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Entry tags:
hurt myself again today
Who: Ned and Daneel
What: Ned comes back with a few new claw marks after his run-in with a tiger.
Where: Daneel's room, House 20.
When: Day 81, nighttime, after this.
It's a rather depressing thought that this isn't the first time he's snuck in through the window rather than waltz in through the front door covered in blood. He'd done that once, after Laura had been shot. Galen had been very cool about it, but Ned had still decided to avoid that situation in the future. So the next time - after Charles had fed on him and killed him - he had come in through a window. That gave him time to clean himself up, to have a few hours of solitude before he faced any of his housemates.
Ned is fatigued from everything that has happened, but he has enough presence of mind to not come in through the door and to remember the last time. He exactly repeats his method of entry, forgetting that circumstances had changed since then. Before, the window he'd snuck in through had led to a spare room. Now, it leads straight into Daneel's room. Which he ought to have remembered; it's a completely stupid mistake, and yet he realizes it a few seconds too late. He's already slid the window open and maneuvered himself in through it when he looks up and sees Daneel.
He freezes in place for a second, fright at the unexpected presence giving way to relief when he recognizes Daneel, that soon giving way to a mixture of self-reproach and regret. This is exactly the kind of confrontation he'd wanted to avoid. He knows he's in a state. The sleeve of his shirt is cut off raggedly - Bruce had done that - and there's a large bandage on his upper arm from where the tiger had clawed him. Added to that is the rather alarming amount of Meyer's blood that he'd gotten on the rest of his front, the dried flecks and streaks of it that linger on his cheeks and chin, on his neck. His hair is a mess and he hasn't even had a chance to wash his hands.
"Wrong window," he says, rather feebly, by way of 'hello'.
What: Ned comes back with a few new claw marks after his run-in with a tiger.
Where: Daneel's room, House 20.
When: Day 81, nighttime, after this.
It's a rather depressing thought that this isn't the first time he's snuck in through the window rather than waltz in through the front door covered in blood. He'd done that once, after Laura had been shot. Galen had been very cool about it, but Ned had still decided to avoid that situation in the future. So the next time - after Charles had fed on him and killed him - he had come in through a window. That gave him time to clean himself up, to have a few hours of solitude before he faced any of his housemates.
Ned is fatigued from everything that has happened, but he has enough presence of mind to not come in through the door and to remember the last time. He exactly repeats his method of entry, forgetting that circumstances had changed since then. Before, the window he'd snuck in through had led to a spare room. Now, it leads straight into Daneel's room. Which he ought to have remembered; it's a completely stupid mistake, and yet he realizes it a few seconds too late. He's already slid the window open and maneuvered himself in through it when he looks up and sees Daneel.
He freezes in place for a second, fright at the unexpected presence giving way to relief when he recognizes Daneel, that soon giving way to a mixture of self-reproach and regret. This is exactly the kind of confrontation he'd wanted to avoid. He knows he's in a state. The sleeve of his shirt is cut off raggedly - Bruce had done that - and there's a large bandage on his upper arm from where the tiger had clawed him. Added to that is the rather alarming amount of Meyer's blood that he'd gotten on the rest of his front, the dried flecks and streaks of it that linger on his cheeks and chin, on his neck. His hair is a mess and he hasn't even had a chance to wash his hands.
"Wrong window," he says, rather feebly, by way of 'hello'.
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He's alarmed, of course, to say the least, and he's across the room and preparing to offer assistance if necessary, trying to slide his arm around Ned and support him, because he's injured. He's injured and it's wrong, terrible.
Daneel is already looking him over, trying to gauge the severity of Ned's wounds, his touch ginger and cautious and worried, so very worried. The window makes no sense, but he hardly cares -- there is blood, there is a lot. There's a bandage, though, and that's worth some reassurance. Someone has seen to him already.
"You should not be climbing in through the window when you're hurt. Sit down. Tell me what has occurred. How severe are your injuries?"
He's steering Ned over to the bed even as he speaks.
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"I'm fine," he reassures quickly, taking one of Daneel's hands between his, diverting it from the task of checking for injuries, stilling it. "Meyer, too. The blood's his, not mine. Well, no, he isn't fine, but he'll live. Bruce stitched him up."
