psychoshenanigans | Goodnight // AU

Entry tags:

coil,
zhas

Goodnight // AU

Coil knows how it is, by now. They go to a city for a particular task--a peace treaty, an assassination, a little structural upheaval--and they stay because Zhas can't go home happy without something returning to the grave. They're in Queens tonight, chasing things down tight, twisting alleys and winding roads, between dingy buildings and apartment units that crowd out the stars. Zhas has mentioned, very briefly, that he grew up in Queens. As he's not said a word about it since, it may go without saying that he's focusing on the hunt with particular zeal tonight.

They've got a group cornered. Zhas leads them right to them, six or seven, stuck at a dead end in their race to escape their pursuers. They're just grunts, and mostly Wolves--they start showing teeth and growling the second their banging against the easy-giving chain-link fence proves useless. One of them tries to climb up it, only to be dragged back down by a "buddy" of hers and called a useless coward.

Zhas fires one of his bolts while he still has distance--and in the chaos, one of the smaller ones slips away through a crack between the buildings. Just a little too big for his hulking friends to manage. Another one tries to follow, but they get a well-aimed bolt to the side of the head.

So that's five against two. Good odds?

They charge, two going straight for Coil. One is slower (but probably strong), and the other's face suddenly bares a striking resemblance to his clan's namesake.

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It's a good thing there are no claws, because Coil has very little to defend himself with. And very little care to.

Because he has this thing pinned, held down right where he wants it, right where can lash out to express just how much he wants it to be destroyed.

He ducks his face down, tries to shield with his shoulder when he can, but offense is all he really cares about. With his hands wired together, he can't hit him with one arm... so he uses both. Fingers locked together, leaned halfway up on his knees to gain leverage, he swings to knock attacking arms temporarily out of the way before smashing fists down toward the monster's face.

It's all focused right here. All the frustration and frenzy of the night, all the things that have haunted him up to this point, they just pile up on his back and add weight to his swings.

If his face is getting gauged, he doesn't notice. He just keeps striking until he sees enough room to loop the wire into an even tighter shape between his hands to jam down onto the creature's throat.

Turns out that he's one of the tougher ones.

The scratching gets worse after the first blow, more desperate to get free of what's happening, but his face keeps together unusually well. All the more reason to drive fists into his face again.

After a few more times, he starts losing focus and strength and his clawing slips from Coil's face to the air next to his head or his shoulder or anything that feels like something. He freezes up and writhes against it and tries to blindly get Coil's hands away from him, but everything is slippery and muddy and he doesn't have all that long to keep going anyway.

Eventually he just kind of... stops.

That's when someone reaches down and drags Coil away from the corpse, quickly wrapping him up in human arms and pressing him against a warm chest and trying very hard to keep him still.

The vampire starts to slowly dissolve from its gaping throat wound. The other Nightwalker decided to leave with the others, not wanting for a second to be stuck with the same fate. That leaves just the two of them in the middle of a street, suddenly and eerily quiet.

Quiet save for harsh, delirious pants for breath.

When he was first grabbed, Coil wrenched around to try and slam an elbow back into the face of his assaulter... but he's not hauled back in the way he expects; there's just a strategic shoulder there instead of a leering mouth full of fangs.

A few more wild struggles follow--he couldn't help those even he'd had the sense to--before the silence starts to actually sink in.

Nothing else is moving. Nothing else is coming for them. There's nothing left to fight.

His weight sinks when he finally calms down enough for it all to click, and he twists around where he's held, trying to see.

He needs to see his face. He needs to make sure.

He keeps him very still until he feels him calm down. It isn't until then that he loosens up to give him room to breathe and move, and it isn't until then that he finally lets himself sink, too.

"It's okay."

It's Zhas, all right. His face paint is smeared on one side, the shoulder of his coat is torn up, and he looks exhausted, but it's him. His eyes are the same.

He holds Coil a little tighter again. He's not looking at him. He seems to be distracted with breathing, fighting short, rattling inhales and trying not to get dizzier than he already is. But he needs Coil to be okay, and that part takes priority.

"They're done."

