ArchivedLogs:Patchwork

Patchwork
Dramatis Personae Hive, Iolaus, Jackson, Ryan, Horus
In Absentia	2013-03-12 After the run-in with his BFF, Ryan gets patched up.
Location <NYC> 304 {Ryan} - Village Lofts - East Village
Similar in layout to many apartments in this building, the front door opens into a narrow entryway with a small coat closet. The living room beyond is wide and receives plenty of light from its high windows; floored in dark hardwood, it is separated from the adjoining kitchen by a half-wall counter, stools perched on the living room side and the sink and counterspace on the kitchen side. On the other side from the kitchen stands doors branching off to a pair of bedrooms and one bathroom; to the left of the entryway, a short hall wraps around past the kitchen to the second pair of bedrooms, a second bathroom at the far end of the hall. The apartment here stands often in a state of disarray, musical equipment or books or scattered notes spread among the pair of couches or coffeetable. The kitchen, at least, is usually kept neatly organized in contrast to the living room's clutter. At odd intervals from the walls, sturdy wooden poles branch out, somewhat akin to very large bird perches. Travel has been slow; the time to contact The Group plenty via call or text plenty. Under cover of invisibility, Ryan and Jax have progressed from the subway stop nearest the Village Lofts to the audiokinetic's apartment itself. Sprawled across the couch, Ryan lays with his head half-propped by a pillow, his leg thrown across a pile of towels wet and stained with the dried brown of blood, colored pale and looking faint from the amount of blood loss suffered. Forced to turn over for cleaning and examination, it is clear he has rejected legitimate medical attention, a large gash traced down his bare calf and innumerable other cuts across his skin and clothes where the bloodmonster's tendril'd appendages found their mark. In lieu of legitimate medical attention he has a Jackson, who has shooed the flood of refugees across the hall to his own apartment for some modicum of privacy through this tending. Thankfully, their collective apartments are /well/ stocked currently in first aid supplies. Jax has donned gloves (/purple/ nitrile, stylish!) for this enviable position of getting Ryan out of his pants. Or the less enviable position of cleaning up the blood. He's working at it gently, at the moment, cleaning off the worst of the cuts first. Not /all/ the apartment has been shoo'd away, though. Horus is perched on the arm of the couch, nearby Ryan's head. He's /helping/, in that he is managing the pile of supplies. Picking up the water bowl in his talons when it gets too bloody, flying it to the sink, emptying it, refilling it. Handing Jax clean towels. He has kept up a /steady/ supply of soft-twittered chirping, the actual words, well, birdlike, but the emotion behind them clearly readable in his soft-concerned worry. In between handing off supplies he is nervously preening. Not himself but Ryan. Gentle neat-tidy strokes of Ryan's hair with his beak. Every strand must be in its proper place. << Can't leave you alone for /two fucking minutes/. >> Hive grumbles this before entering, chiming in with his multitude of voice, his /own/ voice sort of hollow beneath the chorus of otherpeople's. He unlocks the door and heads in, not offering any help at all but folding his arms on the back of the couch to lean against it. << Jesus. Bloodmonster's fucking messy, Dusk should give him a lesson in table manners. >> Ryan is humming under his breath in attempt to lighten the mood with his gentle cadence, infused with an empathic calm carried in his voice as it diffuses throughout the room. He extracts himself from his first pant leg without much fuss, peeling it down across his wounded limb causes discomfort, and, more patience in removing (as well as with much wincing). "I'm /fine/, Horus," he insists shaking out his hair into a disarray of untamed locks once more, tilting his head back to smile at the birdman reassuringly. When Hive enters, he cracks a weak grin, ready with the snark, "Hey, if it weren't for Jax, I might have been the main course. That thing at least knows how to clear his plate. He left some panhandler a dried /husk/ by the time I found him." For Hive's reviewal, he flashes images of the entire scene, colored in blood red around the edges to accompany the violent imagery, memories awash with fear and disgust. Horus does not have telepathic senses but his imagination is filling in, here, terrible mummy-corpses