The words come out in a disjointed order, all wrong. He's pulling absently at the buttons of his shirt, looks down at his hands and can see how much blood has dried in his knuckles and under his fingernails and in the dips and grooves of his skin. It's not really a look that he likes on himself - red-handed. Even if Meyer's injuries weren't his fault. He could have gotten there sooner.
"I didn't want anyone to see. That's why I came in the window. I was trying not to worry anyone."
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"That isn't a sensible rationalisation," Daneel protests. "That you are taking unusual steps is more worrying than if you otherwise acted normally."
So much blood. It's frightening; if he could feel nauseous he would. He wants very much to scrub away all trace of it, to cleanse Ned of it psychically as well as physically. Blood stains linger in an unsettling way, like other stains don't.
"I'll help you clean up," he says, and it's as much a plea as an offer.
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His survival mechanisms from boarding school and beyond aren't all necessary, here. By some stroke of unbelievable luck, he's got people like Daneel who are not only willing to help him clean himself up, but want to.
"Okay," he says, voice smaller than it was before. He stops tugging at his buttons and says, apropos of nothing, "Maybe I should just throw it away." That amount of blood is probably never going to come out of a white shirt. It's too bad, really. He'd liked this shirt, and it fit him well. Somehow these trivial details strike him with almost the same amount of force as the more important ones.
"It was one of the tigers. A little while after you and the others left, I heard a gunshot. Went to check it out. They must be coming closer to the town, Meyer wasn't even ten feet into the trees. He was hurt pretty badly already, so I chased it off and took him to the clinic and Bruce fixed him up."
Not much of a story, really. Nothing Daneel needs to fret himself too badly over.
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"The smilodons are becoming bold again," Daneel observes. That's worrying, and he doesn't quite know how to take that fact. Most overwhelmingly, if this is true, then for anyone to move about alone is dangerous.
He inspects the shirt even as he removes it. A Spacer would have disposed of it, certainly, but more economy is necessary here.
"I'm not certain the sleeve can be mended properly, though perhaps shortening both sleeves is possible. If the staining cannot be removed, then perhaps it could be dyed."
It's an entirely irrelevant point to focus on, and it does seem to bother Ned. Daneel knows very little about sewing, but he could try.
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"I hit it with a branch," he says, moving his arms along with Daneel's nudges to make it easier for him to remove the shirt with really noticing himself doing so. "And shot it in the foot. Bad aim, but it worked."
His head tilts to the side as he stares down at the blood caked on his cuticles, starts trying to wipe it off with the opposite thumb. He can hear what Daneel is saying about ways to salvage the shirt, but the words run over his mind and slip off it without sinking in. There's a strange, suspended feeling as if he were underwater.
"I should have gotten there sooner," he says, very quietly.
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He's not sure what to make of Ned's account. Certainly, Ned's actions are, in themselves, to be admired, lauded. At the same time, the idea of Ned doing such a thing -- unprotected, dangerous, reckless and brave -- strikes a note of horror in him. Ned is too precious for that.
"It may not have made a difference," Daneel murmurs. "It is a good thing that you were there, though I must insist you not go out alone until things grow safer."
Blood on Ned's hands is wrong in every way, and Daneel takes Ned's hands in his. "Come, I'll help you wash up."
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He lets himself be led unresistingly down the hall to the small bathroom. "If you think that's best." The tiger coming so much closer to town might have been a fluke, but it might not. In the morning, he thinks, he should put out a warning on the network. Nothing big, nothing that would leave Meyer embarrassed. Just a warning to be extra cautious close to the woods.
"Thank you," he murmurs, as Daneel turns on the taps. It's strange, having someone here with him when he's in this state. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, for him - the way he seems to be looking at the world from the wrong end of a telescope. Some kind of shock, he knows. The particular kind of numbness that lingers after the panic has seeped away. But he's used to this being a private experience. There's no conceivable need to stand so close to Daneel - there's plenty of room for both of them - but he does. His presence is reassuring and Ned gravitates into his space unconsciously.
That psychological numbness doesn't extend to his arm, hot with pain under the bandages. Ned opens the hinged bathroom mirror and finds some basic painkillers behind it, uncaps it and swallows a couple pills quickly before replacing the bottle.
