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Entry tags:
they're picking up pieces of me
Who: Charles, Erik, Ned
What: Ned is the newest stray that Charles decides to take in, after the Hulk tenderizes him with a park bench.
When: Day 50 (after this & this)
Where: Inside the library, House 8
Warning: Non-life threatening injuries, mentions of bullying
Ned isn't thinking very clearly, just at the moment. Probably that concussion of his, playing tricks with his memory and senses. He's forgotten all about the Hulk, and Cape Kore, and all of it. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, or why every inch of him hurts as if he's been run over by a truck. Wherever he is, it's quiet - at least it would be if there weren't that horrible, ceaseless ringing in his ears - and shaded. He has the vague sense that he was somewhere bright and loud, before, and that it made his head hurt even worse than it does now.
Huddled in the corner of a back hallway, he doesn't see or hear any other people. He doesn't think to seek them out, to tell anyone that he is injured. This is what he does, what he's always done. At school, when the other boys were particularly unhappy with him, it wasn't the school nurse he would run to, but an empty classroom, or a supply closet: anywhere he could hide until he was ready to clean himself up and act like nothing had happened.
Should he be cleaning himself up, now, he wonders? He wipes a hand clumsily across his mouth, and his fingers come away bloody. Not much: just a cut lip, then. Nothing he can't excuse away. He should get up and find a mirror, check if there are any visible bruises. The only problem is he's so tired, and it hurts to breathe too deeply. He'll do it in a moment, he tells himself. Much better to just sit here and rest for a little while.
What: Ned is the newest stray that Charles decides to take in, after the Hulk tenderizes him with a park bench.
When: Day 50 (after this & this)
Where: Inside the library, House 8
Warning: Non-life threatening injuries, mentions of bullying
Ned isn't thinking very clearly, just at the moment. Probably that concussion of his, playing tricks with his memory and senses. He's forgotten all about the Hulk, and Cape Kore, and all of it. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, or why every inch of him hurts as if he's been run over by a truck. Wherever he is, it's quiet - at least it would be if there weren't that horrible, ceaseless ringing in his ears - and shaded. He has the vague sense that he was somewhere bright and loud, before, and that it made his head hurt even worse than it does now.
Huddled in the corner of a back hallway, he doesn't see or hear any other people. He doesn't think to seek them out, to tell anyone that he is injured. This is what he does, what he's always done. At school, when the other boys were particularly unhappy with him, it wasn't the school nurse he would run to, but an empty classroom, or a supply closet: anywhere he could hide until he was ready to clean himself up and act like nothing had happened.
Should he be cleaning himself up, now, he wonders? He wipes a hand clumsily across his mouth, and his fingers come away bloody. Not much: just a cut lip, then. Nothing he can't excuse away. He should get up and find a mirror, check if there are any visible bruises. The only problem is he's so tired, and it hurts to breathe too deeply. He'll do it in a moment, he tells himself. Much better to just sit here and rest for a little while.
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"Yes, yes I know, we'd be much safer inside. There is a monster outside and I am the prat who goes wondering around in times of extreme danger," He sounds almost bored but it's more of a bickering defense mechanism, he understands Erik's worry but really the pulse of injury is distracting him, "Now if you could be quiet so I can find whoever is in here, that would be very much appreciated."
The library would have interested him in any other circumstances but as it is he just hurries down it and huffs out an annoyed breath, "I was so close to understanding who that was out there."
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Which is just unacceptable, thank you. He's also combating how unsettling that entire experience had been; just being within range of--whoever that was (and he does think in terms of who, he hasn't spoken to Bruce yet, but it wasn't a monster, it was a man; regardless of stature or color or any other factor, Erik didn't need telepathy to understand rage like that, not when he's known it his entire adult life) had felt strange and yet recognizable in a way he can't quantify. Something in the atmosphere pricking at his mutation, an itch in his veins like a thousand chittering insects. He can almost name it, but not quite.
In the moment, though, none of that matters, he just wants to attend whatever wayward soul Charles is seeking and put as much distance as possible between them and the shenanigans outside. Erik is not the hero type, and he makes a sweeping distinction between cowardice and sense. Similarly, he doesn't have the requisite extra senses to tell him when a person is in pain, but he's lived long enough to have honed skills in sensing presence, so they're definitely within hearing range of Ned, huddled in his corner, by the time Erik shoves an arm in front of Charles like a metal fence rail at chest level. "Over there."
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Charles reaches Ned first, hands settling to steady him. "You're injured but we're here to help. Don't try to struggle, it might only exacerbate your wounds."
