( he drops a quick acknowledgement an' then goes on his way. he's got a bag of supplies he's scraped together from the safehouse stores which he expects will be enough — if ephemera was in a truly bad way, surely he'd go to a hospital proper?
gene arrives at the club, works his way through the walls of folk an' into the back room where he scans for other, obvious dangers (old habit, he's forever lookin' for mines an' tripwires that ain't there) an' then comes on over to inspect ephemera.
[ The back room has been doing time as a makeshift locker room and warmup area, with some benches and a punching bag. Sharkface has planted himself firmly in the corner, back to the wall, so no one can sneak up on him. He's got a knife up his boot and a baton concealed under his jacket, but that doesn't change the fact that he got the shit kicked out of him in the last fight and he can't quite see clearly. Last fucker got him in the face. The ring he was wearing had an edge, and ripped in pretty hard. Sharkface is pretty sure he needs stitches. Normally he'd do them himself, but like most head wounds this one bled like a sieve and it's fucked up his vision.
Last thing he needs to do is stab himself with a needle. Fuck up his one good eye any further.
He grunts. Thumps his head back against the wall, though not that hard. ]
Nobody's called me that for years.
[ Not since he enlisted, actually. But that's not really the point of this. Calling for a favor like this is risky. But there's nothing for it, not unless he wants to call Angela or risk stumbling back out into the world with even shittier vision than usual. Of all the people around here, he probably trusts Gene the most. Or at least as far as this sort of thing goes.
He waves a hand at his face vaguely. Most of the bleeding's stopped. He's got some bruised ribs on top of it, maybe a few that are broken, but that's not important. He can ignore those. ]
Can't see too good right now.
[ Despite the injuries, his voice is calm. He's at a severe disadvantage now, but there's no changing that. He'll just have to wait and survive what comes at him. ]
( he gets it, in a way. plenty of folk still call him hicks. he gets gene often, eugene less so. but the only one now who calls him genie is a dead man at his shoulder, an' he's bereft of reg' here. been outta the war three years, reg's been dead since june of '43 an' gene ain't never dealt with the grief of it all, because he had his ghost. made it as easy to bear as it could'a been.
but speakin' of things that need bearin' — ephemera's got demons aplenty, an' the loss of vision is enough to make near anyone panic. before he gets too far into his inspection, he goes to the door an' braces it with a bench, which is about all the security he can offer. gene ain't a fighter by anyone's metric, but he also ain't afraid of a scuffle, an' he's always put patient welfare well above his own. )
I'll give you fair warnin' about anythin' you can't see. Don't look much like your eye took any damage.
( gene settles down on his haunches in front of ephemera. first priority's to clear the blood off, though he's glad it don't seem to be bleedin' too freely now. odds are it'll need stitchwork, but gene's done so much of that it ain't no nevermind. plenty of boys on the front didn't want to get back from the line an' mendin' his family's clothes gave him a quick stitch an' a steady hand early on.
he pulls a bottle of saline outta his bag, douses a dressing in it an' then sets about cleanin' the area around the cut. he's no-nonsense about it, obviously quick an' practiced in a way that puts the least amount of strain on the one bein' worked on. )
Sure you don't wanna go to a hospital? You're gonna need stitches. I got a bit'a whiskey in my bag but reckon it won't be enough to numb the pain proper.
[ There's not much that's going to help if trouble comes knocking. A bench in front of the door, a knife in his boot, and what Gene offers as a fair warning. Just how it is. He's fought blind before, though not often and rarely well. If it goes wrong, it'll cost him. He doesn't have any enemies here, or at least none that he knows about, but that's hardly the point. There's always someone just waiting for a shot.
He exhales. Breathes slow. Doesn't flinch when Gene starts working on him. There's a moment where he thinks about the baton and what it would do if he smashed it into someone's skull, but it passes. You don't hit medics. He doesn't have a lot of conduct rules anymore, but that one's held steady. And if he's gone still in a way that often preludes a fight, then that's just how it's going to be.
Breathe. Don't tense up. And don't you dare flinch.
He flexes his hands. Lays them flat on his knees. The work Gene's doing stings, but only in a vague sort of way. Most of the nerve endings there still work. It's only a small pain, though. ]
I don't need painkillers.
[ He blinks slowly. Some of the blurriness is clearing. Good. ]
( while he cleans the wound right-handed, he rummages through his bag for a suture kit with his left. workin' by feel, somethin' all too familiar in the crush an' press of a battlefield.
lordy, it'd almost be easier if there were mortars screamin' nearby. men wailin' for their mothers. the scent of blood is one he's accustomed to, so it don't do much to throw him back into the sound an' fury of it all.
his fingers graze the edge of a small tin he's set aside for just this purpose, though he ain't got much — a small, curved needle, a pair of tweezers an' scissors. no needle driver, couldn't find one in all the safehouse an' he shook the damn thing out top to bottom lookin'. its absence is gonna make this hell an' gone harder than it ought to be. he won't be able to hold on decently to the needle with gloves, they'll be too slicked with blood.
so. )
I can either do it with gloves an' have it take twice as long, or I can do it bare-handed an' be quick about it. Which would you rather?
( knowin' what it'll do. gene's an open book an' he ain't ever taken issue with other folks havin' easy access to his emotions. but ephemera ain't like him. gene'll respect his answer in whatever form it takes. )
[ Back home, the medics all did their work in full armor. Kevlar gloves, greaves digging in at odd angles. Rifles stowed at their backs. He's been told civilian surgeons work in scrubs, but Sharkface never did meet any of those. Everyone he ever knew or fought against was armored up. Even the people stitching him back together. He remembers —
Well, it doesn't matter what he remembers. That was back home. This is here and now, and he'll have to deal with the reality of it like a goddamn soldier. At least Gene offered him a choice.
He takes a breath. Lets it go. It's his own fault for getting boxed up, so he'll just have to deal with the outcome. The other choice is doing it himself and possibly botching the job, or calling one of the other people he's met recently and hoping none of them decide to use it against him. It's the exact same risk he's taking with Gene. ]
Do it quick.
[ The empathy bond will —
He's not going to think about that. It's either get it done quickly or let someone into his head, even though the thought makes him queasy and hunted. But if it took too long, he might tense up and get caught up in other, older memories that have no place here and ruin it anyway.
The quicker of two evils, then.
Silently, he removes the knife from his boot and the baton from his jacket and sets them aside, just out of easy reach. In case he starts getting twitchy for real. You don't hit medics. CT taught him that. One of the first lessons. They hadn't had a real medic, but CT had read the manual and did his best to make it work. If he thinks about CT, remembers the sound of his voice, then maybe it'll be okay. Maybe he won't reveal anything that will ruin him. CT's dead and gone but he was a good man, a good captain, that's an acceptable thing to remember. Just so long as he doesn't start getting tangled up in how it ended, so long as —
( he sucks a breath between his teeth. sympathy more than any sharpness. once the wound area's as clean as it's gonna get, he sets the bottle of saline down an' studies the man a moment. then, apropos of not the least surgical thing he holds out his hand for ephemera to take. )
Let's do it this way to start, then. It'll take the edge off the shock of it all.
