Goodnight // AU

[oldrecordplayer]

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.

Comments

[mortalcoil]

Somewhere between the crushing relief at the familiar gesture, and the question being tossed at him, Coil finds it within himself to give light-but-audible scoff.

Of all of the skills of his that could be considered somehow 'medical,' stitching something up is where he has the absolute most confidence. Even with his hands messed up, he's sure that he can at least do an adequate job.

Granted, the things he's usually sewing can only be considered living by the vaguest definitions, so there is very little in the way of warning before he presses the wound closed and begins to stitch.

At least he's quick about it, which might have been detrimental to someone who required a gentler hand. Despite the still-searing ache in his hands, he's able to work with a little more directness to work past the lingering tremble in his fingers, and put together neat, structurally-sound little sutures.

[oldrecordplayer]

It almost makes him smile. Would have, if he didn't suddenly have to suck in a breath to not make a worse sound.

It's not as bad as it could be, especially now that his mind is a little better settled and willing to deal with it. It's raw and it's sharp, but he just thinks of his syringes instead, thinks about how compared to his ribs, this is just a little push and a tug over and over.

He almost gets used to it, after a while. He'll be glad to have it patched up.

[mortalcoil]

It takes a while, the wound isn't a small one, but the repetition does help. Coil can hone in on something that he's practiced at, put some distance between himself and reality, and just work.

Even he's starting to lose nerve at the end, though. It's a lot of focus demanded for a very worn-out brain, and the strength required to pinch a good grip on a blood-slick needle is fading fast. He almost gets sloppy at the end there, starting to space the sutures a little wide where the gash gets shallower. It should still be enough to serve its function, as long as Zhas actually takes it easy.

It's not sterile, it's not professional work, but it will at least hold him together.

When the final suture is knotted off, Coil just sits back and reels in relief and exhaustion for a little bit, re-bloodied hands hanging lifeless on his lap.

[oldrecordplayer]

Zhas feels at the stitched up injury, though not very close. It hurts too much to put any pressure on it, he just wants to feel that the sutures are there without twisting his head to look.

He takes a moment to fumble around with bandages, finding something big enough to just press to his side. He hates to bring Coil out of his pool of relief, but he gestures for him to hold the thing there for a minute while he wraps more bandages around to keep it there.

A misleadingly difficult task, with his shoulders. It's more twisting and moving his bad arm--really, this task should probably be the other way around.

[mortalcoil]

He at least tries to let him do it himself--both for Zhas' sense of self-sufficiency, and for his own need to spool up enough energy to help with again.

Once he feels like he can manage to, he just waits until one of Zhas' hands is near enough to the gauze to be able to seamlessly take over as he moves in to handle the bandages himself. Hopefully, even if Zhas isn't immediately planning on allowing them to switch tasks, he'll move his hand anyway to catch the gauze that Coil suddenly abandons.

[oldrecordplayer]

He's a little thrown off, but he can't be angry. He makes the switch seamlessly himself, secretly a little relieved to have the task taken out of his hands.

He waits patiently for Coil to finish, fingers dancing around his arm as he goes around... handing him the little clips when he reaches the end. Since his ribs have been accessed and his shoulder is something that can't really be helped, he figures that Coil has very little to protest with now.

He tugs on his shirt. His turn.

[mortalcoil]

At first, he's confused. His mind is already dragging onto different things, turning to thoughts of cleaning up and escape, wondering if they will be able to rest soon, calculating how long he's going to make Zhas wait for narcotics.

When his attention is pulled back to himself, he doesn't quite get what Zhas is after.

He'd kind of forgotten about his shoulder. Or, more accurately, he'd pushed it out of his mind as something that was just going to have to be dealt with later, in whatever state it's in by that point.

So, he replies with a somewhat helpless expression, once he gets it. By now, the punctures have turned into an ugly, aching, half-dried mess, and he's sure he can't raise his arm far from his body at all. These wounds are deeper, but haven't bled as profusely as his others, so the whole thing has dried to a problematic point.

[oldrecordplayer]

He tugs again, but doesn't make any more effort to undress him--either because he literally can't, or because he's starting to agree that Coil's ugly shoulder wound might be past any help he could give it.

