ArchivedLogs:In the Belfry

In the Belfry
Warning: Violence, some sexual content.
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Jackson, Micah	2014-04-15 Part of Perfectus TP.
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. It's probable by now that Dusk can tell his visitors apart long before they even come within proper echolocating reach. Jax is telltale from the moment he /arrives/ at the safehouse -- loud even before /he/ starts to make noise, /greeted/ before he greets, he habitually comes bearing /gifts/ of so much food that his presence tends to be heralded with a lot of clamour and his path a very typical one. Kitchen /first/, drop off goodies there, then make the trek up-up-up. Today as ever he is laden, if moving more slowly than he usually does, a careful trudge up the stairs to Dusk's domain. Canvas shopping bag slung over one shoulder, a wrist brace on his right wrist; he brings damp-rain-smell with him, this afternoon. And brownies. And garlicky stir-fry. He didn't make the stir-fry. He /did/ make the brownies. He slips up into the attic, crossing quietly over towards the dark back corner where Dusk has taken up residence; though there's a faint tension in his muscles as he moves inside, in his easy-confident motion through the cluttered mess he doesn't seem particularly /hampered/ by the dark. On the attic door for some days now someone has taped up a sheet of paper with a Red cross sign. As of yesterday someone affixed a new sign beneath it, messily scrawled: Please do not feed the vampire. ... after all, it's not like Dusk can read /either/ of these. He himself is, at the moment, curled up on his side on the mattresses in the back of the attic. Shirtless, now. Paler than he has been on Jax's previous visits. Somewhat shaky. Where his eyes had, previously, just looked cleanly sunken closed now they look /charred/, singed burned flesh crisp-black around the bottom edges of their lids. There are thin-long charred /handprints/ splayed across the mangled knotted scarrs that were the ruins of his wing-stumps, red-raw and weeping-oozing blistery in places where before they had been nearly healed. He's breathing slow and strained through his teeth, but this quiets at the sound of Jax's approach to his lair. His fingers twitch out flat against his mattress, his cheek turning to turn his face towards the new arrival. "Hey, honey-honey." Jax's voice is soft and /exhausted/, but carries a good dose of cheerful-warmth with it. "Brung brownies. And /news/. Kinda huge news. I ain't -- entirely even sure yet how t'process --" His words taper off as he rounds the boxes that ring off Dusk's corner of attic, actually takes /in/ the man's appearance with his new crop of burns. He sets his his bag of food down at the edge of Dusk's bedding, shedding his chunky sneakers and dropping, slowly and a little bruised-stiffly, to sit cross-legged at the farther edge of the mattresses. There's a soft inhale as he takes in the other man's appearance, that he catches and then just -- quiets. Looking. Clicking his teeth together. He rises to his knees, scooting in closer, then stopping a short distance away. "What -- why. You was -- what." Dusk's head tips up, brows lifting at the mention of news. When Jackson sits, he -- very gingerly, carefuly, shifts to move closer. Not touching, just lying with his head resting nearby the other man's knees. At the question his shoulders just flex, slightly, a faint ripple-twitch that draws a small hiss as his cracked-weeping skin tears a little more. Angling one shoulderblade towards Jax to display the oddly /handprint/ shaped burn splayed against it. "It was -- you was doin' /better/ yesterday though, it was -- it was near /healed/," Jackson protests. "You was almost -- almost /done/, how did --" He bites down on his lip, shedding the canvas bag to set it down on the floor beside the mattresses. His hands shift to rest, very lightly, against Dusk's shoulder, the unburned part. His fingers trace gently down against the other man's arm, touch as warm as it ever is. "Sweetie, what /happened/." Dusk lifts a hand, making a kind of chk-chk -- /bingo/ -- gunfinger at Jax when he points out Dusk was almost done healing. When Jax's hand comes to rest against him he reflexively tenses -- but then settles in closer, head coming to rest in the other man's lap, gingerly angled to avoid compressing his burned eye. "But --" Jackson has to stop and think about this for a while, frowning unhappily with another protesting, "-- /but/." His hands draw slowly against Dusk's arms, soft and gentle. Warm. He starts to dip downward but straightens, chest rejecting the motion. "-- oh," he