( he ain't afraid of anyone else's emotions. he's seen 'em all. the fear, the pain, the sufferin' that comes in the dark hours after. the rage an' hate an' riotous anger. his own emotions are more like the gentle lap of a tide against a beach. quiet, ordered, calm. a smattering of steadiness and determination that's as unyielding as the face of a cliff. an' all of them, marshaled to he very edge of human ability.
steadiest hands in the 505th. he wore that with pride aplenty, an' he knows himself well enough that he expects whatever ephemera's got on tap is probably hard an' rough an' hurtin', an' that he can take that, too. )
[ There's a flash of blind fear when Gene offers his hand, because people don't do that to him, they're not meant to, and Sharkface stiffens. Considers refusing, saying he's changed his mind. He wants to stand up, establish distance. Set the lines down so they're clear, because he needs those lines, he needs the world to be simple and stay in its place.
He flinches before he can think to hide it, and hates himself for it. You stupid fucker. It was easy, it was going to be simple, and now it's not. He doesn't let people touch him these days. It's a line that he guards fiercely, and drops only when he has no other choice. For medical treatment, when it's necessary, or to hold up the illusion that he's a full person under the armor. Everything else is noise, a distraction from his mission, a reminder of what he's lost and doesn't deserve to find again. And this is just a means to an end, a patch job because he cannot risk damaging his one good eye, it doesn't mean anything.
Except that it does, now.
It would be worse if he refused, Sharkface thinks. It'll make him look weak, maybe crazy, certainly a liability, and he cannot seem weak to these people. He needs them. This place is too big and has too many variables for him to accomplish his task. He remembers CT, how the captain had been at the end, twitchy and manic, unwilling or maybe even unable to hold still, muttering to himself. Sick with grief, with rage, already drowning in it. His name had been something else, before. It was CT at the end, CT when he died. CT who made him promise to avenge their bothers, their sisters.
We'll kill every last one of them, little brother.
Sharkface grabs Gene's hand. He hesitated too long but he will not be weak, he won't do that to the captain. The calm is a shock, so sudden it almost hurts, low and steady and nearly the opposite of what Sharkface feels under the surface. The rage is all consuming, endless and sharp, coiled up in everything because that was better than letting it settle; if it settled he would drown in what's beneath that, the sorrow, the sudden, abject loss, because he had people and he loved them, he loved them so deeply that it rewrote everything inside him. Their presence made him better in all ways, lifted by what they taught him and how it felt to stand at their side and know he wasn't alone, that he would never be alone.
Until, suddenly, he was. The loss is a wound, gaping and sour, and he's tangled that up in rage because that's the only way forward. If he isn't angry than he'll stop and he cannot do that, he cannot even think about it, not while his mission stands. The captain gave him a mission and he will see it through no matter what it costs him. No matter what he has to do.
( the most important thing what bears sayin'. if he hadn't spent the last few years tendin' to his brother, who'd gone mad with grief an' rage an' hurt an' anger so bright it could burn out the sun, maybe it would'a hit him harder than it does. as it stands, gene just swallows it down. there ain't no resistance to it in him, he invites it in, the emotion crashes over him an' leaves him empty on the shore. the sinuous twist of loss an' pain is enough to drown a man. how the hell's he held it together at all, amidst this cacophony? how's he standin'?
there is a little spike of anger in him, brief an' bright like an arrow, at how bad the world's gone on an' failed him if it's let him carry on like this. it's like walkin' on a busted up leg an' expectin' it to heal straight away.
he shifts out of his crouch an' onto his knees, then pulls their twined hands in closer an' presses his forehead down against them, brings his other hand up to bracket ephemera's between his own. it ain't in prayer, exactly, but somethin' very like it. he knows that ephemera, like albert, can no doubt be stirred to violence an' he's well aware that what he's doin' exposes the back of his neck, makes him vulnerable.
but gene's made it this far in life by holdin' out his hand an' trustin' that folks will ultimately choose to take it. appealin' to the better part of human nature, though lord knows he ain't hardly ignorant to the depths an' depravities it can descend to.
ephemera is a good man, beneath it all. despite it all. he knows that's why the man set his weapons aside, an' gene don't fear pain or death as a result of helpin' others anyhow. )
S'all right. Just ride it out. Breathe. I got you.
[ It crashes. The tangle of Gene's calm, like stepping into a deep pool, and his own anger, cut into the fear that he's let someone touch him, he's let another person close enough to gut him and didn't even fight. He sucks in air, harsh and rasping, and it hurts to swallow. To breathe at all.
Easy, easy.
It shouldn't be like this. He's fought through so much worse, this is nothing, a distraction, he'll push it aside as soon as he can hit something. But Gene's hands are steady and sure on his, and there's a part of Sharkface that wants to call out for the captain, because Hunter used to take his hands like this and hold him still. Hey, little brother. Hunter, his name had been Hunter before it went wrong, his name was Hunter —
Sense memory. Hands on his. Holding steady. It was like this once. Hunter holding his hands. Squeezing. Not enough to hurt, never to hurt, but enough to feel. A focus point.
He makes a strangled noise. Hunter's gone, it was CT at the end, and CT was mad when he died, torn up by grief and alone, he died alone because Ephemera wasn't there to protect him or even to die with him, it was all for nothing — ]
Hunter —!
[ It comes out choked. Gene doesn't sound like him at all, the accent is all wrong, but the calm is there if he'd only step into it and let it settle and that, more than anything, reminds Ephemera of his brother. The man he'd been before he died. And that cuts him like a wound even as it digs in, pushing through the fog and his need to reach out and hurt someone. He doesn't feel like Sharkface when he breathes, it hurts and he wants to fight, is desperate for something to strike and nearly jerks back to try before he realizes Gene's still there, head bowed, waiting it out.
No. No, no, no.
He jerks back with a curse, wrenching his hand free, and slams his head into the wall as hard as he can. The shock of it startles the world, and his head, into stillness. ]
( the levee breaks an' ephemera jerks back. instinct is a hard thing — gene's says go to him. but intellect, lord, knows it's better to give him a moment's peace. he sits back against his ankles, feelin' the livewire ache up along his leg as the motion digs a piece of shrapnel in deeper. an', just like the fella who knocks his head against a wall for a moment's clarity, so too does the pain grant it unto him.
he exhales. steady, slow. it's a lot to take in. lot to handle. an', no doubt ephemera will expect him to flinch away, because that's what's normal for folk who ain't been in the trenches. their wars ain't the same but the roots it puts down in you, the seed born twisted of anger an' hate an' rage, those things don't differ. what changes is how you tend what grows.
most folk think he ain't party to those emotions, on account'a his calm. truth is, he just manages 'em better than most. gene ain't kind by nature, he's kind by choice. an' that's what this is. that's all it is. choices, laid plain.
lord, if he'd ever come face to face with the man that killed reggie, he thinks his choice would'a been to rip him clean apart.
his jaw's set — determination, some, as he touches the man's knee gently. physical touch is an anchor, though he does it full knowin' it might get him pitched across the room. )
I lost a fella too. My best friend, Reggie Holiday.