littering the subway and Ryan among them. << Tch hold /still/, >> is his fretting, accompanied by another -- slightly /scolding/ worried twitter, << I spent a lot of time on that. >> Leeean. More careful gentle preenings, feathering Ryan's hair /just/ so over his forehead. << He's trying to get himself killed again, >> is added to Hive. Jax has flashes of the bloodmonster jumping unbidden to mind, too, and he tries hard to push them back down as he gently cleans Ryan's wounds. "Not sure you still won't be, some time," he says. "That thing must've followed you all the way back here from upstate." And being in the subway so close to home means it knows where he lives, is his worried undercurrent of thought. But aloud: "It's been preying on kids underground. We gotta find it." << Because we let it out on this city. >> Hive snorts, reaching over to ruffle the feathers at Horus's neck, finger scritching at the base of the young man's head. He straightens, wandering towards the kitchen to rummage through the fridge for a glass of juice. Some fruit. << These motherfuckers can't be trusted, >> he answers Horus, though it is broadcast to all of them, << fucking troublemagnets, every one. /Most/ rock stars stick to attracting paparazzi, you know. >> He brings Ryan fuel! In the form of hydration and sugar. << Don't you know sewerpeople? >> Ryan submits to to the feathering with a grunt, folding his arms over his chest, only to restlessly unfold them and drop a hand over the edge of the couch, fingers brushing the floor. "The worst part," pausing in hesitation, he shudders, swallowing hard before he continues, "All those mouths wouldn't stop demanding to know Peace's name. And telling me how *good* she tasted." He spits the words out, wincing as the wet cloth touches his wound, sending a lancing pain up his leg. "Shit, don't tell me I need--" << Stitches >> is the unspoken thought filling in that sentence, as he accepts the glass from Hive and chugs it. "It was as big as a fucking moving van. We need to kill it." The sadness at the mention of Peace comes from Jackson and Horus both. Horus's softsad chirrup ends his preening; he just rests his head against Ryan's, beak nuzzled up into Ryan's hair. << She died helping, >> Horus consoles himself with. Or tries to. It's not much consolation. He nuzzles at Ryan again. << He's hurt make him rest no hunting monsters. >> Jackson finishes with the cleaning, moving on to stanching the blood from the worst of the cuts while he bandages the ones ready for bandaging. Horus helps with this, too, fluttering down from the couch's arm so that he can hold gauze packed in around the wound to absorb the flow of blood, beak pressed firm down against it. "You need to heal first," he says, "Ryan, a doctor really should see your leg." << /Ryan/ in the ER would come with so many questions. >> And tabloids. And hassle. Hive rubs a hand against his eyes tiredly. << But you do need stitches, dude. And rest. Horus's gonna peck your eyes out if you try to hunt monsters, >> is how he elects to translate the birdboy's thoughts. Horus /glares/ at him for this, but cannot squawk. Because his beak is holding gauze in place. << -- I'll call Io. He can stitch. >> Ryan presses his face into Horus's feathers, also scratching under his chin with the tips of his fingers, comfortingly, only stopping when a throb of pain courses through him. For the most part, though the hurt echoes through the mindlink, he keeps his mouth shut, communicating a, << Don't worry anyone more than they already are >> to Hive. "You can't go off /without/ me to find it. It's /stalking/ me. That much is clear. And it waited until I was alone. Going off to find it would just leave me to fend it off alone again." He hosts a hard stare that falls on each of them in turn, complying and sitting still, albeit with a scowl occasionally interrupted by a wince. << He can stay here, >> Horus says unhappily, << so many of us here who'd attack this building? >> He adds more gauze to the top of the wad when the blood has soaked through, taking the opportunity of shifting movement to squawk /sternly/ at Ryan. << No dying. >> Jackson just works quietly. He's no doctor, but he's been through enough combat that this sort of patching-up comes in efficient routine. Less efficient is his burbling undercurrent of thought. << Stalking him eating kids lurking here who else will it get oh god it almost got /him/ if I'd been a second later -- I wasn't a second later, >> he reminds himself. His expression is calm, though. He stays /quiet/ as he