able to catch it in any case. By contrast, [I never took them off,] is clearly shared, as the chef settles into the driver's seat and gets things started. The shoes themselves may not be ideal for the car, still being squishily wet, but needs must. At least footwells are designed for that sort of thing. His hand drops from the gearshift to Grant's thigh, a pat so light and brief as to scarcely exist, and then they're off, into the streets of Gray Harbor.

It is not a long drive to the hospital, and Vyv is not in a mood to care about speed limits... so it's even shorter. For the best, probably, the way Bax looks right now. He parks as close to the ER as he can find a space, and helps the skater out of the car very much the way he helped him in. The door's closed with less care than he'd usually exert, and he guides Grant inside as quickly as the younger man can currently walk. No delay in leading him right up to the intake, either. Someone needs to make that blood go back inside and think about what it's done. ASAP.

Check-in at the hospital, to say the least, is swift due to open wound. Fun times. He's asked a few questions but has a hard time focusing on them, what they're asking and looks to Vyv to do translations for him. Good news, you are getting field promoted. The better news is they're both telepathic so at least this can expedite the process of learning more ASL than he actually knows.

By the time they're ready to bring him back in a family only situation it's Bax that tries to tell them best as he can guess at moderating his volume, "I need him. He's my translator." By his permission and medical need? Yeah there's that golden ticket. Thus begins the unhappy procedure of trying to remove the obstruction.

The process to debride and rinse the wound is not fun, though unlike the home attempt they tourniquet the arm first. Does Bax look? Oh fuck no! (yes. Yes he does. He shouldn't but he did.) His free hand holds into Vyv's and his heels dig into the table he's laying there on trying not to look. Which means he looks. Again. The next 25 minutes with Bax really, really, really regretting it while they treat against waterbourne infection, make sure there's no foreign microbes from the sea water in there to cause infection. Cleaning, sutures, more cleaning, bandaging until his hand looks a bit like a Q-tip with fingertips.

Of course the question comes out if he's taking drugs of any sort. Well... shit. But hey they don't want these things to collide with the oral antibiotics they like people impaled with foreign objects covered in extra-terrestrial matter to be on to be careful. He sighs. He murmurs, "There's patient HIPAA...whatever... "His eyes go from Doc to Vyv and back to be sure, "You can't tell my dad right?"

Does someone who isn't Bax need to take charge of things? Handy he packed a Vyv. Because frankly, the chances are good the chef was going to end up doing that anyway. This problem is going to get dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible, or he's going to... do whatever he can come up with to make it get dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible. Acting as translator is a no-brainer, when they're questions he can't just answer on his own to start with. There's a fair chance he'd have ended up filling out the paperwork anyway, but with as spacey as the wound has Grant right now, there's neither hesitation nor permission asked. All the data on the state ID card he turns out to recall, though he has to check in on insurance info and SSN and the like. The whole telepathy thing really helps.

It's also handy that Bax declares Vyv his necessary translator, because it doesn't take a psychic to tell that there was about to be an argument if he wasn't allowed along. Not that he looks like he's enjoying himself at any point once he is. But he does do his best to facilitate the communication, and he keeps hold of Grant's unwounded hand without complaint as the work's being done. And he watches, nose wrinkling but mind taking note of what's done, just in case this happens again. It seems unwise to assume it won't. It's only once he sees the younger man's expression after looking that he does anything to prevent him doing it, reaching over when he seems to be starting to do it again and giving his head a little push to encourage it not to. He's not good at calming/distracting conversation himself, but he does make sure things get passed on.

And then they ask that question and get Grant's in reply, and the chef rolls his eyes. "All other evidence notwithstanding, you are an adult, Bax. No, they can't tell your father anything you don't allow. Promise." This is not how the doctor would have put it, and the tone is clearly not wholly approved, but there is agreement nonetheless that no, they can't and won't. The little hand-squeeze that came along with Vyv's version of the reply seems unnoticed.

Even addled Grant knows Vyv's upset. He picked up on that when he kinda blew up a book. Sometimes, very much with mentalists, it's just a sense one gets. When you know that person pretty well? More so. Some people needs something to do to keep from the panic that comes with something you care about falling the fuck apart all around you.