( the hicks boys all knew, on account'a the ghosts. but gene ain't never spoken the words aloud, ain't never made it real in that way. he loved reggie. loves him still, with somethin' that's deep an' abidin' and over which he is fiercely protective. he ain't told a goddamn soul about him since the dyin'. his brow crumples and that old grief wells up like a flash flood, settles in the cage of his chest an' pushes all air outward like it's takin' up a physical space. he has to collect himself a'fore he can speak again. )
He was a spy. Got shot by the enemy on account'a refusin' to give up the folk he worked alongside.
( reggie's never given him the details of his death, but gene knows it wasn't pretty or easy. they so rarely were. )
[ The impact shocks him into stillness, short-circuits the panic and leaves something empty in its wake. It's a bad impulse, a dangerous one. A last resort for when things get knotted so tight he forgets how to breathe. He only did it once around his family, after a bad jump, and the sergeant had grabbed him before he could try really tell if it had worked or not. Grabbed him and sat him down and even then, his head ringing, he'd known how badly she'd wanted to yell at him. Shake him, maybe. Dress him down like the rookie he was, just like she had when she'd been his jump instructor.
Instead, she'd put her hand on the back of his neck, right over his implant, and sat there with him for a long time. No words. She just sat there with him, waiting it out until they were both calm enough to look each other straight on. And then she'd told him not to do that again, not to her, and he hadn't. Not for years. She and Hunter had been the first real family he'd ever known, and there are days he thinks the loss will break him, or already has. If it weren't for the mission, if it weren't for the rage he cultivates like a beloved friend, there would be nothing left of him.
He expects Gene to be gone, or at least retreated out of striking distance like any sane person would, and startles at the touch. Goes for the knife before he remembers he set it aside. In case something like this happened.
There ought to be tension now, a heathy distance because he fucked up, he fucked up real bad and did the one thing he's been trying so desperately to avoid. He let someone into his head, he took the offered hand, he did that despite knowing what it would cost him, and other person saw him. Knows him, now, in ways that cannot be undone or explained away.
It's over. He'll always be a threat to these people now. It's just like with the mercs only worse because these people have no use for someone like him, and no reason to overlook what he is.
Except that Gene isn't yelling at him or calling him a psychopath. He's just there. Talking, but slowly, like it hurts.
Sharkface — Ephemera — takes a shuddering breath. It hurts. ]
My squad. My family.
[ They were a part of him, as essential as bone marrow, and now they're gone. And he's told people that, he's spelled out why he needs his mission to more than a few people because that had felt important, to say the words and make people understand what had been taken and why it was so essential he avenge them. His brothers, his sisters. The thing they'd built together, a family out of the war. Most of them had been alone in some fundamental way, even if they weren't all orphans like Ephemera was. But they were a family, and he'd had that and then they were taken from him. They died in pain. He's said all of that before, but never to someone who seemed like they were actually listening.
Silently, he pulls the hand wraps from his knuckles. Lets the rags drop. Black rings are tattooed around his fingers, one for each of the people he lost. He added one for Connie, too, though she hadn't been one of them. But she could have been, if things had been different. He'd liked her. Admired what she'd tried to do, even though it got his family torn to pieces. She'd been kind, despite everything. And he'd wanted to be kind like her, too. ]
They were torn to pieces.
[ It feels better to get angry about it, to cling to that shard of rage because that, at least, has direction. He can blame someone. He can hurt them for it, if only he can find them. It lessens the enormity of it, the way he'd loved them. Rage is direction, focus. A path forward. He needs that. He thinks he'd drown without it. ]
( small words. they're a reflex to some, though it seems they're so often an empty gesture, hardly meant. said out of courtesy rather than compassion. gene doesn't say 'em often an' when he does they come from somewhere on down past the soul of him. he has to pull them up outta the depths an' lay 'em out plain an' bare. his fingers flex, just the slightest bit on the man's knee. he knows what that gesture is, when ephemera goes for the knife. rare man who knows himself well enough to set such things aside first. )
Loss ain't ever an easy thing to bear.
( it's the one thing that howls in you. he's broken bones, he's taken shrapnel, he got knifed once, memorably, but that pain diminishes with time. it leaves you with an ache sometimes, like the one he gets in his hands when the mercury drops, but the physical ain't got no comparison with that which cleaves the heart. he'd face danger a thousand times to undue a moment's grievin' an' he guesses it's the same for ephemera himself.
he's still on his knees, he pushes himself up to a height so's they're a little more equal with the other man sittin', an' he sets his right hand on his shoulder. ducks his head some to catch his eye an' looks at him straight on, unflinchin'. )
I'm here if'n you wanna talk about 'em some time over drinks, yeah?
( ain't no pressure put on it. no expectation. just an offer, easy as you please. livin' on is a messy business, when you'd rather join the dead. )
[ The last person who apologized to him was Carolina. He'd tried to kill her for it. Been convinced it was some Freelancer trick, a ploy to get inside his guard and kill him quickly, get him out of the way so she could go on fighting her war. He hadn't bothered learning anything about the people on Chorus, beyond what weapons they had. She and Washington had been the targets, the only thing that mattered there. He would have let the planet die, if he could have just taken those two with it. She must have known that. Felt the rage when he fought her, when he took her blows and refused to go down.
Still, she apologized. And there's a moment, sitting in the back room of some shitty nightclub, that Ephemera wonders if maybe she'd meant it. If she'd realized the enormity of what she'd done.
Then he remembers what it had been like to watch CT drag Chica and Barrows out of the water, to know the two of them had drowned in their armor. Ephemera hadn't been there but he'd watched the security footage obsessively, until he knew every beat of it, until he'd seen his brothers and sisters die a thousand times. He thinks Chica was unconscious when she went in, thinks she cracked her skull open in the fall. He doesn't know about Barrows but he prays, more than anything, that his brother didn't see it coming. That it happened quickly. It's an awful way to die, drowning. One of the worst he can imagine.
He flinches again, but Gene doesn't go for a blow. Just puts his hand on Ephemera's shoulder and meets his gaze straight on. Keeps his voice slow and even, and offers to listen. Ephemera stares at him for a long time. Part of him wants to reach out and put his hand over Gene's, just for the comfort of touching another person, of letting that happen without expecting a fight will follow. The way he used to grab Chica's hand, or throw his arm around Barrows's shoulder.
Proximity. Contact. The understanding he'd be safe.
He doesn't. But he doesn't shove Gene away, either, and that would have been the smarter thing. Later, he'll wonder about that. ]
It hurts. Talking about them.
[ He twitches. Flexes his hands to get the feeling back in them, and remember what it's like to exist in his own body and not just his head. His thoughts take over sometimes. He can get lost in them. ]
But. Maybe. Did I hit you?