Looking around helplessly, "Can you tell us what happened?"
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Still, the simplest thing seems to be to answer the man. "I think I h-hit my head," he says. Even to his own ears his voice sounds dazed and lost. He reaches up to touch the back of his head, as if in delayed demonstration. There is dirt in his hair. Then, he says, "I don't remember." Should he have said that first? He isn't quite certain.
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Still, it does have the advantage of giving their new injured friend at least one of their names, so that's progress. He passes his compatriot a look that's fond and frustrated at once, arms loose at his sides, feet planted slightly apart. Fight or flight position, all of which seems paranoid and insane when they appear to be faced with nothing more than Ned and his disorientation (concussion, Erik thinks, dispassionate; he should be kept awake), but it's outside that is the trouble. They're in a public building, it's not defensible because Erik doesn't know its exits and weak points. At least not yet.
At this point he deigns to like, address Ned personally. What a coup for Ned this must be. "Could you walk?"
Before Charles actually bleeds all over his own shirt, Erik will just simplify the situation.
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"All the more reason to come with us. If you've hit your head then it's not advisable for you to be left alone. And my friend is right, we need to get out of here as soon as possible. If you come with us I can guarantee you'll be safe."
Because Charles is the master of promising people things.
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It's easiest just to do what is asked of him. He doesn't have the mental wherewithal to really question what their hurry is, or whether he should trust these two strangers. Besides, if he said no, he suspects they wouldn't respect that and leave him alone. He doesn't want an argument, and Charles' soothing tone of voice is not without its impact. Docility replaces fear, and he starts to walk, following where they lead.
He doesn't ask where they are going, or pay much attention to his surroundings. He is a little unsteady on his feet, but his legs don't seem to be injured at all.
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Beyond that he's good for absolutely nothing in terms of explaining the situation, as that's never been his purview. His job is to move, to act, and let Charles handle the more human aspects of caretaking; if he had more distance to look at the situation he'd be pleased by how well they work together. But later for that. Now he keeps up a wary perimeter as they head out of the library and down streets remarkably quiet for a rampage going on somewhere.
Then again. He knows what the desire to be simply left alone feels like, and its frictive inner conflict (to be alone is--well, to be alone, and it has its pleasures and pains like anything else), so he supposes the man they'd met might have retired to parts unknown. Either that or he's some kind of challenge their captors have put forth, but Erik doesn't think so.
Eventually (as in, they're within sight of House Eight): "Once we're inside Charles will explain things."
Won't you, Charles? Erik has so much faith.
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"We live at house eight, it's not that far now, there's a good chap. We'll have you as right as rain in no time. I think you've just had a nasty shock."
Which is probably polite Charles code for 'head injury' but he doesn't say that out loud.
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For a little, while he was free from that constant, oppressive sense of surveillance and fear that had been pressing at the back of his mind since his arrival. It is back, now, in full force. His breathing, already restricted by the pain in his ribs, grows shallower still, with terror. Why can't he remember what happened to him? Has he been drugged? Dizzy, he half-sits, half-falls into the nearby couch, hissing softly at the stab of pain it causes.
"Thank you." He still doesn't know why it was so important for him to be here and not where he was, but he trusts (for now) that Erik and Charles brought him here to help him, out of the goodness of their hearts. Why is everyone in this place so helpful? Ned would worry about it, if he didn't have a million other more urgent and terrifying things to worry about first.
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People who will say that out loud: Erik. But then again he can't see the sense in not; how is their unexpected guest and new best friend supposed to know how to deal with his injury if he doesn't know what it is? This is probably why he and Charles will live on either side of an impassible gulf forever. Meanwhile, since they're there: "There's a gentleman making his feelings known in the town square. If you ran afoul of him that's probably how you hit your head."
Despite the fact that he hasn't actually turned from the window, that is to Ned, although no one will blame him if he has some difficulty in figuring that out. "You'll need to stay awake, so if you'd be so kind as to introduce yourself, at least we'll know who to shout at when you start to pass out."
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Both of them would make terrible nursemaids. But now that they're in that position they might as well get used to it and Charles' glance over is only half focused. He can feel the edges of Ned's mind against his, prickling with static and he briefly wonders if he should help him out with that.
Charles crouches down beside Ned, watching him with obvious concern and decides to opt in with the more human approach. "If you feel like you're about to panic, might I suggest cupping your hands over your mouth and nose and breathing. Slowly mind, you'll get more oxygen that way."