finally breathes out. "Oh -- oh. Oh, /honey/." And then he is quiet, tracing hands slowly against undamaged skin in simple light caress. His breathing is slow; in the quiet it's easy to hear, a little strained, a little raspy-shaky. "We'll bring you to her soon's -- possible, okay? She's gotta study --" He lapses off into silence again. Just fingers gentle against skin, running back up now to brush instead against the lines of Dusk's face. Dusk continues in silence. As he has. Ragged breaths in, ragged breaths out. His shoulders tremble, the quiver running down his arms beneath Jax's fingers. One hand curls up against the outside of Jax's leg, fingers pressing in against the other man's hip to grip there. His shaky breaths start to even out, under Jax's slow caresses, gradually turning slower and deeper as the hard tension in his form -- doesn't quite /fade/. But loosens, slightly. Eventually -- not soon, but /eventually/ -- his head tips up, a little bit, towards Jax. And his brows raise in questioning expectation. Head cocking like he is /listening/, now? Jax doesn't speak, immediately. His fingers continue to trace against Dusk's face, run down against Dusk's arms, come up at intervals to scrub fingertips through his wavy hair in slow scritching. The edge of his wrist brace occasionally rubs against Dusk's skin. At length his thick drawl breaks the quiet. "We caught him." His voice is soft. A brief hard note to it when he says: "They came to the /school/, Dusk." But it slips back into soft again, for, "-- Everyone's okay. They jus' -- teleported in. Just /reams/'a them. Poured in his whole cult, it felt like. We handled 'em, though. But he's /there/ now. We got him locked up. Lots'a them. It's over, Dusk. Ain't gonna hurt nobody no more." The backs of his fingers brush down along the other man's arm. "Ain't gonna hurt nobody no more," is repeated, quieter. This news puts the ragged edge back into Dusk's breathing. His fingers clench inward, a sudden hard grip that -- at his strength is well more than enough to cause some /damage/ where they clamp in against Jax's hip. His teeth bare, a soft hiss pushed out between his gritted fangs. His other hand reaches to latch onto Jax's braced wrist in similarly hard clench, a low snarl dragged up out of his throat in time with the shudder-jerk of his shoulders. He's pulling himself more upright, slightly, arm braced half against Jax's lap where his hand is clenched. Jax's breath catches with a sudden sharp whimper, his muscles tensing as he -- starts to jerk his arm away before the hard jolt of /pain/ this puts in his broken wrist. Not to mention the rather impressive difference in strength between his arm and Dusk's grip. "-- Dusk stop." His words come out edged, through gritted teeth at the sudden pain and a sudden spike in his heartrate. "Let go, dude. You're -- hurting." His other hand presses against Dusk's chest, palm splayed flat there to firmly push back against the other man. "We thought if we -- kept him alive we might. I don't know what he does. Get him to -- undo? What he's." He swallows, gaze skipping to the ruin of Dusk's eyes. Dusk's hand does leave Jax's hip -- though it's only to move to Jax's /hand/, batting it away sharp and quick from his chest. His growl deepens, low and harsh at the sudden racing of the other man's heart; there's a fierce racing in his /own/ that Jax -- probably can't track, though a flush creeps up through his pale cheeks as he pushes Jackson back in one swift hard shove against the mattress, hand pinning Jax there by the throat. 'Not-dead', His other hand has left Jax's wrist to sign this, kind of /angrily/ as he straddles him. His fingers and thumb press in against the racing pulses in Jax's throat. 'Still fucking alive.' His hand is shaking, squeezing in slowly tighter, the growl rumbling deeper in his throat. "We -- thought --" This is as much as Jax gets /out/ with the air constricting out of him, his eye widening and his heart pounding, pulse thudding agains Dusk's fingers. "-- Stop." It's raspy. Beneath Dusk's grip his skin is starting to heat, slowly creeping warmer than its usual. "Dusk --" Dusk's growl doesn't stop. The flush in his face grows, as the pulse thudding through Jax strengthens, his fingers shifting just a touch lower. His legs squeeze in tighter against the other man's hips, pinning Jax down to the mattress where he straddles him. The dip of his head is hungry -- the continued grip of fingers against neck, the swipe of his tongue against skin. The sudden /piercing/-hard sink of his fangs into Jax's throat, savage-deep in contrast to his usual care. His other hand is sliding down against Jax's