2021-01-21 - Winter Summer Advice

It’s the hospital, nearly every Gray Harborite’s favorite place to end up locked in or visiting. Abitha is no different, as her previous visit had proven, and likely the nurses now remembered, even with the stark difference in her hair since the last head wound. Why was it always the head with this girl?

Abitha was in traditionally depressing hospital patterned pastel, though had a large fluffy sweater wrapped around her shoulders, something that belonged to her, maybe brought by someone else. She was staring at something in front of her, but her hands were unoccupied. She wasn’t hooked up to monitors anymore.

Well, there was one wire, going from the bed to the hookup on the wall. Seems some bird had tried to flee the coop, and the nurses had rigged up what was usually reserved for sleep apnea patients to alert them if someone was no longer on the bed.

Abitha was alert, but just staring at the roller table that was positioned across the middle of her bed. Her face had done the swelling it was going to do, the left side of her forehead stuck with a single bandage where skin had been broken by drawer corner, but the nasty red and purple of a bruise radiated out from there.

It's been a hell of a few days around town. Warehouse blowing up, police department getting shot up, friends in the hospital or otherwise injured. August would like it to all stop; winter is annoying enough, with the old wounds twingeing and complaining.

Sadly, he seldom gets what he wants, at least not in this regard. So he has to settle for making the rounds, providing things like coffee and pastries to people trapped in the hospital. He's spent a few days there now; he knows what the food is like (bad, real bad). He's got a pair of Espresso Yourself coffees (veinte for Abitha, just a tall for him), a small bag with muffins and danishes, and is dressed for the lovely January weather: shearling jacket, knit cap, heavy hikers, denim jeans, black, waffle knit Henley.

He pauses in the doorway, glancing around the room (is he looking for damaged equipment? ...maybe), eyes taking in the alert wire. Presently he raps on the doorframe. "Room service." He waits there, gauging Abitha's mood.

Abitha had noted August's arrival quickly, and there had been... Something. Abitha always had a very subtle touch when using her Gift, but he knew she had just used it for something. He just wouldn't be able to tell for what. Logical explanations? Maybe she was just pinging the area because she was surprised, something he'd seen her do often enough.

She looked a lot like one would expect. No makeup, not particularly energized or engaged posture. She did have wide eyes though, which was odd. She was staring at August like she was afraid of something. In the briefest moment, her eyes touch the empty roller table again. When her eyes were back on August she looked almost guilty. But her hands were visible, so it's not like she were hiding something under it...

She seems to get most of her expression control back to make a nervous quirk of her lips. "H-..hey... Holy shit, is that good coffee?"

Now the genuine smile, gratitude, the rest in the past. Mostly. Here eyes still darted nervously every so often.

If August is off-put by the sense of Abitha using Glimmer, there's no indication of it. It's not like he can judge, as he had Eleanor dial him down a notch before he came here. Even feeling as steady as he has been, coming into this place is still a challenge.

No, stop thinking about that. Don't undo Eleanor's work.

"It sure is," he says, coming in the rest of the way. "The food in here is shit. Figured you could use something real." He heads for the table, moving to set the coffees and bag of danishes down. The closer he gets, the more drawn his expression becomes; at this range it's harder to pretend the extent of her injuries isn't pressing on him. "How long are you in for?"

"You are my new favorite." Favorite what? Did it really matter? "One more night?" Abitha sounds hopeful, if not quite clear on the expected outcome. "No internal bleeding, so they let me sleep, but I was still di_..."

Her eyes note, with visible horror, where August was about to set the food and beverage down. Fifteen different possibilities flash through her mind and her hands each adopt their own independent choice. One hand goes to try to take the bag of pastries from August's hand, the other tries to grab at something before he can set the coffee down. Her fingers don't seem to close around anything, though, instead resulting in the strangely metallic scraping sound the faux wood table makes before there's some sort of knock on the plastic on the side of the bed.

It's when there's a clear pinging of metal bouncing on tile that Abitha can't continue convincing August's mind he can't see what was there. When it was still on a flat surface was one thing. Clinking and making noise wasn't going to happen.

A metal scalpel clatters noisely across the floor, coming to rest in plain view. Now Abitha looks even more guilty.

"I bet you say that to everyone who brings you coffee," August says, though he chases it with a wry smile. Abitha's sudden grab for the pastry bag, followed by her attempt to get something off the table, almost catches him by surprise. No coffee disaster today, though; he put stoppers in the lids, and is able to keep them from overturning.

He watches the scalpel rattle noisily on the floor. After spending a second considering it, he sets the coffee down, leans over to pick it up. He considers it for a handful of seconds, then her. His expression is calm and thoughtful, like he's watching some gruesome yet entirely commonplace event in nature go down.