diligently works. Kind of on purpose to prevent Ryan reading his worry. << No dying, >> Hive dutifully translates for Horus, << and Horus has a point, this building's packed to the gills with freaks, it'd be a dumbass move to try and attack you if you just stay the fuck /home/. >> He answers Ryan's scowl with a smirk, though it's a thin one. << Fucking hell, you two, >> is wryly amused at Ryan's silent request and Jax's silent attempt to stop /Ryan/ from worrying in return. << Ryan, you dipshit, he knows you better than anyone. He doesn't /need/ me in order to worry about you. You two are both concerned about each other, oh no, I let /that/ fucking cat out of the bag. Suck it up. I'm calling Io. >> He wanders off towards Ryan's bedroom to have some QUIET for making this call. Not like it'll stop the fucking audiokinetic eavesdropping if he wants. "I'll be fine. I'm just glad it didn't fuck up my fingers and endanger my ability to play instruments," is Ryan's cheerful attempt to make light of the situation, assuaging with another wave of relief in his words. He smiles, tired and weak, but persistently, wearing the lines in his face. "And I'll be up and ready to help out again in no time. I probably only need a night's re-- Aw, hell Hive. No one needs that commotion. I'm sure the gauze will hold and the blee-- ow." A grunt later, "/Fine/, /fine/," as the telepath heads off to make his calls. Looking between Jackson and Horus, "Really, I'll be okay," is quieter, more gentle. Horus's chirping is back to soft. More affectionate this time than scolding. It's brief, though, as he returns to holding the packed gauze in place. "Man, you /and/ Shelby joining Team Mutilated," Jackson says with one tap of finger against his eyepatch, amusement in his voice despite the worry in his emotions, "it'd be such a blow to New York's rock scene. Maybe bloodmonster has good taste in music." He's watching the blood seep through the gauze Horus holds, frowning. He offers the birdman more gauze. "You /definitely/ need a night's rest, if I have to hold you in bed for you to get it. /Force/ cuddles." "And we're supposed to go deal with the guy that screwed up her hand, too. Man, there are a lot of /enemies/ we've got out there." Of course, mention of Shelby turns Ryan's thoughts to her, with a guilty embarrassment heavy on his features for sidetracking from /that/ problem. Holding still while his leg continues to leak his blood out, soaking through the gauze, "And with less than a week before the twins' birthday, man." He cracks a laugh at the proposition of force cuddles, not rejecting the idea. << Io's on his way. >> For now this is all Hive interjects. It's a terse-tense mental intrusion, many voices echoing the statement and then going quiet. Horus's next chirrup sounds amused. << Enemies? Who could hate Ryan. Maybe the world is just trying to balance his hordes of adoring fans. >> This comes with a stretch of Horus's wing; his beak is too occupied to nuzzle so he brushes feathers lightly against Ryan's hand. "We'll get Shelby set right," Jackson says, quiet but confident. /He/ ducks his head guiltily at the mention of the twins' birthday. "Oh, gosh, we should do something real nice. Classes start again for them /on/ the twenty-first but --" His nose wrinkles. "I, um, I at least -- I bought them presents before we left." << In case I wasn't here to give it to them, >> is added, somewhat guiltily too. Ryan remembers to return to stroking under Horus's chin at the prompting brush of feathers against the back of his hand. "I, uh, still need to figure out what to get them. Hive said we're throwing a rooftop party for them. Invited the Doug fellow, who has a /lot/ of sexual thoughts about /all/ of us, by the way. He almost blushes redder than /you/, Jax." He teases as the gauzes is wound /tight/ around his leg, distracting himself from the process. Hive emerges from Ryan's bedroom, pocketing his phone. << Doug, >> his mental echo comes with a mental /eyeroll/. << Be fucking glad you do not have to overhear the brainsmut that goes on in the apartments around here. The party's for spring. The twins are incidental. You think he blushes bad, you should see Jax and his new cuddle-friend get into their freaking blush-offs. >> It comes with a mental image of Micah. Blushing. /Maybe/ Hive has been eavesdropping again. Jax wrinkles his nose at the mention of Doug but the thought of Micah makes him blush, deep and furious. With a brief (fuzzy! warm!) flood of LastNightMemories, which, thankfully for Hive are not /brainsmut/. Just cuddling. And