The chiding and the promise tho? That works well enough. Well at least it lands home and what comes out of his mouth is an inglorious list of prescribed and prescribed against things he's taken anyways. There's at least the added benefit of him saying, "But not in like...the last few days... I think." One really would not be able to tell at a glance with the way he's going, though with his hand at least wrapped up he can try to relax. Exhausted. He does not let go of Vyv's hand however even though the stitches are done and he's wrapped up. He does ask for the rock citing, "I'm kinda attached to it."

Vyv would still happily destroy that book again if it would just present him the chance, at this point. Though this time possibly farther away from Bax and his hands. That'd definitely qualify as something to do. As it is, he settles for what he's got: keeping things going as smoothly as he can and hold of Grant's good hand. The List gets a Look, though a relatively mild one -- one of his many flavours of 'really?', but a distinctly tired one. However, that addition about the last few days gets just a hint of a smile, barely visible but still the most there's been in... well, hours, now. "I'm fairly sure detaching you was why we're here," he remarks at the request, one-handed signing still bolstered by telepathy, though it doesn't seem to be a genuine objection.

They're left alone briefly while the rock's santized and put into a container, and likely while an assessment of what sort of painkillers they feel they can ethically prescribe Bax is being made. At least the antibiotic should be easy enough. Once the curtain's been closed a few moments, Vyv leans over and gives the shorter man a light kiss on the forehead, free hand brushing back a bit of his hair. [Your roots could support a redwood at the moment,] he observes, and settles again with his arm pressing up more soundly against Grant's. [Doing all right?] They've finally reached a moment the answer wasn't immediately obvious, apparently.

Grant is exhausted; mentally, emotionally, and especially geographically. His eyes close for a moment when the affection is pressed to his forehead. His good hand squeezes tighter when that happens on the emphasis of his mumbling. He can't hear what he's saying right now but Vyv can. .. he thinks.. "I went to space and saw the edge of time... I came back this time." Of all the addictions he has on the list to eventually kick, somehow going to live on the other side of space is one. It's a little important to a few people who care about his crazy ass, and it was enough to make that effort. Maybe it's enough to bring Vyv back to middle a bit too.

There's a faint grin {I got a hot guy ready to kick the whole world's ass. I'm great....I can't feel my arm right now.} which is playing an important role in the illusion of 'great'. "Truthfully? I'm focusing on not throwing up... or passing out... or doing either in your car." His fingers lift a bit in a slight gesture around the hand in his. "I know. You're welcome." After a pause he asks for the sake of doing so, "Hey, while they're trying to figure out how'not burn out my kidneys can I crash at your place if I promise not...turning your rug into a scary movie set or shit?"

Vyv can indeed hear what Grant's saying, and it elicits a slower, silent exhalation. [You did.] And it's important, coming back. The reasons for being great get one of those little breaths of a laugh, though the glance toward the arm has a touch of appraisal that suggests concern. Well... that's probably how it's meant to be, yes? Block out the pain. The doctor's suggested the hand's function's likely to be fine once it heals, but it's still an uncomfortable thing for your standard artist to contemplate. So it doesn't hurt in the least to get distracted by the things kindly not being done in his Jaguar, nor the request that follows.

"Do not turn my rug into anything. I'm perfectly happy with it as a rug." It's thought as well as spoken, though he doesn't bother with the half-signing while they're alone. He technically owns more than one rug, but the remark holds for any or all of them, so does it really matter which one Bax is thinking of? "But yes. You can stay at mine." Very magnanimous! And it saves Vyv having to insist.

And, eventually, when the prescriptions have been sorted and the care instructions and come-back-ifs given, that's how it goes. The car and Bax survive each other on the way, and far later than either man would currently prefer, they're back to the flat and its sinfully comfortable bed. The painter has to submit to having his wounded wrist tied up where he can't roll onto it in the night, and Vyv isn't about to lie down before he's tidied the bathroom and done what little he can to try to save his shoes as well, but exhaustion is mutual problem, and heads have scarcely hit the pillows before sleep takes them both.