He sets the scalpel on the table. "Little overkill for cutting danishes, but I guess it'll do." His tone is light, matter of fact, invites her to accept this convenient excuse.

The time that August takes methodically considering, collecting, retrieving seems an eternity for Abitha, one where every moment she wonders if her heart will just burst from the anxiety. She stares at him wide-eyed, just another symptom of a horrible upbringing. She didn't have reasons or excuses, she had fear and she froze.

Then he shocks her further with his words, so much so that she visibly seems to startle as he starts to talk. And the words? Her eyes were wet. They had already been slightly red, but now she was forced to look at the ceiling to try to hold back the surge. Talking a steadying breath, Abitha nose her head, a shade over the line of agreement and into emphatic.

"Yeah, um..." She has to swallow then, and her voice was heavy with emotion, even for such a banal statement, "...in case they were meant to share."

The scalpel is notably blocked from view by the coffee cups. August's careful consideration gives way to a small, sad smile. It's less pity, more 'life in this town sure can stick it in and break it off, eh?'

He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the guest chair, moves offer Abitha her drink. "Well you definitely strike me as someone who can polish off three lemon curd and cheese danishes solo. But on the off chance you can't, I'll find it in me to have some."

There's a complicated sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as August jokes about the danishes, "Dammit, I'm already crying, don't make me feel fat, too!" Add gross to the pile too as she noisely sniffles, but refrains from wiping her nose on her arm. She graciously accepts the coffee, lifting it to sip, not even wondering. She was a regular enough customer, someone over there knew what she was into. The danishes go untouched for the moment.

"So... Um... how the turns have tabled, huh?" She tries a weak joke.

August graces Abitha with The Face. "You think a few danishes are going to make you fat. When you probably live on Mountain Dew and peanut M&Ms and pizza." He says this flatly, suggesting a side of, 'I figured you knew more about biology than that'. An eyebrow goes up. "Anyways, nothing wrong with fat. I kinda liked having a bit more weight, but," he shrugs. Getting old, this is just how it is. Weight goes up, weight goes down.

In deference to the gross, though, he pulls out a travel pack of tissues from a jacket pocket--Puffs, not the kind that destroy your nose--offers it over. And, finally, he settles in that guest chair. "Yeah, and," he snorts, bitter, stares down at his coffee, "same fucking reason, too." He flicks a glance up at her, indicating he knows who this was, tangentially at least. "Here's hoping that gets sorted, so we can go back to the usual hospital meetups."

"Oh! Yeah." There's a warbling quality to the agreement, like the thought would send her into crying again, and rueful enough to communicate the sarcasm, "Let's totally get things back to normal. Bullet holes and stab wounds from real people are so last year, right?" The tissues see liberal use as the green haired geek rids herself of her nasal impediment goo.

" And I'll have you know," Abitha points a finger from a hand still holding one of the balled tissues, "That's horribly generalizing. I actually eat very clean. Living at Sparrow's nearly killed me."

"Yeah, well, it's harder for me to justify not going on out and just...dealing with real people." August toys with his coffee cup. He is not thinking about how Itzhak got a bullet hole, and he's not thinking about what he'll do if Eleanor winds up in the middle of any of this. He's not! See how he's not thinking about it? Anyways, he promised Itzhak not to do anything unless someone came at him directly. (A promise he really regrets making.)

He clears his throat. "Clean, like, Hamburger Helper? Mac n'Cheese?" He pauses, frowning a moment. That's actually a pun. But he doesn't linger on it, just continues, "You can't blame me for generalizing, I was twenty-five once. I know how I ate." He can't help but smile, though, at the revelation that Sparrow's house is not, in fact, stocked with healthy food options.

Abitha huffs a little bit, “Fuck, last person to make a Mac and Cheese joke at me was James...” Which only seems to make her a little more morose. When did they talk last? Was he even still alive? She comes out of it to correct, “I save my carb allowance for beer, regardless.” She does something she often does, where she opens her mouth and breaths, but reconsiders words. Usually she’d put a joke here. But something still feels off.

“August... I...” She starts, but there’s a heavy breath, like she were about to let out another sob, but breaths through it again. She falls silent, but her eyes finally lift to his, they were welling up with tears. She didn’t have jokes, banter, and small talk right now. She didn’t even have words. All she had was horror, and pain.

"Yeah, wonder what he's been up to," August murmurs, thoughtful. The change in Abitha's tone derails that potential train of thought before it even got underway, and he studies her a bit. He sighs, shakes his head.