the first (semi)decent night of sleep Jax has managed to get since the raid. "What we need to have is a /gardening/ party. I've been slacking with -- everything. The poor thing's going neglected." Horus just nuzzles. Into Ryan's hand. Maybe helping with the distracting. At least he's trying! "You fed into it for a while. At least, you didn't /discourage/ his thoughts," Ryan teases, brows raising inquisitively at Jackson when Hive floods them with cuddle!thoughts. "Man, the theme's Roaring 20s. I am not getting my vintage suit all ... /soiled/. Just ask Jim to shove his green thumb in your plot of dirt. I'm sure Hive won't mind." Pun intended. Tending to Ryan's various wounds lapses into a significant time span, a still ongoing endeavor some half-hour later, his bleeding not altogether stopped, but most minor injuries seen to already. The conversation has probably continued along the same, refusal-to-acknowledge-the-present vein of discussing the upcoming party, with the audiokinetic laid out across his couch still, Jax stationed at the other end of his feet, and Horus at his head. Hive is -- wandering, as are likely his thoughts. There is a rap at the door, the soft knock of knuckles against the wood. A moment later, the knock turns into the hard double-bang of a fist. Outside the door stands Iolaus, dressed in a white lab coat with a jacket partially over it, glaring at his bodyguard. "Was that really necessary?" he says, frowning at Jane. "Not my fault if you knock so quietly someone standing next to the door wouldn't hear it," comes the reply, instantly. They are a loving pair. << Io and his guarddog, >> Hive reflexively announces for the others' benefit, ingrained (paranoia) vigilance making him well aware of the pair before the knock sounds. He wanders over to open the door, gesturing Iolaus towards Ryan on the couch. Uncharacteristically he greets the pair mentally rather than aloud, his offered, << it's his leg, >> going to both Iolaus and Jane in, not Hive's typically painful mindvoice but a quiet-soft chorus of many voices joined together. "Hi, Io. Hi, Jane." Jackson glances up from his post beside the couch. He has purple nitrile gloves on and a heap of bloodied gauze and towels around him. Many of Ryan's wounds are bandaged already, neat, but the one on his leg is still leaking blood slowly through its /many/ layers of gauze. /He/ has filled the intervening time prooobably with a good deal of blushing. And filling his friend in on Cute New Boy To Cuddle With. And possibly also Doug's awkward jealousy. And also upcoming party. "Crazy bloodmonster," i.e., the one from the raid that they accidentally /unleashed/ on New York, "kinda took a bite out of him. I mean, it /is/ hard to resist, really. Who /wouldn't/ want a piece of that?" This comes with a light teasing poke at an uninjured part of Ryan's leg. Horus is wary of the strangers, though. He watches them wide-eyed, and, with one more nuzzle against Ryan's hand, spreads his wings and abandons assisting the first-aid efforts to, instead, flutter over to one of his wall-perches. Far across the room from Io and Jane, where he can safely watch. Ryan sits up enough to gaze at the door as Hive moves to answer it, wary of who passes through the threshold in his apartment. Given a mental relay of identification, he falls back flat against the sofa, sighing. "Got a nice chunk taken out of me, doc. What can I say, I'm irresistible?" He smirks, shrugging in feigned innocence. Jane does not particularly look surprised by the inhabitants of the room - neither Horus nor Ryan shock her in the least, nor does creepy!Hive's mindvoice. She does give a nod to Jax as she stands in place not far from the door. Iolaus, on the other hand, looks quite surprised indeed, first by Hive's telepathic chorus, then Horus' flight, and finally by Ryan - /Ryan/. He puts a small bag down on the ground and lets out a long whistle. "Yeah, I can see what you mean, Hive." he says, softly, as a smile spreads on his face. "Hello, Mister Black. My name is Doctor Iolaus Saavedro, and I'm here to help you with your leg." he explains, crouching down to come to eye level with Ryan. "Why don't you tell me how it's hurt?" << Tell him, >> Hive says to Iolaus, like a /traitor/, << that he's not allowed to go chasing fucking bloodmonsters in the sewers like a fucking /dumbass/ Gryffindor. Order him to bed for the next fucking /week/. >> It's sharp and grumbling -- and comes with a /heavy/ backdrop of genuine concern. Jackson shifts over, slightly, to give Iolaus room beside Ryan. With