kore_logs | It scares the hell out of me...

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It scares the hell out of me...

Who: Meyer & Ned, possibly Bruce & Charlie later.
Where: Starting near the woods. A little too close to the woods.
When: Late evening, Day 81
What: Meyer got a little too close to an angry sabertooth tiger, and unfortunate mauling occurred. Ned is his rescuer.
Warnings: Tiger attacks, and all the blood and pain that they entail. Swearing. Angst.

Lying there, facedown in the dirt, unable or unwilling to move -- was he supposed to be playing dead? He couldn't remember. What had seemed very important at the time now seemed like nothing more than a hazy, half-formed thought. There was something you were supposed to do in a situation like this. There was a protocol, a way to survive being attacked by an animal, but Meyer didn't recall it.

He knew what to do when people attacked, knew that if you were outnumbered or overpowered to curl yourself into a tight ball and protect your head and neck, protect your vital organs. He'd managed to curl himself into a ball of sorts, protecting his face, but there was a screaming pain in his abdomen -- maybe his ribs, he didn't know -- that prevented him from curling himself up entirely.

Motionless, barely breathing -- was he not breathing on purpose, or was he losing the need to breathe? -- he wanted to reach for the gun that had been knocked out of his hand after firing one shot. The animal had been on him in seconds, knocking him to the ground, although from the noise it had made, the outraged and pained roar, he might have shot it. He hoped so.

Maybe someone would hear the shot. Maybe someone would come. Maybe he'd die here. That thought enraged him; he'd fought tooth and nail to live his whole life, and now this. He moved his head slightly, trying to see if the tiger was still there; it was. It was watching him from a slight distance, and for a moment he thought about going for his gun, about finishing off the animal completely -- if he was going to die, he could take the damn thing with him -- but he couldn't seem to get up the strength to do. There was blood, he realized, blood all across his back where the tiger's claws had gouged him, blood trickling down his sides and onto the dirt, but that, he thought grimly, wasn't his problem. No, it was the problem of whoever showed up and discovered this scene, once the tiger gave up its waiting game and ate him like he knew it intended to.

He let his eyes slip closed. He let his breathing grow stiller. He hoped he looked dead. He wondered if he might be.

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"Like fuck I'm fucking waiting here, come on, where is he?" Under normal circumstances he might feel a little bad about clearly scaring Ned out of his skin (again, and on purpose this time.) Generally he likes the guy. Or doesn't mind him at least, which is unusual for Charlie. But today he's too damn wrapped up in what's going on, his blood roaring in his ears and that primal, urgent need to find Meyer right the fuck now, wherever he is. He might be dead as far as he knows and that can't happen, it just CAN'T, not in this hellhole and not from a fucking tiger not with everything they've been through.

There's a cheap plastic chair nearby, and that gets kicked across the room. Ridiculously unhelpful, maybe, but it feels fucking good. That's when he sees the door, and the way Ned was pacing in front of it when he came in, and his brain finally calms down enough to put the two together and he makes a dash for it.

"Meyer!?"

He can't quite help his flinch when Charlie kicks at the chair, but one benefit of having come face to face with an irate saber-toothed tiger shortly before is that Charlie, in all of his rage, can hardly make him any more panicky than he already is. That's why he doesn't just stand aside and let Charlie barge in. He gets himself between the stomping man and the door, barring his passage, speaking quickly.

"Look I understand you want to see him and you're really worried but Bruce needs peace and quiet, okay, and- and so does Meyer. You g-going in there like this is gonna get him all worked up and that could be seriously bad for him in the state he's in, okay? So if you're g-gonna go in there I'm gonna need you to c-calm down a little, first."

The words are a quick, nervous prattle, but he doesn't step out of the way, jaw clenching with determination. Like hell he's going to let Charlie jeopardize Meyer's health for his tantrum. Ned knows he looks a wreck, shaking and exhausted and covered in blood, but he tries to get across with his expression how serious he is about this.

Perhaps it's not quite as necessary as it seems to Ned just now - perhaps it's some subconscious lingering overprotectiveness, from the fight with the tiger. His brain can't help but register Charlie as dangerous, as a threat, and he can't help but want to get in between that and his friend when he's in such a defenseless state.