side, hungry as well where it runs down against his ribs, along to his waist, fingers curling possessively into the waistband of Jax's jeans. Micah still has his crutches on him, but at this point they're mostly for 'in case'. In case of wet surfaces or steep inclines or curbs or stairs. Otherwise, he's gotten to walking decently well with that new leg. Especially after several sessions of sitting with Rasa through healings near Corey. He is dressed in work clothes, TARDIS blue polo shirt and khakis making a return with Micah's first day back at work. It was a partial day, and working only at the Clinic without all the running-around home visits. But it's a start. And it was also a convenient place to pick up Dusk's allotment of blood packets, which he is toting in a cooler. Not having been able to come to the safe house to visit Dusk since he was rescued, Micah doesn't even bother to find a place to drop these off before heading up to the attic (albeit slowly because /stairs/). He eyes the signs on the slightly-ajar door with a tilt of his head, then knocks softly on the doorframe before pushing it open a little further. "Dusk, honey, it's--" The sentence doesn't get a chance to finish. Jax's face is flushed and reddening, his breathing rasping and then -- just done. His body presses up against Dusk's, his teeth gritted against the sudden sink of teeth, and there's a hard curl to his fingers where they sink in against the mattress that -- admittedly is not out of /place/ for him in the bedroom. His skin is glowing, fierce-hot, starting to edge past uncomfortable now into painful as he brings his hand up from the mattress to press his palm in against Dusk's chest. The grit of his teeth relaxes slightly with the rush of Dusk's venom; in contrast, though, the /heat/ of him only increases. A faint sizzle of burning flesh where his hand presses against Dusk, a faint char of burning cloth where he lies against the mattress. Back turned to Micah, Dusk doesn't immediately pay attention to the sound of footsteps; he stays where he is straddled over Jax, head dipped with his mouth fastened onto the torn holes in the photokinetic's neck. He seems almost heedless of the pain -- with the weeping-open handprints charred into his back perhaps he's just /in/ so much of it already it's hard to immediately take /stock/ of more. His hand skims over too-heated flesh with little care for the redness it's accumulating, fingers splaying out against Jax's stomach. Running down to unfasten his pants and dip inside. The sizzle of flesh -- his /own/ flesh -- deepens his growl, harsh and low, teeth clenching harder inwards. The sound of his name tilts his head, though only for a moment. Around Jax's neck, his fingers loosen. His shoulders twitch, flexing back in reflexive ripple, /trying/ instinctively to stretch wings towards Micah as he feeds. It takes a moment to asses the condition of both men, the sizzling of flesh, the changes in breathing. Perhaps this takes a /little/ longer than with the average grouping of people to determine that there is definitely a Bad Thing going on. "Dusk, get off of 'im, /now/. Don't make me hurt you." Micah pulls one of the bags from his cooler out, breaking it open and letting it leak slightly. "I /brought/ blood for you, let Jax go." His fingers twitch in their grips, one on the bag, the other ready with the metal crutch on his arm. Something small and scared whimpers in Jax's throat, less at the pain and more when Dusk's hand slides into his clothing. His eye closes, something twisting uncomfortable-sick in his expression, and the fierce heat in him actually /recedes/, here. Very abruptly clamped /down/ on, the burning pulled back when Dusk's grip on his neck loosens. He pulls in a sharp gulp of air, and then another, hungry. His palm stays pressed to Dusk's chest, pushing outward firm as he tries to wriggle back from the /teeth/ and the /hands/ and the body pressed to his own. "Dusk, /no/, stop." His voice is kind of rough and croaking. "Please, get off. This ain't you." Dusk's head does properly lift, this time -- only to bare fangs at Micah in a sharp snarl; with blood dripping down his jaw, crouched over Jax's body, hollow-charred pits of eyes, he's likely never looked /more/ like an actual monster. His nostrils flare, head turning towards the bag of blood. And then towards the /fresh/ pumping blood hot and still flowing right from Jax's neck. His tongue swipes down against Jax's throat again, a hungry rumble in his chest. His hand is sliding downwards from Jax's neck, running in contrasting gentleness from his earlier crushing-hard grip to trace along his arm, pry Jax's hand away from