"Listen--you don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to," he says. His voice is carefully even and calm. "At least not with me. You can, if you want to, and you think it'll help. But don't think I expect you to." A small pause to let that sit between them. Then, "You have been through a lot more than anyone should have to at your age. Not that anyone should have to go through shit, but," his eyebrows go up, "speaking as someone who had a similar life under his belt by your age, I can tell when someone's getting more than their fair share." He smiles, rueful and brief, has a sip of coffee. "The only thing I'd ask you to listen to me say is: go easy on yourself. Some bad shit's happened to you, and you're hurt in almost every way a person can be. And when we're hurt--when we're really, badly fucked up--we do things we're not proud of."

"But-..." She draws a shakey breath, trying to find the words to articulate, "I would have killed him... For hitting me." She has the presence of mind to put the coffee down, balling her fists together and shoving them down in her lap. "I've... yeah, I've seen a bunch of... horrible shit. But how... how do you deal with you? Like what's inside you?" Each word was a blurt or a breathy thing between jittery jerks, weeping held in. It was a mark of something on how she talked to August. She'd just cried and hugged Maggi. She'd screamed in hysterics with Alexander and Ravn. It seemed here she was looking for his guidance.

"I'm a monster... again. I hurt people. I'm dangerous to people's lives. He..." A dramatic trail off, still having trouble talking about the officer.

August takes all of that in with a relatively impassive face, though it wouldn't take a Mentalist of Abitha's caliber to tell that emotions are roiling around inside of him. "Well, taking this all one thing at a time--what he did, that wasn't 'hitting' you." He stops there, looks her in the eye. "Clocking you in the head like that? He was trying to kill you. A head wound like you got is permanent, lasting damage for most people, and he knew it. So don't minimize what he did to you because you think you could've done better. He doesn't deserve that. That man was trying to kill you, or at a minimum maim you, and you can't be blamed, in a situation like that, for wanting to return the favor."

He glances away. "That said...the problem, ultimately, is the horrible shit is inside you." A brief glance at her, then away again. "It's a big gaping wound right now. If you can get it healed up, it'll still be a scar. Sometimes It'll pull, and it's gonna ache. But," he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded, looking at her again, "it can heal. If you go easy on it, take care of it. I won't lie," he laughs, rueful, "it's a long and shitty healing process. But you can get there."

He sighs softly. "And, I understand why you think you're a monster. But being a monster isn't a fixed thing. It's about choices, decisions. You did something you think you shouldn't have. So, if it was me in your place, would you think I'm a monster for snapping that guy's neck?"

Abitha’s tone is cutting, rueful again, a laugh that has no mirth, “Oh, Alexander tried that to.” At least the anger made the talking clearly, less likely to catch, “’If it were me,’ is a question for you. You’re you, you have your life, you make decisions, and you square with them. You are my friend, I can’t judge you for that.” Ok, well for a little bit. There’s a breath and a shakes exhalation, “But me? August, did you know I can tell when people lie to me?” It’s a bit scary to put out there. From day to day, how many little lies do people tell each other? ’I’m fine.’ or ’No, I have plans.’ She makes a waving motion in a general direction, an over there, “He had a wife, and they threatened her. He said so before.... bef-.... It was the truth. And I tried to kill him because he hit me. He could have shot me, he was just covering me.” She was loud, animated, and clearly in distress. If there were still monitors on her, they’d probably all be in elevated levels by now. “He didn’t, and I heard that, and I tried to kill him.” Her hands come to her eyes, palms pressing into them, “And I have to be ok with that?”

August gives serious thought to her insistence that she can't judge her friends, comes up with a rueful sigh. "I kinda think you can. But that's because there's a difference between how you feel about something, and what you do about it. You can think something's a bad call without being shitty about it. There's levels here, you don't have to vote someone off the island because they did something you don't like. Friends don't have to always like one another's decisions. It's standing by one another, or pushing back, that matters."

Lie detection, the gift that keeps on giving. He allows himself a moment to be morbidly amused. "The stronger readers can do that, yeah. Not that great, huh?" He sobers a moment later, continues, "Someone he loved being threatened doesn't absolve him of what he did, and doesn't make you a monster for doing what you did. It really doesn't. If someone threatened Eleanor? I wouldn't be trying to hurt anyone else--just them." He snorts a humorless laugh. "For one thing, she'd never forgive me for making an innocent person into collateral damage because of her. I can't call myself her husband and not take what she'd want into consideration. And," he grips the side of the bed for emphasis, "I'm gonna say this until you hear it: he didn't 'hit' you. He was trying to fuck you up good and proper. Anyone who nails someone in the head isn't just trying to smack some sense into you. They're not." The being okay bit has to wait. This is important to him.