"You don't fucking gets it! He needs me in there, alright?" His breathing is speeding up every second, the anger turning into panic. He's been too close to where Meyer is for too long, and his brain is filling in all the worst case scenarios. Ned is just an obstacle, and without really seeing what he's doing he's grabbing him, trying to push him aside, the NEED to see Meyer right the fuck now trumping any other centres of logic or reason in his brain where Ned's words might have worked.

Ned doesn't resist Charlie or shove back, though he hisses a little in pain when Charlie (accidentally, he's sure) grabs right over the cuts on his arm. He lets himself be pushed but sets one hand firmly on the door and leans against it, keeping it closed for just a few seconds more.

He can tell that Charlie is beyond all rational arguments. It would be touching, how devoted he is to Meyer, how he isn't willing to listen or even wait thirty seconds before going in to check on him, if it weren't so inconvenient.

"Alright, alright, just t-take a deep breath first, okay, and keep your voice down in there."

Opening the door he sees that Bruce has finished stitching Meyer up, is to be looking through a small collection of prescription medicine cylinders for something to give to him. Relieved, Ned opens the door fully and steps out of the way, letting Charlie in, hoping it's the right decision.

As soon as the door is open enough to squeeze through he's inside. His mind does register what Ned said, slightly, just enough to stay silent as he beelines straight for Meyer's bedside. Or tableside, possibly.

Seeing him like that, laid out and helpless and bloody, it's a sharp stab straight in the gut. He finds his hand, relatively unscathed, and covers it with his own. It doesn't help much, but it's something.

"Meyer?" He's barely above a whisper, but sticks to Yiddish anyway as he speaks. "You stupid fucking idiot what the fuck did you get yourself into?"

He raises his head a little, gives Charlie a weak smile, like he's trying to say it's okay, but it's really not. He may be stitched up now, and not bleeding all over the place, but he doesn't feel right. His head is still fuzzy, and he can't quite form coherent sentences, not even in his mind, but he tries. Somehow, Yiddish seems a hell of a lot easier than English at the moment. He's not sure why, and he won't think about it too much.

"I wasn't... doing anything stupid," he manages, shaking his head a tiny bit, although every movement sends a stab of pain through his collarbone. It's a good thing Charlie can't see the fact that his bone had been visible through the cut -- that probably would have made things even more stupid.

"I'll be fine."

Ned watches the two of them from a little distance. He can't understand what they're saying based on the words themselves, but the tone of the exchange tells him a lot, as does the way that Charlie takes Meyer's hand and quiets right down as soon as he's beside him. One thing about times of stress like these: they really reveal a person to you. A thought occurs to him and he steps into the next room, picks up the chair that Charlie had kicked across it and brings it in, setting it down by Charlie silently so he can sit with Meyer, if he likes, rather than just hovering.

Charlie only registers the chair arriving once he's sat in it. Glancing up, he gives Ned a nod of thanks.

"He's coming home tonight, ain't he?"

Because otherwise it's going to be a very long night sat in this chair. Now that Meyer's hand is in his, he doesn't plan on letting go. He leans in closer, face practically right next to his now that he's sitting down. "I'm gonna have to drag your ass home myself, ain't like we have any taxi in this place."

He had better be going home tonight. He hadn't even registered any other possibility, but then again, his head hadn't exactly been functioning correctly. Now that he's not in the process of rapid blood loss, though, he's starting to think about the logistics.

Giving Charlie's hand a slight squeeze, he attempts to reassure him. "Ned already carried me here," he says, sounding a little sheepish about it, "I'm used to being dragged places by now."

Being carried hadn't exactly been his idea of him, but it had got him here in one piece. He has to give Ned that, and he does give him an appreciative, if pained, smile.

Ned was never really irritated with Charlie in the first place for his short-temper, but even if he had been, he thinks, he wouldn't be able to keep it up long. He's so clearly in a state of complete distraction, hardly noticing what's going on around him, attention focused entirely on Meyer. Ned looks at the way their heads are bent together, listens to the sounds of them speaking to one another and is glad that he got there in time: not just for Meyer's sake, now, but for Charlie's.

"I think so." Ned looks over, sees a nod from Bruce, amends his statement to a definite, "Yes."

Like Meyer and Charlie he starts thinking logistics, spots the wheelchair in the corner. It's got a stack of papers resting on it - probably from Bruce's research. He goes over and sets it aside on the ground, wheeling the thing forward a little, meeting Meyer's eyes and raising his eyebrows in mute suggestion. It would certainly be a bit more dignified than being carried, and probably significantly less painful, too.