an /actual/ professional here to relieve his makeshiftdoctoring, he relaxes somewhat, peeling his gloves off with one neatly tucked inside the other. He moves over and absently slips a hand into Ryan's. Because suturing. Blech. Ryan grips onto Jackson's hand tightly, pressure applied for their dual comfort. He curls up his uninjured leg to make room for Iolaus too, shifting to allow easier access to the /back/ of still bleeding one, where the bandages are a much darker crimson and still wet where it seeps. "Well, this bloodmonster managed to sink a hook into me and drag it pretty far down. Think I just need a few stitches -- it doesn't really hurt." << Shut up, Hive. >> Because of course, the telepath knows just how much omgburningpain actually drifts through his mind. "In my professional opinion, I think that chasing boodmonsters is probably not the healthiest choice of activities," Iolaus says, mildly, though his eyes twinkle. He begins pulling supplies out of the bag, stopping to remove an envelope. "Ah. I need you to fill this out, if you would. Insurance and all that," he says, passing the envelope up to Ryan. The suturing is quick - he is done in under ten minutes, all things said and done, pulling his gloves carefully off of his hands to toss them in the ball-o'-biohazard in a red bag in his bag. Hive is not a traitor enough to spill how much pain Ryan is in. He does go to refill Ryan's glass of juice, though. << Thanks, Io, >> is audible not just to Iolaus but the whole room in quiet mental chorus. << I know we've kind of been calling on you for a shitton lately but. Fuck. >> He hesitates, looking over the shiny new patch-job of Ryan's leg while he passes down the glass of juice. << Though, uh. Having said that I, uh -- there's one more thing. >> "You heard the doctor, no bloodmonsters." Jackson squeezes Ryan's hand tight through the suturing. Possibly switching hands if Ryan needs to WRITE. He rests his cheek against Ryan's knuckles, watching the needle work. "S'always one more thing," he says, wryly. "Io, you hating your job yet?" "Well, in my defense, the bloodmonster was chasing /me/. Guess that's how I can gauge my success guys, my first /real/ stalker." The true hallmark of celebrity, or so Ryan tries to convince the room. Jackson will find his hand very tightly gripped during that length of minutes passed until his sutures are all in place, letting go only once it is finished to take his juice. Then, onto paperwork. "Right. Insurance." Is Ryan against insurance? Who knows, but he at least does Iolaus the courtesy of filling out the forms, after holding his hand out for a pen. "And that's just an /opinion/, right? Not a doctor's /orders/?" Loophole! "Not yet, but no one's taking pot-shots at me yet. Give me some time," Iolaus jokes, eyes twinkling mischeviously. He winks at Jax and turns back to Ryan. "I suppose it is. If being chased by bloodmonsters is your pastime, who am I to hold you back?" Iolaus jokes, with a warm smile. It does not take him long to pack his bag back up, turning the sterile area into trash crammed into a pocket of the bag. "Ah, thank you." Iolaus says, taking the paperwork and folding it up to slip into his pocket. Safest place for it. He stands up, bending slowly as his knees let out cracks of complaint. "A. Alright. I've got to check in on a couple patients upstairs, while I'm here, but I'll be up again to check on you in a little bit, alright?" he asks Ryan, with a warm smile. << And in the meantime you're resting, >> Hive says. Like he totally has authority to say it. << Mngh, right, okay, I'll let you up. C'mon. >> He gestures towards the door, heading out with Iolaus. Jackson looks a little off-put when Iolaus mentions taking pot-shots at him, a guilty glance tossed to Jane with a sudden remembering that he has not in fact yet responded to the job-offer of bodyguard. Outwardly, though, he just smiles. Squeezes Ryan's hand gently. "Don't worry," he tells Hive cheerfully, "there's going to be /so/ much resting. That's a threat, by the way. Threatening /all/ the cuddles." "Yeah, yeah, you guys are making me /regret/ being a hippie. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when you get back, doc," Ryan promises, waving them off with the selfsame smile he's been sporting all night, regardless of the bloodshed and pain. No longer fraught with worry, his body tenses as he pulls himself fully upright, leg remaining elevated on the couch. Hooking an arm around Jackson, he pulls him closer, saluting to the three who pass out the door to talk Other Business.