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He watches Ned dose himself with a peculiar sense of dismay. The drugs may be necessary, but they grieve him nonetheless, more for the fact that they're required at all than for any concrete reason. He feels keenly that he's failed Ned somehow in allowing him to be injured at all.
For now, he moistens a washcloth in the sink, warm and soapy water, and turns to Ned to clean him up with a gentle touch. He starts at Ned's fingertips, taking his hand to wipe gently at the old blood.
If Ned is comfortable in Daneel's space, then the only thing to do is settle himself into that shared space. He's only too glad to.
"Are you in much pain?" His voice is very soft, troubled as he is.
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He tells himself that it's just delayed stress from fighting off the tiger, or else that he's just worrying about Meyer, but he's not fooling himself. That surge of gratitude and confusion and something halfway between sadness and joy is all down to Daneel. Ned can't quite believe, even now, what he's done to deserve this kind of care and loyalty and concern. Daneel would help any human in danger, yes, thanks to his programming. But something about this is much more personal, more intimate. It's wonderful and heartbreaking all at the same moment.
Belatedly, he shakes his head. "Not too much," his voice has gone a bit thick and he clears his throat. He wonders if Daneel had felt pain, during his brief tenure as a human. He'd been tumbled under the waves, but was that necessarily painful? Part of Ned hopes that he didn't. That physical pain of this kind and degree is a complete abstract to him. "They're not very deep."
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Daneel looks Ned in the face, searching for some meaning behind his sudden surge of emotion, but the why isn't as obvious to him as the what. He's produced some sort of reaction, but is this good or bad?
How can he know?
He takes Ned's hand in his, gently, and pauses in washing him clean. "Have I erred, Ned? Have I upset you?"
Because for once... he can't tell. Ned's emotions are such a wild rush and even as well as he knows Ned, he's having trouble sorting out what is caused by what.
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Ned lets his forehead drop to Daneel's shoulder, letting out a small, shuddery sigh.
"It's the opposite of that. You're too good to be true."
That's true, but he thinks it will be an insufficient explanation, for Daneel. It might be enough for a human, but Daneel isn't a human. As they grow closer, Ned is adapting himself - consciously and unconsciously - to communicate better with Daneel, accommodate him. Trust him, too. Ambiguity and reticence have been useful shields for him, with social interaction. But no matter how honest and forthright he is with Daneel, he won't turn on him, won't use his words as ammunition for later attacks.
"I'm not used to it." There's a heavy pause before he continues, "Not the getting hurt. That I'm used to. I mean... having someone around to take care of me, after." He hopes Daneel will be able to trace that connection - that that same mess of feelings is why he'd climbed in the window rather than come in the front door.
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"You should be cared for," he says. It isn't because he thinks Ned needs it, but because he deserves it, because humans can't always take care of themselves and someone should be at hand to help when necessary. "You are good, and you are kind, and you may depend on me, always. There is no shame in that you require help."
He leans in to kiss Ned gently. The idea that Ned might not deserve Daneel is equally horrendous: Ned deserves so much more.
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But that voice of doubt is feebler than it has been in twenty years. He wants to depend on Daneel. It may be frightening, but he wouldn't trade it for the smothering calm independence of the way things used to be. It's as if Daneel can see right through him, knows just the right words to say in just the right order to cast a spell that unhooks the clammy, tight fingers of paranoia from his thoughts. Ned kisses back, fervent and grateful. Any last trace of that distance and numbness is gone, burns away along with the confusion and sadness and doubt in him. What's left is a kind of hard, bright happiness.
When he pulls away he's breathless and a smile is dawning on his face. "You better be careful or one of these days I might start believing you," he jokes.
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He remoistens the cloth and continues at his work, carefully sponging Ned clean, seeking out any flecks of blood or places where it's soaked through his shirt. He needs to remove all the visual evidence of it, but he remembers. Each tiny spatter leaves its mark in his memory. In a way, it makes removing the physical evidence all the more important.
And even when silence falls between them, on his part there is no awkwardness, only gentleness and compassion.
"Kobra has been taken," he says suddenly, breaking the stillness. "He and Lydia were the first I met here, and now only I remain. I do not know what to think about this."
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There is a strange degree of comfort, too, in letting Daneel wash his the blood away, even on his neck and his face, his eyes dropping closed.