[ The last part is asked somewhat abruptly. He doesn't remember doing that, but he lashes out sometimes, when he gets lost. ]
An' no, you didn't. Reckon you thought about it, though, but you held yourself back for no reason beyond makin' that choice for yourself.
( al's hit him plenty when he's in the throes of his rage. gene always fights back, but even with only one arm his brother's got him beat by spades. al has always had that vicious streak in him that made him go for the throat, it's an instinct that didn't get passed on to him. still, gene don't mind gettin' hit. gettin' hurt. lord knows sometimes a fella just needs to get it outta their system. even if ephemera chose to do it here an' now, it wouldn't do much more than make him ache on his account. pain's pain. just somethin' to survive.
[ Ephemera makes a strangled noise, doubtful. The pain's been with him a long time now, even longer than the rage. It feels inevitable, endless. And part of him needs it, so the anger has something to draw on. But he doesn't refuse, either.
A mistake, probably. Gene's seen too much of him now. There's nothing to stop him from telling the others and there's a horrible moment when Ephemera's certain Angela will find out, that she'll know somehow and drop him hard. She's his ally and there was a moment, just a moment, when he'd called her a friend, but she's too much of a professional to let this stand. If she knows —
Breathe. Stay in the moment.
He exhales. Spreads his fingers wide and then lays them flat against the bench. Focuses on the texture. That's real, that's right now. He didn't hit Gene, didn't break Hunter's rule. Okay. You good?
No. But he'll survive it. He's good at that. ]
Yeah. I'm good.
[ He's calmer now, at least. Shocked himself out of the dead panic. The rest will hit him later, after he's crashed and had time to take stock of it. The rest of him feels pushed down, muted somehow, and that's probably a good thing now. That'll keep him from getting too flinchy and making this worse. ]
( he makes a soft, low noise, sort of a mm? of comfort, pitched higher goin' than comin'. he's still listenin' but now in that far-off distant way he gets about him when he's lost in the nature of his work.
he sterilizes the needle an' makes ready his supplies, then leans in to start his work. he uses interrupted stitches, tyin' off each one before he adds another. the little black rows of thread are neat an' evenly spaced, painstakingly done so each looks like the one before it.
he could lapse on into silence, so the only thing between 'em would be the soft punctuative pops as the needle goes through the epidermis an' the whisper of a dressin' as he wipes blood away. instead, he talks as he works, his voice keepin' that soft, even cadence. )
You know, when we dropped on into Sicily durin' the War an' advanced on through Italy, I remember we took over this factory on our way. We'd been fightin' hard for what felt like a year an' ain't had no relief, an' this factory, see, it was meant for mattress-makin'. They had everythin' you'd ever need, an' the boys got it in their heads we were gonna bed down that night in real luxury. We'd set up triage in one'a the outbuildings an' these two fellas, Angel an' Jasper, they dragged a mattress out for me an' Vergil — he was the other medic in my platoon — to share, so damn proud'a themselves for thinkin' of us. Lord, I reckon it was the best sleep I had in the whole'a the war. Damn feathery thing. Ginny sneezed his fool head off all night an' eventually went to sleep outside, so I had it all to myself.
( he ties off the last of the stitches deftly, snips the black thread. done. the stitches get a cursory inspection, an' then he reaches for another few things outta his bag. )
Try to keep it dry, yeah? An' don't pick at it, for the love of the Lord. I'll take the stitches out in 'bout a week. You want me to try healin' it, too? It ain't instant, but it should hasten the process some an' help stave off any chance of infection an' the like.
[ After a moment, Ephemera just closes his eyes and lets it happen. Gene would have hurt him already if that was what he'd intended. This just the aftermath, something to be endured. And for a bit it's easy just to fall into the rhythm of the moment, listen as Gene speaks and the thread drags.
Then it's done.
Ephemera leans back. Blinks until his vision clears and resists the urge to reach up and touch the wound. Find the edges. ]
I know the drill.
[ It'll be bad if it gets infected on top of everything. He really can't afford that. But the question gives him pause, and he goes still. Already one freakout down. Really can't afford another. ]
I'm good.
[ He nods to himself. Yeah. He's good. Keep it dry, keep it clean. It's fine. ]
I'm good.
[ He'll make it true, even if it's not right now. ]
( he lets it be. hands ephemera a bandaid that'll about cover it, an' some salve of some sort or other. it don't have that old carbolic smell to it, which he finds he oddly misses, but it should do in a pinch. )
Then I'll let you manage this part.
( he thinks he's pushed the man just about as much as he can handle, an' gene's always had a keen intuition for how much a fella can take before they need to get back from the front. hot meal and a night's sleep. lord, but ephemera needs both. an' a friend to help him through.
to the gratitude, he just shakes his head, pats the man's knee as he stands up. there's some stiffness to his ankle, he shifts his weight off it briefly. really, he ought to see about the shrapnel. there's bound to be a surgeon here deft enough to manage it. )
Don't you get it in your head you owe me on account'a doin' my job, fella, huh? This is who we are.
( the good, the bad. helpin' each other. holdin' back a blow. all that. some of what lives in them in ugliness, an' there are surely folks who don't get that, but he does. ain't no judgment in him for it. he does reach out a last time, a hand against ephemera's shoulder, a slight flex of his hand. )
[ Somehow that clicks. Shakes something loose in his head. This is who we are.
Ephemera nods slowly. Doesn't stand up yet. He thinks about the baton and the knife, and how he'll probably sleep holding both of them. He's going to crash, he can feel it coming over him already. The exhaustion pressing down. Nothing for it. If he went out into the ring for another fight, for the adrenaline push, he'd turn it, make it real in a way that this sort of thing isn't meant to be. People fight for money, for spectacle, but not to kill one another and he'd probably kill someone if he went down again.
He breathes. In and out. Keeps it as steady as he can and doesn't slap Gene's hand away. Maybe they're beyond that, now. Or at least for tonight. ]
This is who we are.
[ He breathes. Focuses on that. On remembering what it's like to be in a body and not just his head. ]
I'll draw him for you.
[ He shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have offered, except that Gene did him a kindness, a real one, and that ought to be repaid. Ephemera's got nothing else to offer, nothing anyone else would want except a hand in violence or this. He closes his eyes again. Breathes out. ]
Your friend. If you describe him. I'll draw it. Not tonight. But —
( he ain't got many pictures of reggie. a strip of photos from a booth at the '39 world fair, the two of them goofin' off together, makin' silly faces for the camera flash. it's about all he has. gene still don't know why reg picked him, of all the folks in all the world, but. he did, an' they had four good years. best ones of his life, really, those days in new york sneakin' in places like the café society in greenwich an' watchin' the city from the observation deck of the empire state. lordy, they got in so many fights in back alleys, too, whenever someone took exception to reggie's presence in a white neighborhood, but most of their time was spent laughin', arm-in-arm.
in the years after '43, he had a ghost. now, here, he ain't got nothin' but his memories. the offer, such as it's meant, is almost its own manner'a blow. gene sucks a breath in through his teeth.
there's a moment when you step outta a plane when the world falls away an' gravity grabs you by the guts an' yanks your body down. it's a little like that. the drop. puttin' your faith in open air. )
I.