his chest. His other shifts down, its lower stroke forcing jeans slightly down along with it with a creaky tear of denim that serves as perhaps unnecessary reminder of just how much strength his lean limbs really have. Micah drops the bag to the floor beside the mattress, oozing just a trickle into the floorboards. There is no hesitation once Dusk goes after Jax again. He braces himself on one crutch and brings the other to bear, swinging down full-force like a person with an aluminum baseball bat. His aim is /precise/, with the purpose of shocking Dusk's body into responding. Aimed between the second and third thoracic vertebrae, it is a strike that would shock the autonomic nervous system with the sympathetic chain lying there, that would interrupt the regular functioning of heart and lungs, that would /hurt like hell/ smashing against the burned skin and torn muscle covering it all. "Jax, move /now/!" he orders, hoping there is enough of a window created for Jax to free himself. There's a shiver of light around Jax but once more it's clamped down on /very/ swiftly, sucked back in nearly as quick as it appears. Jax's arm pulls somewhat uselessly against Dusk's; the twist of his head away from the other man's biting does very little outside of pull /more/ where Dusk's teeth dig into him. The effect of Dusk's bite has his pupil rather dilated; his breathing still rasps, pain only increased in his struggling. He's twisting to the side at Micah's order, though. Pulling away -- more sluggishly than he would have without blood loss, more stiffly than he would without his mass of bruising and slightly fractured sternum, but. /Moving/. Or, /hopefully/ moving; if Dusk's still pinning him, /possibly/ just aggravating his injuries with further struggling. Not, admittedly, that he goes /far/. Just crawling over to sink down heavily onto the mattress just by where Micah stands, pulling in still-wheezing breaths, and bleeding a -- rather /dangerous/ amount from his neck. Somewhat entirely wrapped up in his prey, Dusk doesn't seem to even notice Micah's existence anymore once he's turned back to Jax. As such it isn't until the blow has connected that he registers what is happening. A keening harsh cry tears out of him; beneath that there is a lower rumble, second set of vocal cords thrumming in tandem. His hands thud away to brace against the mattress, muscles tense and quivering in sudden hard flex, his head dropped down to fall against the mattress as well as he tries to find his breath again. He shifts, slowly toppling over onto his side as Jax wriggles away, teeth bared now not in snarl but in grimace. There isn't enough time to do everything that needs doing. Micah tears off a large strip from the bottom of his undershirt, balling it up and pressing it to Jax's neck, using his husband's own hand to cover it. "Jax, you've gotta hold this an' you've gotta go. Get downstairs, get help. Now, honey." He tries to get Jax to his feet quickly enough to get him out of the room. At least enough to slow Dusk's ability to get /back/ to him. "I'll try t'hold 'im off long enough for you t'get t'somebody. Please." The pleading in his tone was obvious enough /before/ that addition, his focus split between wound and evacuation and keeping himself ready for Dusk to come at them again. Jax presses his hand to the side of his neck, the velcro of his wrist brace making a faint rasp as he presses it in against the fabric. He doesn't move, though, struggling wobbly-unsteady to his feet but then leaning against the stack of boxes, kind of dazed. Kind of shaken. His other hand is slowly lowering to rearrange his jeans, try and put the somewhat torn pants back into place. "Just -- come to --" his voice is a little distant; he slumps a little more heavily against the boxes, face very pale. "... need a. Minute," he mumbles. Listing pretty noticeably towards the mattresses again. Dusk is getting up -- rolling over into a crouch, teeth still bared. But after this he just stays, panting slow-rasping breaths. Shoulders twitching, muscles tensed, a low keening-pained whine buried deep in his his chest. It takes a while before he manages to lift his head -- his expression has crumpled, brows furrowed over the charred pits of his eyes, and though there's still pain written in the lines of his face it's not really the physical sort. His fist lifts -- not towards them but to his chest -- but it drops heavily back to the mattress before managing to make the appropriate circle. Kind of /pained/ on his bad knee, he inches closer, but then stops. Lifts his hand towards his mouth, sinks fangs into his wrist to bite the vein open. His other arm, braced