He reaches up for that, trying to pick fabric off from around his collar, obviously concerned... but his eyes narrow in thought, still considering the alternative.

"Should we leave it...?"

[mortalcoil]

It should be taken care of... but with their current supplies--the stock of which is dwindling thin--and resources like time, cleanliness, and energy, he doesn't see a whole lot of hope there.

It will probably turn into a problem later. He should care, and normally would, but is presently finding it difficult to.

He just wants to be done.

So, he nods.

[oldrecordplayer]

If that's what Coil decides, then he'll let him get away with it. He soaks and squeezes out the towel again before he manages to twist enough (even more difficult, now) to get the shower off.

Without all that much warning, he presses the damp thing up to Coil's face, dabbing at the few places where blood has been smeared on his face.

"Anywhere else?"

[mortalcoil]

Coil had thought they were done, so it takes him by complete surprise. He flinches and hisses a breath between his teeth, before he catches himself enough to sit obediently still. The wounds are simple abrasions and gouges, but they sting a lot more than he expects.

As soon as he has room to, he shakes his head.

[oldrecordplayer]

Okay. That one is definitely payback for his ribs.

If there's nothing else of concern, and no one is about to faint from blood loss or ruined lungs, he'll stop picking at Coil and work on gathering up the remains of their little impromptu medical stop.

He get some more things out of his pockets--his face paint and his cell phone--getting distracted for a moment and frowning over the tears in his favorite coat. He picks up his shirt, frowns at that too... before he makes the sign for 'help'.

[mortalcoil]

Being given an instruction gets him moving... and he thinks he's being obedient. He gathers the energy to get up to shut off the sink, gathering up unused bandages and shoving a ruined towel into the trash.

It only takes him a minute before he's glancing over at Zhas again, looking for direction on what else to do so they could finish up there.

[oldrecordplayer]

Oh, that... isn't what he meant.

He lets Coil do the rest, though, partly because these are things he might have asked him to do anyway, and partly because he doesn't really want to have to repeat himself. He feels... silly.

But he couldn't even lift his arms up enough to get the thing over his shoulders, let alone over his head. So when Coil turns to him, he hesitates... and shakes his head.

He holds up his shirt a little. He meant this.

[mortalcoil]

Oh.

...He tries not to look like he feels silly, then. Just going to step over to help like it's no big deal.

It would be great if either of them could escape this ordeal with any sense of dignity left, at this rate.

He might have to forcibly tug Zhas' arm up with the shirt a little, especially with the way his own dexterity is continuing to fade, but he'll help him get it on relatively quickly, so they can move on with their lives.

[oldrecordplayer]

He's trying. Despite how most of his dignity should have been dashed when he was easily blasted off a rooftop, he's still got enough to be kind of embarrassed that he even had to ask.

But with Coil's help, he manages to wiggle back into his mostly-in-tact shirt. He gets up after that--slowly, and not without more wincing--but he picks up his coat and his handful of things and he walks out into the other room so that he can lean out the window and dial a number and gruffly tell their driver to come meet them at the nearest cross-street.

[mortalcoil]

He makes the mistake of finally glancing in the mirror on the way out, and startles himself a little. He'd known that he must have looked awful, but he's struck by actually seeing all the details. The gouges on his face aren't hugely damaging, but they're a particular kind of hideous--all the bruising and hollow-eyed staring and grimy red that is soaked into so much of him making him look more dead than he'd expected.

He looks like failure.

As he leaves, he shuts off the light and plunges everything into enough darkness to make it hard to see the signs of their presence that they're leaving behind. He wonders what it'll be like in the morning, for those left to clean up after them.

Then, while Zhas excuses himself to make the call, he takes a seat on the corner of the bed farthest from him and the window, where it's the darkest and quietest.

They're going to be moving again soon, so he needs to take a minute to sit in both for a minute and just... do nothing.

[oldrecordplayer]

The call is over quick. He's already talked more today than he has in weeks. It's not so bad when it's to Coil, but these things add up for him.

He snaps his phone closed and lets the silence settle over the room for a moment. He's not looking at anything, unfocused and dizzy, still. Walking across the room took a lot out of him. Or maybe it's thinking, which he's starting to do again. He wishes, again, that he could just take something to numb out for a while.