( he'd hate that. somethin' still an' empty. reg' was so damn full of life, it's the main thing gene's memory holds to him. he was always doin' somethin'. movin', dancin', whistlin' in perfect key. he could play the piano and loved the sax an' used to come up with ditties on the fly for no other reason beyond an honest joy in music. he could learn languages like he was born to 'em, an' gene still thinks he would'a become a doctor like his pa if he hadn't died on a clear, cloudless day in france.
he wants to politely defer. or at the very least brush the man off an' hope he forgets about it later, but. he can guess some at what this costs, too, an' he don't have it in him to refuse an honest kindness. his brow furrows, an' he has to breathe out easy because he can already feel the pinpricks of tears hot behind his eyes. he rubs his hand across the bridge of his nose. an' then nods, once.
there are always things bigger than your own pain. )
[ It would have been easy to land a blow now. Gene's open for it, exposed. Counting ghosts. It would've been easy to stand up and snap his neck, just like that. Ephemera had wanted to do that once. Not with Gene, no, but Carolina, he'd wanted her to know it was coming. To die hurting just like he was. It was why he'd refused to modify his gear to a suit a sniper rifle. There had been too much of him that needed her to know it was him, to see it coming. And he'd hated her enough to try it, to dig into whatever opening she gave.
He breathes out. ]
Okay.
[ He's never known what to do when other people cried except embrace them, and that —
Part of him wants to ease the hurt. But that's not his place. Not when he caused it in the first place. There's nothing to do but wait it out and hope it won't scar.
He stands up slowly. Better to leave now, and keep to his own company. His head isn't good around other people tonight. ]
[ Ephemera stiffs at the touch, but only a little. They're probably beyond that now, he thinks. With what they know about each other. The pain that was shared, and what Ephemera promised him. It's rare that he draws for other people, but this is important.
Just grab the other half'a the bench. Easier with two people.
( he'd done it alone to start, an' he could this time around too, but. there's somethin' of a catharsis in helpin'. in bein' asked to help. it's as important to the psyche as any other human thing. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
> action
Date: 2019-12-31 06:34 pm (UTC)gene arrives at the club, works his way through the walls of folk an' into the back room where he scans for other, obvious dangers (old habit, he's forever lookin' for mines an' tripwires that ain't there) an' then comes on over to inspect ephemera.
soft, as he starts: )
Didn't know your first name was Terrance.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 07:03 pm (UTC)Last thing he needs to do is stab himself with a needle. Fuck up his one good eye any further.
He grunts. Thumps his head back against the wall, though not that hard. ]
Nobody's called me that for years.
[ Not since he enlisted, actually. But that's not really the point of this. Calling for a favor like this is risky. But there's nothing for it, not unless he wants to call Angela or risk stumbling back out into the world with even shittier vision than usual. Of all the people around here, he probably trusts Gene the most. Or at least as far as this sort of thing goes.
He waves a hand at his face vaguely. Most of the bleeding's stopped. He's got some bruised ribs on top of it, maybe a few that are broken, but that's not important. He can ignore those. ]
Can't see too good right now.
[ Despite the injuries, his voice is calm. He's at a severe disadvantage now, but there's no changing that. He'll just have to wait and survive what comes at him. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 07:40 pm (UTC)but speakin' of things that need bearin' — ephemera's got demons aplenty, an' the loss of vision is enough to make near anyone panic. before he gets too far into his inspection, he goes to the door an' braces it with a bench, which is about all the security he can offer. gene ain't a fighter by anyone's metric, but he also ain't afraid of a scuffle, an' he's always put patient welfare well above his own. )
I'll give you fair warnin' about anythin' you can't see. Don't look much like your eye took any damage.
( gene settles down on his haunches in front of ephemera. first priority's to clear the blood off, though he's glad it don't seem to be bleedin' too freely now. odds are it'll need stitchwork, but gene's done so much of that it ain't no nevermind. plenty of boys on the front didn't want to get back from the line an' mendin' his family's clothes gave him a quick stitch an' a steady hand early on.
he pulls a bottle of saline outta his bag, douses a dressing in it an' then sets about cleanin' the area around the cut. he's no-nonsense about it, obviously quick an' practiced in a way that puts the least amount of strain on the one bein' worked on. )
Sure you don't wanna go to a hospital? You're gonna need stitches. I got a bit'a whiskey in my bag but reckon it won't be enough to numb the pain proper.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 07:58 pm (UTC)He exhales. Breathes slow. Doesn't flinch when Gene starts working on him. There's a moment where he thinks about the baton and what it would do if he smashed it into someone's skull, but it passes. You don't hit medics. He doesn't have a lot of conduct rules anymore, but that one's held steady. And if he's gone still in a way that often preludes a fight, then that's just how it's going to be.
Breathe. Don't tense up. And don't you dare flinch.
He flexes his hands. Lays them flat on his knees. The work Gene's doing stings, but only in a vague sort of way. Most of the nerve endings there still work. It's only a small pain, though. ]
I don't need painkillers.
[ He blinks slowly. Some of the blurriness is clearing. Good. ]
Just stitch it.
[ A pause. He twitches. ]
Please.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 08:07 pm (UTC)lordy, it'd almost be easier if there were mortars screamin' nearby. men wailin' for their mothers. the scent of blood is one he's accustomed to, so it don't do much to throw him back into the sound an' fury of it all.
his fingers graze the edge of a small tin he's set aside for just this purpose, though he ain't got much — a small, curved needle, a pair of tweezers an' scissors. no needle driver, couldn't find one in all the safehouse an' he shook the damn thing out top to bottom lookin'. its absence is gonna make this hell an' gone harder than it ought to be. he won't be able to hold on decently to the needle with gloves, they'll be too slicked with blood.
so. )
I can either do it with gloves an' have it take twice as long, or I can do it bare-handed an' be quick about it. Which would you rather?
( knowin' what it'll do. gene's an open book an' he ain't ever taken issue with other folks havin' easy access to his emotions. but ephemera ain't like him. gene'll respect his answer in whatever form it takes. )
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 08:21 pm (UTC)Well, it doesn't matter what he remembers. That was back home. This is here and now, and he'll have to deal with the reality of it like a goddamn soldier. At least Gene offered him a choice.
He takes a breath. Lets it go. It's his own fault for getting boxed up, so he'll just have to deal with the outcome. The other choice is doing it himself and possibly botching the job, or calling one of the other people he's met recently and hoping none of them decide to use it against him. It's the exact same risk he's taking with Gene. ]
Do it quick.
[ The empathy bond will —
He's not going to think about that. It's either get it done quickly or let someone into his head, even though the thought makes him queasy and hunted. But if it took too long, he might tense up and get caught up in other, older memories that have no place here and ruin it anyway.
The quicker of two evils, then.