The wheelchair doesn't look like anything he's seen before, but he's with it enough to work out what it's for. It's a chair, it has wheels.

"Yeah, that works. Can you sit up?" He switches back to English, since Ned seems to be involved in the conversation now. It's fucking weird, he keeps forgetting he's even there.

"Sure, yeah," he says, although he's not actually sure he can. He does manage to struggle up onto his elbows, barely biting back a groan of pain. The stitches seem to help, somehow, maybe just because he knows he's not bleeding all over the place, and the bandages help too, but there's no denying how much it hurts. He's glad, though, that he won't have to be carried.

Glancing at Ned, he nods. The wheelchair looks like a far better option than anything else, and as much as he's generally comfortable with accepting more help from Charlie than from anyone else, he's still not particularly interested in having Charlie carry him back home. He doesn't think Charlie would like it, either: he's pretty damn heavy for such a small person.

"Okay," he says, finally getting up the energy to sit up fully, although it takes some significant effort.

Ned rolls the wheelchair close to the table, looks for something he can use to cushion the back. Meyer might be stitched and bandaged, but his back must be killing him and Ned knows it. He spots a blanket folded up on a shelf, grabs it and drapes it over the back of the wheelchair. Then, when Meyer manages to sit up, he reaches a hand over to steady him. The gesture is not as automatic for him as it might be for some; his usual reservations about touch are still there, underneath the urgent desire to help. The hair on the back of his necks stands up, but he ignores it.

"Help me lift him down," he says to Charlie. They will be able to do it much more gently if there are two of them, and right now he's less concerned with making a nuisance of himself than he is with minimizing Meyer's pain.

Charlie nods, and puts one arm under Meyer's legs and the other around his shoulders, high as he can to avoid the bandages. He pushes aside the part of his brain that tells him to tell Ned no, to say that Meyer is his and his responsibility. Because this isn't about him, and two is going to be easier on Meyer.

So they lift him into the chair together. Every noise of pain Meyer makes sends another knife into his gut, so he keeps mumbling to him in Yiddish, insults and pet names overlapping with each other, because talking is better than this ridiculous, repressive silence punctuated by Meyer, his Meyer, sounding in pain.

He can understand why Charlie's helping him -- they help each other, that's what they do, that's what they've always done. Charlie's talking helps a little, mostly because he knows why Charlie's doing it, and it's strangely comforting. What he doesn't understand is why Ned is helping so much. While he didn't necessarily expect Ned to leave him to die in the woods (Ned's a nice guy, after all) he's not sure he expected Ned to stick around while he was getting stitched up, nor to help find a way to get him home.

The cynical part of his brain wonders what's in it for Ned, somehow believing that nobody would be so helpful and solicitous unless there was an ulterior motive, but nothing immediately occurs to him. It makes him take pause for a moment, completely ignoring the pain to focus on the fact that Ned might be helping him simply because he wants to. Does this make them friends?

His contemplation is broken by a stab of pain in his ribs as he's involuntarily jostled, and he can't help the sharp intake of breath as he's finally set into the chair. He's trying not to be dramatic about this whole thing, trying not to let on to too much pain, because he doesn't want to worry either of them. He just wants to get back to the house, just wants to sleep, wants to forget the pain and the embarrassment for now.

Ned mirrors Charlie's movements on the other side, being as careful as he can be not to jostle Meyer or put too much pressure on his wounded torso. Still, there's only so much either of them can do to cushion him, and Ned is only too aware of that gasp for air and the pain that must have caused it.

He can't understand what Charlie is saying to Meyer but the tone and pace of the words, the repetitions and cadences communicate plenty to him. It strikes him as curious for perhaps the first time that Charlie would know Yiddish. That can't be common, considering his own background and the time and place in which he grew up. Ned glimpses the look on Charlie's face as he's staring at Meyer, the focus of it, the worry and obvious love. It strikes him as particularly intense, but he doesn't think any more of it just yet.

Once Meyer is settled he lets go of him quickly, takes a respectful step back.

"Call me if-" he doesn't want to say if something goes wrong, substitutes, "-if you need anything." He addresses the words to Charlie, hopes that he will heed them, hear them through the haze of his concern.

"Yeah. I will."

If he were paying more attention to anything but Meyer, maybe he would have seen that look Ned gives them, the one that seems to understand more than it used to.

But as it is he only nods, and wheels Meyer out into the night, back home.

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It scares the hell out of me...

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