"How do you know!?" August's emphasis on a point he won't budge from only gives Abitha room for more questions, questions she still can't come to terms with herself, "You weren't there!" Her face was marked with full on a blotchy redness around the cheeks at this point. Her voice lifted to a point she'd likely get yelled at by the nurses again.

"He had his gun out, he could have just shot me where he saw me! He chose to hit me instead." Another emphatic wave meant to indicate the police station, "Liu fucking killed someone just to show the rest of them he could. If I'd tried to kill him..." She wouldn't be here, crying. But she didn't have the words. She was breathing hard, close to hyperventilating.

"Same way you can tell if someone's lying, I can see what an injury really looks like." August's attention shifts to that spot on her head, roves from there, seeing things not obvious to the naked eye. He swallows, jaw setting, takes in a breath. He's about to say more...and hesitates.

He blinks, shifts his grip from the edge of the bed to her wrist. "Hey, hey--none of this is your fault. It's really not. You're expecting way too much of yourself, thinking you could know who you should have stopped and who you shouldn't have." He smiles, regret tightening his features. "You didn't know what was going to happen, you didn't know all the perfect decisions. You couldn't. No one could have." He ducks his head. "You don't have to be okay with that, but you do need to figure out how to live with it. I know that seems impossible right now, so, don't think beyond getting through right now. Take each day by itself. Each hour by itself, if you have to. One at a time."

There's a moment where Abitha looks a little chided by the reminder. Oh right, one of the best healers in the town. Of course he just sees. When she's touched though, Abitha's shoulder spasms a little before she remembers, this was August. This was comforting. Sometimes, people did that through physical contact without any connotations or expectations. She looks down at the hand, then up to August, visibly trying to marshall her breaths. She looks toward where the scalpel was, not having forgotten, just as good a mover as she was a thinker. It was a fleeting glance, but held context she wasn't totally sure she wanted to communicate, but altered emotional state wasn't letting her really get away with hiding.

"What if I don't know if I can live with it?"

August weathers that flinch without complaint; she's free to pull away, or not, as she prefers. He tracks her glance, makes no move to stop her. Is it because he'd let her do it? Or because he'd break that scalpel into tiny pieces too small to be useful? Hard to say.

"That's where listening to other people, and leaning on your friends, comes in. Trusting us when we tell you: you can get through this. The help you need is help we can give. If you'll let us." He sits up, gives her wrist a gentle squeeze and withdraws his hand.

He takes up his coffee and has a sip. "When I came back from Bosnia, I was a," he shakes his head, laughs, "complete fucking mess. Just...angry all the time, destroying things..." His voice fades. "And my family, they never gave up on me. They're the ones who refused to lose me. Sort of like that faerie tale--Tam Lin. No matter what I did while I was healing, they wouldn't let go. Except," he shifts in his seat, "Itzhak pointed something out to me once. He said that, it only worked because Tam wanted it. And it only worked for me, because--as fucked up as I was--I wanted it." He stops there, waiting to see what she thinks.

Sometimes it's weird what Abitha can remember about things, her words are throaty, thick with recent crying, but her breathing was getting better. There's finally a blurt of a noise, maybe something close enough to resemble a laugh, "You gonna dunk me in some water when I turn into coal?" Wet and loud, she sniffles again, then remembers she was civilized and uses some more tissues. Neurotically, she balls them up and puts them on the far side of herself, like she weren't gross or something. She tries to dry her eyes as well, winces, gingerly checks her dressing was still stuck on, then takes a steadying breath. Picking up her coffee, she sits back into the incline of the bed, looking up at the ceiling, taking a sip as she considers all the pocks of the drop ceiling above her.

"Why did I have to make friends in the creepiest, most murderous town, like... ever..." She wonders rhetorically, quietly, then lets her head roll aside, looking to August, "I'm glad they held onto you. Mostly cuz I think we'd all be dead or insane like nine times over if they didn't."

The question gets a smile out of August; even a laugh, though it's a voiceless, relieved sound. "I mean," he shrugs, "whatever works." The smile broadens, and he bobs his eyebrows. "Sometimes the shit that helps isn't what you think it'll be. That's just trial and error." His mouth flattens in sympathy. "For me it was reading my Aunt's poetry books. Found a lot of words in those that described how I was feeling much better than I would've come up with. But I couldn't ever talk to anyone about the," he rubs his fingers together in his personal, wordless gesture for 'Glimmer', "part of it. Not until I came here."

He has a drink of coffee. "Isn't a creepy, murderous town the kind of place you want friends?" A rhetorical question gets a rhetorical question for an answer. He manages another small smile when she continues, glances down. "Well. That's how I thank them. I pay it forward." Another drink of coffee, then, "I gotta make sure I stay worthy of their efforts."