Silently, he removes the knife from his boot and the baton from his jacket and sets them aside, just out of easy reach. In case he starts getting twitchy for real. You don't hit medics. CT taught him that. One of the first lessons. They hadn't had a real medic, but CT had read the manual and did his best to make it work. If he thinks about CT, remembers the sound of his voice, then maybe it'll be okay. Maybe he won't reveal anything that will ruin him. CT's dead and gone but he was a good man, a good captain, that's an acceptable thing to remember. Just so long as he doesn't start getting tangled up in how it ended, so long as —
Breathe. See it through. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 08:33 pm (UTC)Let's do it this way to start, then. It'll take the edge off the shock of it all.
( he ain't afraid of anyone else's emotions. he's seen 'em all. the fear, the pain, the sufferin' that comes in the dark hours after. the rage an' hate an' riotous anger. his own emotions are more like the gentle lap of a tide against a beach. quiet, ordered, calm. a smattering of steadiness and determination that's as unyielding as the face of a cliff. an' all of them, marshaled to he very edge of human ability.
steadiest hands in the 505th. he wore that with pride aplenty, an' he knows himself well enough that he expects whatever ephemera's got on tap is probably hard an' rough an' hurtin', an' that he can take that, too. )
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 09:03 pm (UTC)He flinches before he can think to hide it, and hates himself for it. You stupid fucker. It was easy, it was going to be simple, and now it's not. He doesn't let people touch him these days. It's a line that he guards fiercely, and drops only when he has no other choice. For medical treatment, when it's necessary, or to hold up the illusion that he's a full person under the armor. Everything else is noise, a distraction from his mission, a reminder of what he's lost and doesn't deserve to find again. And this is just a means to an end, a patch job because he cannot risk damaging his one good eye, it doesn't mean anything.
Except that it does, now.
It would be worse if he refused, Sharkface thinks. It'll make him look weak, maybe crazy, certainly a liability, and he cannot seem weak to these people. He needs them. This place is too big and has too many variables for him to accomplish his task. He remembers CT, how the captain had been at the end, twitchy and manic, unwilling or maybe even unable to hold still, muttering to himself. Sick with grief, with rage, already drowning in it. His name had been something else, before. It was CT at the end, CT when he died. CT who made him promise to avenge their bothers, their sisters.
We'll kill every last one of them, little brother.
Sharkface grabs Gene's hand. He hesitated too long but he will not be weak, he won't do that to the captain. The calm is a shock, so sudden it almost hurts, low and steady and nearly the opposite of what Sharkface feels under the surface. The rage is all consuming, endless and sharp, coiled up in everything because that was better than letting it settle; if it settled he would drown in what's beneath that, the sorrow, the sudden, abject loss, because he had people and he loved them, he loved them so deeply that it rewrote everything inside him. Their presence made him better in all ways, lifted by what they taught him and how it felt to stand at their side and know he wasn't alone, that he would never be alone.
Until, suddenly, he was. The loss is a wound, gaping and sour, and he's tangled that up in rage because that's the only way forward. If he isn't angry than he'll stop and he cannot do that, he cannot even think about it, not while his mission stands. The captain gave him a mission and he will see it through no matter what it costs him. No matter what he has to do.
He's shaking. He doesn't realize. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-12-31 09:25 pm (UTC)Easy, easy. I got you.
( the most important thing what bears sayin'. if he hadn't spent the last few years tendin' to his brother, who'd gone mad with grief an' rage an' hurt an' anger so bright it could burn out the sun, maybe it would'a hit him harder than it does. as it stands, gene just swallows it down. there ain't no resistance to it in him, he invites it in, the emotion crashes over him an' leaves him empty on the shore. the sinuous twist of loss an' pain is enough to drown a man. how the hell's he held it together at all, amidst this cacophony? how's he standin'?
there is a little spike of anger in him, brief an' bright like an arrow, at how bad the world's gone on an' failed him if it's let him carry on like this. it's like walkin' on a busted up leg an' expectin' it to heal straight away.
he shifts out of his crouch an' onto his knees, then pulls their twined hands in closer an' presses his forehead down against them, brings his other hand up to bracket ephemera's between his own. it ain't in prayer, exactly, but somethin' very like it. he knows that ephemera, like albert, can no doubt be stirred to violence an' he's well aware that what he's doin' exposes the back of his neck, makes him vulnerable.
but gene's made it this far in life by holdin' out his hand an' trustin' that folks will ultimately choose to take it. appealin' to the better part of human nature, though lord knows he ain't hardly ignorant to the depths an' depravities it can descend to.
ephemera is a good man, beneath it all. despite it all. he knows that's why the man set his weapons aside, an' gene don't fear pain or death as a result of helpin' others anyhow. )
S'all right. Just ride it out. Breathe. I got you.
cw for self harm
Date: 2019-12-31 09:50 pm (UTC)Easy, easy.
It shouldn't be like this. He's fought through so much worse, this is nothing, a distraction, he'll push it aside as soon as he can hit something. But Gene's hands are steady and sure on his, and there's a part of Sharkface that wants to call out for the captain, because Hunter used to take his hands like this and hold him still. Hey, little brother. Hunter, his name had been Hunter before it went wrong, his name was Hunter —
Sense memory. Hands on his. Holding steady. It was like this once. Hunter holding his hands. Squeezing. Not enough to hurt, never to hurt, but enough to feel. A focus point.
He makes a strangled noise. Hunter's gone, it was CT at the end, and CT was mad when he died, torn up by grief and alone, he died alone because Ephemera wasn't there to protect him or even to die with him, it was all for nothing — ]
Hunter —!
[ It comes out choked. Gene doesn't sound like him at all, the accent is all wrong, but the calm is there if he'd only step into it and let it settle and that, more than anything, reminds Ephemera of his brother. The man he'd been before he died. And that cuts him like a wound even as it digs in, pushing through the fog and his need to reach out and hurt someone. He doesn't feel like Sharkface when he breathes, it hurts and he wants to fight, is desperate for something to strike and nearly jerks back to try before he realizes Gene's still there, head bowed, waiting it out.
No. No, no, no.
He jerks back with a curse, wrenching his hand free, and slams his head into the wall as hard as he can. The shock of it startles the world, and his head, into stillness. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 12:03 am (UTC)he exhales. steady, slow. it's a lot to take in. lot to handle. an', no doubt ephemera will expect him to flinch away, because that's what's normal for folk who ain't been in the trenches. their wars ain't the same but the roots it puts down in you, the seed born twisted of anger an' hate an' rage, those things don't differ. what changes is how you tend what grows.
most folk think he ain't party to those emotions, on account'a his calm. truth is, he just manages 'em better than most. gene ain't kind by nature, he's kind by choice. an' that's what this is. that's all it is. choices, laid plain.
lord, if he'd ever come face to face with the man that killed reggie, he thinks his choice would'a been to rip him clean apart.
his jaw's set — determination, some, as he touches the man's knee gently. physical touch is an anchor, though he does it full knowin' it might get him pitched across the room. )
I lost a fella too. My best friend, Reggie Holiday.