against the mattress, is still trembling after the blow, but the left one, bleeding, reaches uncomfortably slightly out towards Jackson. The second it is evident that Dusk isn't planning to go for Jax again, Micah kneels at his side, pressing the bit of torn shirt harder against his neck. "Shh, honey. It's gonna be okay. Just...y'can lie down now." He bites his lip at Dusk's signed apology. "We know. We know, sugar, it's been... It's been a time. We're workin' on helpin' you, too, honey. It'll be better." He takes Dusk's arm and brings it over Jax's lips. "Jax. Y'need some blood back in you. It's okay." His other hand pets gently over Jax's head. Jackson kind of /faceplants/ into Micah, woozily. He's trembling, wrapping his arm around his husband. "I'm," he rasps, bruised throat still rather croaky, "sorry. I didn't. I couldn't. Fight him I." Then quiet, as he sinks in against Micah. And abruptly jerks /back/, thudding against the boxes when Dusk shifts even that small inching crawl closer. There's a hard tension in him at that movement, eye wide, his muscles clenching up. His breath hitches inward soft and uncomfortable, and reflexively he turns his head away from the offered arm, jaw tightening, expression screwing up in disgust. His legs pull up towards his chest, thighs clenching in together. But his hand presses harder against his neck and -- very reluctantly -- he closes his mouth against Dusk's wrist, a definite /shudder/ passing through him as he starts to drink. Dusk is quiet as Jax shifts away, just listening to these sudden movements, his head bowing in quiet acceptance. His hand stays outstretched; he doesn't move any closer, just letting Micah move his arm /for/ him. His right hand moves, though, this time shifting to his chest and actually circling there, quietly. There's something pale and sickened in his face, too, shoulders slumped and trembling where he kneels now. His face turns, angling just slightly more towards Micah than Jax; there's a faint vibration at intervals from his throat, though whatever sound it makes is well out of the range of the other men's hearing. His hand lifts, fingertips pressing in against his lips. Micah cradles Jax in one arm, using the arm to cushion his head and shoulders and hold him up in an easier drinking position. The other hand stays on Dusk's arm, mostly for Jax's benefit, /his/ hand visibly the one in control there. His index finger lightly pets at the back of Dusk's hand. "Why are you apologisin', Jax? Honey, y'ain't done nothin' wrong. Y'done what y'could do, okay? Now y'just drink for a little bit so y'can stand again." His arm gives a gentle squeeze of Jax's shoulders. "It's gonna be okay. Shh. We're just gonna...sit quiet for a bit." It's hard to tell who that last is directed to. Maybe all of them. For a little bit, Jax just drinks. With another shudder, a faint cringe; he leans into Micah and as much /away/ from Dusk as he can /manage/ and still -- well, /be/ drinking. When he finally pulls back he stays propped against Micah's side, a small tremble still quivering through him. "I should have -- I /could/ have -- tried more to -- I was just. When he - afraid that I. Was going to. Lose control and -- burn /everything/ if I --" He's not looking a Dusk, with this, pressing instead closer to Micah. His breathing is shallow, words a little slurred. "... want to sleep." Finally, though, he /does/ look back at Dusk. "... I brung you lunch." A slow flush creeps into his cheeks. "I mean, /not/-me-lunch." His head thunks against Micah's chest. His mumbled words are slow. "... I think," he says, a little wryly, "that we all. Got. A little -- experience. With. Feelin' like. A danger to --" His eye closes. "... s'is the first time y'seen Dusk, ain't it." Dusk's fingers press harder to his lips; it stifles the harsh shudder of breath -- almost a sob -- that escapes him. He pulls back, scooting to the back wall once Jax is done, as far from the other two men as he can. His head turns aside at that last observation, shoulders curling inward as he lowers himself down to lie on his side on the mattress. He curls his legs up towards his chest, just lapsing into silence, now. And keeping his distance. When Dusk moves away, Micah wraps both arms around Jax in a gentle hug. "Honey, y'did what y'/could/. Sometimes what a body /can/ do is /complicated/. Y'did what y'could do. Y'wanna sleep...where? D'you wanna move? Can you?" He nods in reply to Jax's mention of feeling like a danger, and this being the first time he's seen Dusk since he was rescued. "Yes... I'm sorry I ain't been here before, sugar. That was...a whole other set of complicated an' feelin' like a