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"Ned," he answers Erik concisely, closing his eyes and burying his face in his hands as another wave of dizziness breaks over him. He thinks, inconsequentially, that Erik has an interesting accent. He can't place it. Not American, but not English like Charles. That much he would have gotten from the joke if not from the accent. European?
He isn't yet thinking well enough to question how Charles knew he was starting to panic, he just does as is suggested and focuses on breathing for a minute or so. Ned tries the trick with the hands, and it helps. Soon enough he has gotten his breathing back to a normal rate. The pain he is feeling doesn't lessen, exactly, but it sinks into background noise.
He wants to say thank you to them again, to ask how they found him, ask how long they have been here and what kind of lives they lead before. But he can't seem to get the words to come out. All the excitement must be catching up with him, he thinks, as he is steadily dragged downwards by an inexorable torpor. He will ask them those questions in just a moment. For now he just wants to sit, still and quiet, with his eyes closed. He doesn't realize what is happening as he starts drifting off; he knows that people with concussions are meant to stay awake, so of course he isn't going to let himself sleep. He is absolutely, 100% conscious, really.
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Which is, it's fair to note, a new experience for him. He's been so used to looking after only himself he's come to see other people as only shadows on his periphery when they weren't obstacles to be ripped through; when his attention turned to someone else it meant that person was going to die. It wasn't so long ago he wouldn't have lifted a finger to stop this. The crux of his problem is, unfortunately, that he can't bear Charles' disappointment. He's faced with that, and really, what does it cost him to keep a person awake? Nothing. Just time.
None of this means, of course, that Ned will consider the outcome of Erik's deep abiding philanthropy ideal when this results in his lightning strike across the room to clap his hands in two brisk bursts about an inch from Ned's 100% conscious face.
Don't even look at him, Charles. B| "Please. There are enough corpses on the Cape." It's either notable or isn't that even from this distance, crouched comfortably on his haunches, he doesn't put a steadying hand on Ned's knee or shoulder. He glances over his shoulder at his smaller companion, face wry. You're the expert in small talk.
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He actually seems quite pleased when Erik thinks to clap in front of his face. His voice is a soft hum of sound, careful and soothing in a way it usually is with people in distress. He knows how to pick the moment. "If you can't remember here, how about you tell us something about you from before. Where are you from originally? What do you do?"
Keeping him talking will help to keep him awake. Charles focuses and presses his thoughts into Erik's head with a lightness of ease. Can you fetch a glass of water, please?
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After a second or two he remembers where he is and why, and he appreciates how close he came to falling asleep. Erik's technique might have been a little brusque, but Ned is glad that he was paying enough attention to do it. He does what he's told and shifts his attention to the quieter of the two. There is really something remarkably calming about his presence.
"Right. The point is to keep me talking so I don't fall asleep, isn't it? I can do that. You don't even have to listen if you don't want to. My life is pretty boring."
A lie, but one with enough truth to it that Ned can tell it without falling all over himself.
"I grew up in Coeur d'Coeurs. The name is French but it's in America. It's a small town in the middle of nowhere, but I loved it. There were fields of flowers that stretched as far as you could see and it was always sunny. Okay, it wasn't always sunny, but somehow I remember it that way, the way things that you remember from when you were a kid always seem bigger and brighter and stranger than is really possible. I haven't been back there in twenty years. Not since-"
Since his mother died, he thinks, but he isn't going to say that. Even in his compromised mental state, talking without much paying attention to what he says, Ned avoids that topic instinctively, "-boarding school, which was horrible. The Longborough School for Boys: Institutum Superior Omnibus." He rattles off the motto with a hint of resentment in his voice. "I was there until I turned eighteen. After that they couldn't keep me any longer, so I moved to the city, did odd jobs for a while. Once I'd saved enough I went to pastry school. I'd just opened up my very own pie shop, and things were looking really good, when all of a sudden I woke up here..."
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On the other hand he did bring water, so perhaps that's a bonus. The irony is that their silent conversation has the effect of making Erik look much more considerate than he actually is, as opposed to just occasionally willing to follow Charles' lead. He knows where his strengths lie. Once he's set the glass down within Ned's reach he sprawls low in the high-backed chair across from the couch, posture not relaxed, but a few degrees settled from the humming tension of earlier. The house (distinct to home) represents a more defensible standpoint than the vulnerability of the Cape at large.
Should the Hulk come charging through the window, or something else Erik considers equally plausible. If that happens he's sticking Ned to the ceiling by his belt buckle. For the record. "I suspect they select their inhabitants by throwing darts at a board," he contributes, sounding as if he's just bitten directly into a lemon. Not unpleasing, but still sour.