( the hicks boys all knew, on account'a the ghosts. but gene ain't never spoken the words aloud, ain't never made it real in that way. he loved reggie. loves him still, with somethin' that's deep an' abidin' and over which he is fiercely protective. he ain't told a goddamn soul about him since the dyin'. his brow crumples and that old grief wells up like a flash flood, settles in the cage of his chest an' pushes all air outward like it's takin' up a physical space. he has to collect himself a'fore he can speak again. )
He was a spy. Got shot by the enemy on account'a refusin' to give up the folk he worked alongside.
( reggie's never given him the details of his death, but gene knows it wasn't pretty or easy. they so rarely were. )
I carry it, too. Every day's a fight.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 12:40 am (UTC)Instead, she'd put her hand on the back of his neck, right over his implant, and sat there with him for a long time. No words. She just sat there with him, waiting it out until they were both calm enough to look each other straight on. And then she'd told him not to do that again, not to her, and he hadn't. Not for years. She and Hunter had been the first real family he'd ever known, and there are days he thinks the loss will break him, or already has. If it weren't for the mission, if it weren't for the rage he cultivates like a beloved friend, there would be nothing left of him.
He expects Gene to be gone, or at least retreated out of striking distance like any sane person would, and startles at the touch. Goes for the knife before he remembers he set it aside. In case something like this happened.
There ought to be tension now, a heathy distance because he fucked up, he fucked up real bad and did the one thing he's been trying so desperately to avoid. He let someone into his head, he took the offered hand, he did that despite knowing what it would cost him, and other person saw him. Knows him, now, in ways that cannot be undone or explained away.
It's over. He'll always be a threat to these people now. It's just like with the mercs only worse because these people have no use for someone like him, and no reason to overlook what he is.
Except that Gene isn't yelling at him or calling him a psychopath. He's just there. Talking, but slowly, like it hurts.
Sharkface — Ephemera — takes a shuddering breath. It hurts. ]
My squad. My family.
[ They were a part of him, as essential as bone marrow, and now they're gone. And he's told people that, he's spelled out why he needs his mission to more than a few people because that had felt important, to say the words and make people understand what had been taken and why it was so essential he avenge them. His brothers, his sisters. The thing they'd built together, a family out of the war. Most of them had been alone in some fundamental way, even if they weren't all orphans like Ephemera was. But they were a family, and he'd had that and then they were taken from him. They died in pain. He's said all of that before, but never to someone who seemed like they were actually listening.
Silently, he pulls the hand wraps from his knuckles. Lets the rags drop. Black rings are tattooed around his fingers, one for each of the people he lost. He added one for Connie, too, though she hadn't been one of them. But she could have been, if things had been different. He'd liked her. Admired what she'd tried to do, even though it got his family torn to pieces. She'd been kind, despite everything. And he'd wanted to be kind like her, too. ]
They were torn to pieces.
[ It feels better to get angry about it, to cling to that shard of rage because that, at least, has direction. He can blame someone. He can hurt them for it, if only he can find them. It lessens the enormity of it, the way he'd loved them. Rage is direction, focus. A path forward. He needs that. He thinks he'd drown without it. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 03:34 am (UTC)( small words. they're a reflex to some, though it seems they're so often an empty gesture, hardly meant. said out of courtesy rather than compassion. gene doesn't say 'em often an' when he does they come from somewhere on down past the soul of him. he has to pull them up outta the depths an' lay 'em out plain an' bare. his fingers flex, just the slightest bit on the man's knee. he knows what that gesture is, when ephemera goes for the knife. rare man who knows himself well enough to set such things aside first. )
Loss ain't ever an easy thing to bear.
( it's the one thing that howls in you. he's broken bones, he's taken shrapnel, he got knifed once, memorably, but that pain diminishes with time. it leaves you with an ache sometimes, like the one he gets in his hands when the mercury drops, but the physical ain't got no comparison with that which cleaves the heart. he'd face danger a thousand times to undue a moment's grievin' an' he guesses it's the same for ephemera himself.
he's still on his knees, he pushes himself up to a height so's they're a little more equal with the other man sittin', an' he sets his right hand on his shoulder. ducks his head some to catch his eye an' looks at him straight on, unflinchin'. )
I'm here if'n you wanna talk about 'em some time over drinks, yeah?
( ain't no pressure put on it. no expectation. just an offer, easy as you please. livin' on is a messy business, when you'd rather join the dead. )
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 04:06 am (UTC)Still, she apologized. And there's a moment, sitting in the back room of some shitty nightclub, that Ephemera wonders if maybe she'd meant it. If she'd realized the enormity of what she'd done.
Then he remembers what it had been like to watch CT drag Chica and Barrows out of the water, to know the two of them had drowned in their armor. Ephemera hadn't been there but he'd watched the security footage obsessively, until he knew every beat of it, until he'd seen his brothers and sisters die a thousand times. He thinks Chica was unconscious when she went in, thinks she cracked her skull open in the fall. He doesn't know about Barrows but he prays, more than anything, that his brother didn't see it coming. That it happened quickly. It's an awful way to die, drowning. One of the worst he can imagine.
He flinches again, but Gene doesn't go for a blow. Just puts his hand on Ephemera's shoulder and meets his gaze straight on. Keeps his voice slow and even, and offers to listen. Ephemera stares at him for a long time. Part of him wants to reach out and put his hand over Gene's, just for the comfort of touching another person, of letting that happen without expecting a fight will follow. The way he used to grab Chica's hand, or throw his arm around Barrows's shoulder.
Proximity. Contact. The understanding he'd be safe.
He doesn't. But he doesn't shove Gene away, either, and that would have been the smarter thing. Later, he'll wonder about that. ]
It hurts. Talking about them.
[ He twitches. Flexes his hands to get the feeling back in them, and remember what it's like to exist in his own body and not just his head. His thoughts take over sometimes. He can get lost in them. ]
But. Maybe. Did I hit you?
[ The last part is asked somewhat abruptly. He doesn't remember doing that, but he lashes out sometimes, when he gets lost. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 04:15 am (UTC)( not always. but sometimes. )
An' no, you didn't. Reckon you thought about it, though, but you held yourself back for no reason beyond makin' that choice for yourself.
( al's hit him plenty when he's in the throes of his rage. gene always fights back, but even with only one arm his brother's got him beat by spades. al has always had that vicious streak in him that made him go for the throat, it's an instinct that didn't get passed on to him. still, gene don't mind gettin' hit. gettin' hurt. lord knows sometimes a fella just needs to get it outta their system. even if ephemera chose to do it here an' now, it wouldn't do much more than make him ache on his account. pain's pain. just somethin' to survive.
gene nods to the cut above his eye. )
I'd best get to fixin' that up. You good?
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 04:26 am (UTC)A mistake, probably. Gene's seen too much of him now. There's nothing to stop him from telling the others and there's a horrible moment when Ephemera's certain Angela will find out, that she'll know somehow and drop him hard. She's his ally and there was a moment, just a moment, when he'd called her a friend, but she's too much of a professional to let this stand. If she knows —
Breathe. Stay in the moment.