It isn't until he sees him, sees that he's standing and breathing (mostly) and in one piece that the adrenaline finally drains from him in a rush. His face falls, expression drawn as he's stricken with relief.

Everything feels like it's shaking all of the sudden. He can tell, distantly, that a lot of things hurt now.

And one of those things is his hands. He goes to reach up for Zhas, for something, because he knows that he's not okay... but little slices of pain catch to remind him that his hands are still wired together.

The garrote had slipped off the wraps on his hands somewhere along the way, in only a few places but that's all it'd taken to bite deep. By now, his hands are entirely slicked in red. Fingers tremoring almost too much to manage it, he takes a minute to peel the wire out of his skin. A few more notches have been added.

When Zhas sees, he silently reaches to help. His breathing may be difficult, but his hands are steadier than they should be. He wasn't the one consciously in the midst of the danger, despite the close calls. Together they can get him sorted out in no time.

"We should move," he says, with no small effort on his part, "If there are others, they'll smell it."

He moves his arms to Coil's shoulders, starts to pull him away--doing his best to straighten up and walk without cringing. He probably shouldn't be moving, but he has a point. Even if they weren't both bleeding (Zhas has to put a hand on his side at one point, and it comes back smeared with more red than before), they made a lot of noise. If anyone was watching, there's only so much that a normal consciousness can do. Just because they mistake vampire violence for some kind of a gang fight doesn't mean they won't still call the cops.

Zhas knows the area. He'll find them a place that's not too far.

Once the wire is carefully extracted from the flesh of his hands and stuffed back into his pocket, he follows along. And he does so in a daze. Compared to the oversaturated frenzy that he's now crashing down from, everything feels foggy. The pain is more present--he's surprised by how much red he sees between the two of them--but there's a growing fuzziness hissing behind his ears.

He really hopes that he's not losing consciousness.

It's a haze that he hasn't been sunk this deeply in for a long time. He'd been in a mansion, dumbly stepping over familiar corpses, last time he'd felt like this.

So he just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, hurriedly following along, while his brain attempts to rattle back into place.

He keeps Coil wrapped up under one arm. It's like before, when they met, when he gave him his jacket to wear. Zhas doesn't know a whole lot about people, but he does know what it feels like to come down from the terror that everything important to you could be gone. He knows what it's like to push yourself until you lose it, and then suffer the slowly dragging, shuddering, horrible sink that comes after.

Coil was very good to do that, he thinks. But he still wishes that it didn't come at so high a cost, their sorry, mortal conditions blatantly obvious. He feels weak and grateful and guilty and he's still not sure how he can feel all of them at the same time.

"Sorry." He's sorry for a lot of things, but this is the only way he can think to even start. "That won't happen again."

As much as it feels as though he's sinking, seeping and draining slowly down through the pavement under his feet, that handful of words hook him and pull him back up.

All the way until he's looking uncomprehendingly up at Zhas.

He doesn't get it--even if he'd had his wits completely about him, he probably still wouldn't. By the way he stares at him, stressed and ashamed, he's feeling the same way.

He wanted to do better. It wouldn't have gone this way if he'd been better.

He doesn't look at him long before something else occurs to him.

"You're the reason we're both alive. Don't forget that."

He forges ahead, after that. Still slow, still wary and wincing and not in great shape, but he's anxious to get them out of the open and somewhere they can fix themselves up. He's starting to think in function again, rerouting his plans, trying to figure out if there's somewhere they could stay, or if they need to get out of the city before their bodies finally quit on them.

A while later, he stops them, taking a couple of steps back to look up at the windows of a shabby little hotel. It's too early for anyone's lights to be on, but maybe, if he can get a look...

His neck hurts as he peers up, but his chest hurts even more when he tries to lift his arm to feel at his neck--he wheezes unhealthily and sinks down to a neutral position and decides that there is no way he's going to be able to keep himself up there long enough to get them in.

So he turns to Coil instead, gestures that he needs him to open one of those windows. He starts to point to the open one, but stops and grips at his ribs. He's clearly in no shape to make much more than one climb.

Having something to do besides wither in the pit where adrenaline used to be, focuses him up a little. He can't keep sinking deeper into some buzzing, blank space yet because he has more work to do.