When Daneel says that Kobra has gone, Ned's eyes open, a crease of worry forming between his brows. Daneel has spoken of Kobra to him more than once. He knows that they were good friends, that they'd meant a lot to one another, even if Daneel doesn't believe he can be as important a human as another human would be.
"Maybe he'll come back," Ned says quietly, "Lydia did, didn't she?"
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Which is frankly troubling. Were he human, he might feel hurt by it. As it is, while it isn't exactly hurt, it's... unpleasant. Saddening. There's a sense of loss.
"But it is useless to hope for a return when it may not happen. My wanting something does not change it. I can appreciate what I do have, which is a great deal."
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"I'll never forget you," he reassures in a fervent, low voice. It's not a promise he can make, logically, based on the evidence, but he doesn't care. "There isn't a knife in the universe sharp enough to cut you out of my mind."
He is part of what Daneel does have, now, and he wishes he could promise more. To never disappear. To never get himself into trouble like this and worry Daneel. To keep the both of them safe. Those things are beyond him, and beyond the power of his imagination.
"I thought it was useless to hope when Jesse died," Ned says. Daneel knows this already; he saw Ned in those low days, at the nadir of his despair. "I was wrong." But he doesn't want to give Daneel false hope for Kobra's return when that may be painful for him, so he adds, "And if he doesn't come back-" he's still careful to say 'if', "-he's probably gone home, and that's a good thing, isn't it?"
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If he had confirmation of that, it would be greatly reassuring, but he doesn't. There's only past experience to judge from -- which suggests he may be returned home, and maybe not, and there's no real reason to suspect one over another.
"Ned, I will not forget you either. I do not forget things, and I feel certain that even if my memory of my time here was erased I would be aware that I was missing something." It doesn't escape him that he can easily expect to outlive Ned, perhaps by centuries. It makes every moment that much more precious, but the memories will be fresh and clear for him for as long as he continues to function.
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He had survived it though, and as time went on, the pain lessened by tiny degrees. It wasn't a perfect slope. There were backslides and panic attacks, bad days and bad months. But over time he'd gotten so that he could function again without thinking about it all the time, and part of the reason he could was the faultiness of human memory. His memories of his mother are blurred and smoothed over at the edges from repeated revisiting. He only just remembers the sound of her voice. Her face he knows well, from the picture he has of the three of them.
But Daneel doesn't have that luxury. If his memory is as perfect as he's always said, then he must remember every detail and incident with the people he's lost: with Elijah, with Giskard, and now with Kobra.
And someday, Ned thinks, inevitably, with him.
Ned dries his face with the towel that Daneel hands him, strangely aware of its texture as he speaks, "Maybe... you won't miss him so much, for a little while, if you tell me about him?" That's a way of accessing memory, isn't it? That was why people told stories about the deceased at a funeral. To celebrate them, but also to remember, and make the pain stop for a little while.
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"He and Lydia were the first I met when I arrived here. We were, all of us, disoriented when we arrived. I had never woken up before, and to be aware of minds as I am was also very new. Kobra began calling me Dan, and Lydia picked it up."
It had been so strange, to have been embraced as an equal so immediately. It had been pleasant, but also disorienting all on its own.
"They were very insistent that I should have a room of my own, though I assured them I did not need anything of the kind. That is how I came to live in the attic."
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It had never crossed Ned's mind to shorten Daneel. He thinks it's a lovely name in full, but what's important is that they had treated him like a friend right away. That makes Ned grateful, makes him feel a little guilty for being so short with Lydia, when they'd spoken, even if she has amnesia.
Clean now, Ned feels weariness starting to set in. His mind is still awake, but his body is exhausted from fighting off the tiger, from carrying Meyer, from the panic that he'd succumbed to in the clinic. He nods back in the direction of Daneel's room, asks as they go, "What was Kobra like? We never actually talked."
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"Kobra is a highly emotional person, who cares deeply for those he considers his friends or family. He is also a highly sexual person. He and Lydia were intimate, and I was always glad of it. I believe it was good for them both."
Accurate enough -- idealistic and optimistic, but accurate.
"I did tell him of the developments between us. He was in favour of them. He told me that sex is a way to connect to one's friends, which fits with what I have previously theorised."