He exhales. Spreads his fingers wide and then lays them flat against the bench. Focuses on the texture. That's real, that's right now. He didn't hit Gene, didn't break Hunter's rule. Okay. You good?
No. But he'll survive it. He's good at that. ]
Yeah. I'm good.
[ He's calmer now, at least. Shocked himself out of the dead panic. The rest will hit him later, after he's crashed and had time to take stock of it. The rest of him feels pushed down, muted somehow, and that's probably a good thing now. That'll keep him from getting too flinchy and making this worse. ]
cw for wound stitching
Date: 2020-01-01 04:56 am (UTC)he sterilizes the needle an' makes ready his supplies, then leans in to start his work. he uses interrupted stitches, tyin' off each one before he adds another. the little black rows of thread are neat an' evenly spaced, painstakingly done so each looks like the one before it.
he could lapse on into silence, so the only thing between 'em would be the soft punctuative pops as the needle goes through the epidermis an' the whisper of a dressin' as he wipes blood away. instead, he talks as he works, his voice keepin' that soft, even cadence. )
You know, when we dropped on into Sicily durin' the War an' advanced on through Italy, I remember we took over this factory on our way. We'd been fightin' hard for what felt like a year an' ain't had no relief, an' this factory, see, it was meant for mattress-makin'. They had everythin' you'd ever need, an' the boys got it in their heads we were gonna bed down that night in real luxury. We'd set up triage in one'a the outbuildings an' these two fellas, Angel an' Jasper, they dragged a mattress out for me an' Vergil — he was the other medic in my platoon — to share, so damn proud'a themselves for thinkin' of us. Lord, I reckon it was the best sleep I had in the whole'a the war. Damn feathery thing. Ginny sneezed his fool head off all night an' eventually went to sleep outside, so I had it all to myself.
( he ties off the last of the stitches deftly, snips the black thread. done. the stitches get a cursory inspection, an' then he reaches for another few things outta his bag. )
Try to keep it dry, yeah? An' don't pick at it, for the love of the Lord. I'll take the stitches out in 'bout a week. You want me to try healin' it, too? It ain't instant, but it should hasten the process some an' help stave off any chance of infection an' the like.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 04:07 pm (UTC)Then it's done.
Ephemera leans back. Blinks until his vision clears and resists the urge to reach up and touch the wound. Find the edges. ]
I know the drill.
[ It'll be bad if it gets infected on top of everything. He really can't afford that. But the question gives him pause, and he goes still. Already one freakout down. Really can't afford another. ]
I'm good.
[ He nods to himself. Yeah. He's good. Keep it dry, keep it clean. It's fine. ]
I'm good.
[ He'll make it true, even if it's not right now. ]
....thank you. For. All of that.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 04:57 pm (UTC)Then I'll let you manage this part.
( he thinks he's pushed the man just about as much as he can handle, an' gene's always had a keen intuition for how much a fella can take before they need to get back from the front. hot meal and a night's sleep. lord, but ephemera needs both. an' a friend to help him through.
to the gratitude, he just shakes his head, pats the man's knee as he stands up. there's some stiffness to his ankle, he shifts his weight off it briefly. really, he ought to see about the shrapnel. there's bound to be a surgeon here deft enough to manage it. )
Don't you get it in your head you owe me on account'a doin' my job, fella, huh? This is who we are.
( the good, the bad. helpin' each other. holdin' back a blow. all that. some of what lives in them in ugliness, an' there are surely folks who don't get that, but he does. ain't no judgment in him for it. he does reach out a last time, a hand against ephemera's shoulder, a slight flex of his hand. )
Only way forward is through, brother.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 05:13 pm (UTC)Ephemera nods slowly. Doesn't stand up yet. He thinks about the baton and the knife, and how he'll probably sleep holding both of them. He's going to crash, he can feel it coming over him already. The exhaustion pressing down. Nothing for it. If he went out into the ring for another fight, for the adrenaline push, he'd turn it, make it real in a way that this sort of thing isn't meant to be. People fight for money, for spectacle, but not to kill one another and he'd probably kill someone if he went down again.
He breathes. In and out. Keeps it as steady as he can and doesn't slap Gene's hand away. Maybe they're beyond that, now. Or at least for tonight. ]
This is who we are.
[ He breathes. Focuses on that. On remembering what it's like to be in a body and not just his head. ]
I'll draw him for you.
[ He shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have offered, except that Gene did him a kindness, a real one, and that ought to be repaid. Ephemera's got nothing else to offer, nothing anyone else would want except a hand in violence or this. He closes his eyes again. Breathes out. ]
Your friend. If you describe him. I'll draw it. Not tonight. But —
[ He opens his eyes, both of them. ]
I'm good a that.
cw for brief mention of period racism;
Date: 2020-01-01 05:58 pm (UTC)in the years after '43, he had a ghost. now, here, he ain't got nothin' but his memories. the offer, such as it's meant, is almost its own manner'a blow. gene sucks a breath in through his teeth.
there's a moment when you step outta a plane when the world falls away an' gravity grabs you by the guts an' yanks your body down. it's a little like that. the drop. puttin' your faith in open air. )
I.
( he'd hate that. somethin' still an' empty. reg' was so damn full of life, it's the main thing gene's memory holds to him. he was always doin' somethin'. movin', dancin', whistlin' in perfect key. he could play the piano and loved the sax an' used to come up with ditties on the fly for no other reason beyond an honest joy in music. he could learn languages like he was born to 'em, an' gene still thinks he would'a become a doctor like his pa if he hadn't died on a clear, cloudless day in france.
he wants to politely defer. or at the very least brush the man off an' hope he forgets about it later, but. he can guess some at what this costs, too, an' he don't have it in him to refuse an honest kindness. his brow furrows, an' he has to breathe out easy because he can already feel the pinpricks of tears hot behind his eyes. he rubs his hand across the bridge of his nose. an' then nods, once.
there are always things bigger than your own pain. )
I'd like that very much.
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Date: 2020-01-01 06:28 pm (UTC)He breathes out. ]
Okay.
[ He's never known what to do when other people cried except embrace them, and that —
Part of him wants to ease the hurt. But that's not his place. Not when he caused it in the first place. There's nothing to do but wait it out and hope it won't scar.
He stands up slowly. Better to leave now, and keep to his own company. His head isn't good around other people tonight. ]
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Date: 2020-01-02 02:30 am (UTC)gene just slings his bag across his back an' goes to unblock the door, bumpin' ephemera's shoulder as he goes. )
C'mon, gimme a hand.
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Date: 2020-01-02 02:59 am (UTC)He'll get it right, when the time comes. ]
What do you need?
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Date: 2020-01-02 03:00 am (UTC)( he'd done it alone to start, an' he could this time around too, but. there's somethin' of a catharsis in helpin'. in bein' asked to help. it's as important to the psyche as any other human thing. )
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