It's constructive; he can be useful.

Nodding, he quickly leaves Zhas's side so he'll stop trying to move and gesture at him. He's got this... even if he doesn't quite think about how until he's crept up onto the fire escape.

He hesitates long enough to figure out a way over from there, and long enough to realize that there really isn't anything he can do about his hands. He just has to work with what he's got.

And as a result, when he makes the hop to the architectural edge where he can get to the window, he almost doesn't make it. His balance is bad, with how shaky his limbs are, and his chopped-up fingers have little strength to them. He wobbles where he's at, there's a wet slap of his hand against brick to catch himself... and, with a pained pang, he rediscovers his shoulder wounds in the same moment.

He really is a mess, isn't he? He can't help but allow himself a frustrated little hiss under his breath, before he starts messing with the window most likely to have no one sleeping beyond it.

It'll take him a few minutes more than it normally would, with his weakened fingers and precarious perch, but he finally motions for Zhas to follow.

Zhas watches him do this with concern, and it fully concerns him that he might have to catch him if he slips and falls. He's too tired to be of any other help, though. Now that he's stopped, now that the task is on someone else, he's becoming aware of just how much of him isn't working right. His side is burning, his breath still makes an audible sound if he wants more than a tiny gasp. He's dizzy, his head hurts.

And now he's got to make it up there.

He drags himself up the fire escape, takes what steady footing he can manage on the small ledge, and then--probably to his detriment, pretends that he's not injured at all.

The hop should have been easy, but he nearly slips off too--catching a painful grip on the frame of the window and hanging off his less-injured shoulder.

He tries to pull himself inside, but he might need help.

Edited 2013-04-05 20:10 (UTC)

Coil hasn't gone far. He'd just made enough room for Zhas to get over, so he's immediately right there to grab onto jacket or arm or both, to help lever him in through the window.

He hasn't really even checked the room out beyond a quick glance, to be honest. His focus has been getting Zhas finally to safety.

He should really sit down. That much is obvious with the way he cringes through the window, bent like he's ready to fall over, leaning heavily on Coil for a moment as he regains his footing. But Zhas is nothing if not stubborn, so he straightens up despite the pain, turns around the close the window, and starts investigating the room like this was any other temporary hiding spot.

No people, no cameras, a functioning faucet in the bathroom. The room is not a particularly nice one, but it suits the neighborhood. There's enough for them to work with. He clicks the bathroom light on, since that's obviously where they're going to have to start.

"Where are you hurt?"

He asks this to the wall, but there's no one else he could be talking to. He works on stripping off his jacket, avoiding the mirror above the sink.

Even if he'd had the will to answer, the state of his hands do not put him in the mood for talking. So, he just gives Zhas about twenty seconds to try getting his jacket off before he loses patience.

He follows him into the bathroom, also avoiding the mirror--he can feel the angry rawness of the wounds on his face clearly now, and doesn't particularly want to see them--and grabs the ends of Zhas's sleeves. He's got at least enough strength in his fingers to help tug his jacket off.

Then, since he can't be sure of where Zhas is all injured, he just tangles a grip of very bloody fingers into the front of his shirt so he can physically guide him over to take a seat on the edge of the bathtub. He doesn't look at his face; he tugs carefully but insistently. Zhas is just going to listen.

He can't tell him no. He doesn't have the strength.

All he's got is a breath, the start of an argument, before he resigns to sitting exactly where Coil directs him and letting him do whatever he wants.

He drags his coat with him, though. He needs to dig through his pockets for pain killers (the strong ones, in a glass bottle) and all of the things he keeps on him for first aid--bandages, wraps, needle, thread--anything that'll help.

Zhas was slashed in the side, and it hurts. His shirt is soaked with blood. It didn't go deep, but the really worrying scratch runs almost all the way to his back. It'd be impossible for him to stitch it up himself, though he looks like he's thinking of trying anyway.

Once Zhas is seated, Coil picks the smallest of the neatly-folded towels off the rack, folds it around all his fingers, and just... hugs it to his chest. He'll take better care of them in a minute. For now, he needs a break from the pain, needs to soak up some of the blood, and the pressure helps with both. He's going to be needing his fingers as functional as possible in a minute, so he's giving them a break while he can.