But because he's Zhas, he doesn't stop to relax. He crosses back through the room, leaves his heavy jacket on the bed next to Coil, and then disappears into the bathroom again. Coil's work is undone--he turns on the lights, but he closes the door.

The faint clattering beyond might be familiar. Zhas is finally fixing his face.

[mortalcoil]

He looks up from the little corner of his mind that he's sitting in to watch Zhas cross the room, until the door locks him away and Coil is in the dark again. After that, he just stares blindly through the coat beside him. At least he has the worst of the drugs in his possession, and the others are next to him in pockets that Zhas left behind. For now, he can excuse himself from worrying. He'd hug his elbows and settle there, curled up on himself while he lets his mind sink into deeper quiet, but neither his hands nor his shoulder would stand for that.

So he just slumps awkwardly, hurts, and waits.

[oldrecordplayer]

He's got quite a bit of time to wait. Zhas is working with stiff hands and bad joints, completely repainting at least a third of his mask. He tries to take his time with it, make it match, because if he puts thought and care into this then maybe it'll make the rest of him feel as well-put-together too.

Besides, it'll take about twenty minutes for the driver to make it there. They were supposed to meet him somewhere completely different, and New York is the city that never sleeps--their chauffeur will be crawling through pedestrians for blocks before he even gets to the empty part of the city.

In fifteen, he's back out. He does look better, screwing on the lid to his little container of black greasepaint. Both sides of him are even, now. It looks like nothing ever touched him.

That is of course, until, one looks at the bandages and his mismatched shoulders and the scrapes around his chin and the way every step is ginger and measured. He picks up his coat again, rifles through the pockets--but only pulls out a needle and thread to start stitching up the holes in his coat while they wait for the car.

When he hears it pull up, he goes to the window, looks downwards... and after a moment of consideration, looks back towards Coil.

"...we'll take the stairs."

He starts out the door, then. Into the hallway.

[mortalcoil]

Having Zhas a little more patched-together and masked helps him more than he expects. It bolsters him enough to get right to his feet and fall in step when they need to move, able to straighten up and return to a functional state of alertness--at least long enough to make it down to the car.

...Even if he is glad that they're taking the easy way down, past potentially prying eyes.

[oldrecordplayer]

Potentially prying eyes aren't as bad as the two of them scrambling down the side of a building. He'd rip his stitches right open and waste all of Coil's work--instead he manages to drape his coat over his shoulders and make a mostly-steady way down the hall, down a couple small flights of stairs, and out into the lobby.

He walks through, past the front desk, like their presence is nothing unusual. The woman behind the desk is a forty-something blonde who's clearly not expecting anyone to show up this late at night, nose stuck in a fashion magazine and noisily chewing her bubble gum. She doesn't even look up until they're nearly out the door--where she does a double-take, but says absolutely nothing because they're leaving and, therefor, the two weirdos are no longer her problem.

The back door of the car is open, so Zhas goes to stand beside it and let Coil slide in first, as he always does.

[mortalcoil]

Coil slides into the car and drops a little more bonelessly into the seat than he normally would, mostly due to the fact that the shoulder that would normally help out has become pretty much useless by this point.

He even holds that arm to his body with the other one as clumsily scoots over, making room for Zhas to enter. And once he's over, he has no qualms about sinking back against the seat, shutting his eyes, and just sighing. They're finally technically on their way home.

[oldrecordplayer]

Zhas doesn't exactly have an easy job of it either, gripping the handle above the door to ease himself down into the seat next to Coil. He completely misses the door handle the first time he reaches for it, fingers swiping uselessly in the air in front of it--but then he focuses and zeroes in and yanks the damn thing shut.

The car starts driving without Zhas having to kick the driver through the seat, for while he might be silently grateful. He lets out a similar little wheeze of relief, sinking down into the seat as far as his body will let him.

Which, sure enough, isn't actually very far at all.

It'll take about forty minutes to get to their plane.

[mortalcoil]

Calming down is nice and everything, but it isn't long before Coil is slumped a little forward again, elbows on his knees. Especially if Zhas is going to rest, he needs to keep some semblance of awareness about him.

It's habit. He can't relax yet, and he's okay with that. With Zhas concussed, with how Coil expects him to be sleeping soon, someone's got to keep an eye out for anything that could quietly go horribly wrong.