danger. Those...people did things t'my head an' I didn't wanna go nowhere folks was usin' for safety. In case I'd be riskin' exposin' 'em or somethin'. But they /caught/ 'em now. It'll be better now. I tried t'call but they said y'weren't talkin'." He draws a slightly hitched breath. "Otherwise I'd've /been/ here. I'd've been here so many times." "Just sleep." Jax's hand is still holding the cloth to the side of his neck, and he settles in against Micah, not lying down, really, just nestling in against the oher man's chest. Eye closed, posture slumping in somewhat limply. His hand falls away from the makeshift bandaging, head just dropping in onto Micah's shoulder, forehead tucking in against Micah's neck with a warm press of skin. His thoughts are an exhausted-drugged-pained swirl, here, of stress and hurt and terror, sick unhappiness, a muddled foggy disconcerted feeling that he should go take a /shower/ but is too tired to do so. An uncomfortable /concern/ for Dusk warring with the sickened need to be nowhere near him and /all/ of it just steadily /slipping/ into hazy unconscious, "... just sleep." From Dusk, there is nothing more. Just a slow rasp of breathing and past this, stillness. He stays curled up on the mattress, as far against the wall as he can get without touching his ruined back to it, hands tucked against his chest, head bowed to angle his face away from the other two men. Perhaps also sleeping. Perhaps just trying to disappear in the darkened attic. "Okay, honey, you sleep." Micah peeks at Jax's neck to determine the status of the wound there when the other man's hand moves. If it still needs it, he presses the shirt-bandage back to it. The muscles of his jaw tense at the spillover of unhappy-sick feelings, but he only holds Jax closer. He cradles him tight 'til he is very much asleep, only then texting someone to bring a first aid kit and leave it outside the door. Then going to check on Dusk, asleep or no. Dusk has /been/ very still, all this while. Quiet-unmoving, while Jackson -- falls asleep or passes out. He's still quiet as Micah approaches; at first it might almost seem he /is/ asleep, too. But his head turns, tipping slightly upward to face the other man, for all the charred-empty sockets of his eyes just stare up sightlessly. By now Jackson's blood has dried on his face, crusted into his scruffy dark beard and on his lips. It doesn't make him look much /less/ like something out of a horror film; nor the black-and-red charring burns around his sunken-empty eyes. His head sinks back down against the mattress, heavily. "Hey, honey." Micah stops a few feet from Dusk, giving him space if that's what he wants. "May I touch you? I can at least...help wash your face off a bit. S'gotta be itchy." His head tilts, brows dipping down slightly. "Missed you somethin' awful." He shifts in place, not moving any closer without permission. Dusk stays against the wall, just clenching his teeth when Micah asks to touch him. Harder when Micah mentions missing him. His shoulders tense, his head turning his face in against the mattress; this only lasts very /briefly/ as his eye presses there. He exhales a sharp almost irritated breath. 'Missed you.' This is signed, but signed -- slightly angrily. Micah watches the signing closely, a few moments passing before recognition works its way onto his features. The crash course in ASL at Xavier's during the zombie plague, on top of years of patients...somewhat managed to pass a few things through his language ineptitude. "I've got water," Micah explains softly as he retrieves his water bottle from his bag. "An' I done already tore this undershirt, so it's as good for cleanin' up blood as anythin'." He moves closer, just at the edge of arm's reach. "But...whatever y'want, sugar. I can just sit here. Or sit further away. Or closer." Dusk's shoulders tremble, his fingers curling in against the mattress with a quiet scratching sound. Slowly, his hand starts to creep across the mattress, closer to Micah. Very slowly, inching in towards the other man at a slow creep. It desn't make it close enough to touch, though; he moves about half the distance towards Micah and then pulls back with a shake of his head. And then another. His legs curl back in towards his chest. At Dusk's failed attempt to move closer, Micah closes the gap instead. He sits on the edge of the mattress. He takes some time for Dusk just to adjust to his closer presence, tearing off another strip of his undershirt and soaking it with water from his bottle. "Shirt's all ripped now. May's well let me clean your face. You just...sit. I'll do all the movin' about. So y'don't have t'think about it."