Which means he can't do much to say anything while he watches Zhas fish out medical supplies. Leaning back against the sink, taking quiet stock of the injuries that he can see from there... he suddenly shakes his head when he sees the bottle of pills. If Zhas isn't paying enough attention, he'll reach out and tap the tub near him with his foot, still shaking his head no.

His capacity for attention is very narrow right now, so the tap is needed. He looks up, confused, still holding one of his many little bottles in his bloodsmudged fingers.

But then his eyes narrow into a look that Coil knows very well by now. It's a look of slowly-creeping annoyance. He clutches the little bottle to his chest and just looks at him, the meaning unmistakably clear.

It hurts him to breathe, and Coil is telling him he can't take his painkillers? If it didn't hurt so much to move, he would have reached out and hit him. That immobilization is probably the only thing that keeps him from just taking a couple out of spite.

He sees that look, and normally it would be more than enough to get him to consider backing down, but that stubbornness only makes his insistence desperate, this time. His face, all gouged up, turns plainly pleading.

He knows that he's right, here, but he also knows that he needs to give more of an explanation... so, after a frustrated moment, he pulls the towel off of his hands again with his teeth. The blood had already begun to glue the fabric to his wounds.

'Not yet,' he clumsily signs. 'Later.' And he holds out his hand for the bottle.

Later...? But he doesn't want them later...

He looks down at his little bottle, clearly disappointed. But Coil has that look on his face, and Coil is the one who's taking charge of the situation here, so he supposes... if it's really not just to spite him... that he should do that Coil says.

It is with a great reluctance that he finally hands over his bottle. But he nudges the back of Coil's hand on the way back, signing 'later' as well.

Fine, he'll do it Coil's way. But Coil is going right after him.

He'd like to snatch up all his pain killers, but the fact that Zhas is handing over the bottle somewhat willingly gives him hope that he won't sneak some while Coil isn't looking. So, after setting that bottle a safe distance away on the counter, he can turn his attention to what really needs it-- which isn't the wound on Zhas's torso, even though it's the most obvious.

Call it a fixation of his, but he's more concerned about Zhas' brain.

So, he might get a closer inspection than he's expecting, as Coil steps over to get kind of close to his face. He's looking at his eyes. And he gives an instruction--pointing at his own eye, pointing up at the bathroom light, and then down to his eye again. He wants to see how his pupils are reacting, and he doesn't have a penlight.

Zhas doesn't get why he's looking, but Zhas also doesn't remember falling off the roof. He does what he is told regardless, even if it's a little sluggish.

It's good that Coil is checking, though. His pupils retract a little slower than they should, a little delayed, and when he looks down again, he doesn't adjust well. He squints and blinks with how hard it is to see. For a normal person, that might not mean much--but they're Clearsights. They have exceptional eyesight and quick reactions to adjustments in light.

It's safe to say... he probably hit his head on the way down.

He frowns. Which is something he should have caught before so obviously showing, and probably would have if he'd been in a better state, but he misses it this time. He's concerned, and that fact is obvious. Zhas is just lucky that his pupils aren't reacting unevenly, or Coil would find some way to force him to a hospital.

So, he's stuck with his own less-than-sophisticated diagnostic tools... namely, pointing at his head and then sketching a questionmark in the air.

It might not be a bad thing that Zhas catches him frowning. That makes him think that something is wrong with him, if he's getting that kind of a reaction. He tries to think of what he could be looking for. A concussion? Does Coil think he--

Did he hit his head? He can't remember. He's still not sure exactly what Coil's asking, but he's starting to get the idea.

"Headache. Dizzy." He squints forward, thinking. --and then something clicks, and he looks back up at Coil. "Did I fall?"

The frown gets a little worse, as he nods. He gives the sign for 'explosion,' hoping that might help.

And then, the sign that follows is more of a vague gesture--motioning upwards as he reaches for his shirt. He wants him to lift his arms.

They're going to try to get his shirt off the usual way... but if it doesn't work, if they run into resistance with whatever's happened with Zhas' shoulder, he'll just cut the thing off.

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