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Once the two of them are back in Daneel's room Ned shuts the door behind them. He sees that the window is still open, goes to close it. He's glad, now, that he chose the wrong window. If he'd hit upon his own where would he be right now? Huddled in his own room, probably still covered in blood and shaking, thinking too much about the what ifs of what had happened.
Ned's opinion of Kobra only improves when Daneel says that he felt comfortable talking to him about the two of them. A hint of a blush rises on Ned's cheeks as he wonders just how specific Daneel was, but then, he can't fault him. That is part of having friends, isn't it? Sharing that kind of story. Intellectually he doesn't think of it as anything to be embarrassed about. Yet he hasn't really spoken about it with anyone. Perhaps he ought to change that. It might be good for him.
It's already come into Ned's notice now that the word 'friend' has a far deeper meaning for Daneel that it does for him. Ned isn't exactly going to go around using sex as a way to connect with the people he considers friends. That's not exactly how it works, in his mind. He kicks off his shoes and slips into Daneel's bed, giving him a look that mutely asks Daneel to join him.
"How would you describe me?" Ned asks, quietly, "If someone else asked." Daneel's concise but vivid illumination of Kobra's characteristics has him curious, now.
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Daneel slips under the covers, still faintly surprised at what he's doing. He hesitates on the answer to Ned's question, though; humans have a great many words to describe their relationships, and he doesn't know which one Ned would prefer to hear.
He opts for honesty, himself. It's the simplest option."You are my friend, Ned." He can't think of higher praise than that. Friends are so rare and precious in his world. "You are a central person to my existence, whose continued well-being is tied to my own. I would protect you from anything within my power to do so."
Is that enough? Is it too much? He has no clue, which is exactly what he worries about being this for Ned.
He wraps his arms around Ned and moves close. "You are a focus for a number of positronic pathways that have developed. It is a unique situation. I don't know how to put it better than that."
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Friend is a fine word, Ned thinks, when it's Daneel saying it, in that way he does. That word, and the others, echo in his head, mean more to him than Daneel can perhaps fully know. To be central to someone, after so many years on the periphery, important to no one but himself. To be tied to someone, proverbially speaking, after two decades of being a loose end. To have someone to protect him, when he's just been reminded of how terrifying this place really is. To be a unique situation, well, who wouldn't want that? Ned lets his eyes slip closed a few seconds, feels important, worthy, solid, and safe.
"That's not what I meant," he mutters, nestling his way into Daneel's arms happily. The pain in his arm is just starting to lessen; Ned makes a mental note not to lie on that side for the foreseeable feature. "I meant describe me the way you described Kobra. Like, traits."
Ned lets out a contented sigh. Maybe this is the sort of thing that wouldn't seem as amusing to Daneel, who is so sure of his identity much of the time, who doesn't judge or evaluate people in the same way that Ned does, automatically, as a human. Still, he wants to make himself clear. "If I had to describe you to someone who'd met you-" his mind goes back quickly to his upsetting conversation with Shiala, but he doesn't want to dwell on that right now. Not while he's so happy, "-I'd say that you were patient, intelligent, very literal-minded," he pauses for a smile, remembering Daneel asking if people really imprisoned other people for cutting flowers, like they did in the beauty and the beast fairytale, "-funnier than you think, humble, curious, romantic, loyal, and the most gentle person I've ever known."
There is more he could say, but as he is listing off the different qualities, Ned thinks about each, feeling out a different facet of his affection for Daneel, until he feels so full of it that he can't go on.
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He owes an answer, though, so Daneel runs a hand over the back of Ned's neck, considering. "You know how to find great joy in simple pleasures, and you seek to share that. You are kind, protective, feel everything intensely, yet don't feel that this is at all remarkable."
It's perhaps idealised, but Daneel couldn't say anything negative about a human being even if he wanted to. He means every word.
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As he twines his ankles with Daneel's, makes himself comfortable, he thinks back on the times they've spent together since they met. Daneel is so good by nature that he brings out what is good in Ned, draws it to the surface and lets the bad sink down, into the sediment, far from view. He's a good influence, a good friend, as he'd put it. Ned just wants to stay near Daneel for as long as he can. He knows in the back of his mind that it can't be forever. That one of them may go missing. That, considering the dangers of this place, he could be killed any day, or Daneel could be. But for right now, they are together.