[It's been a rough end of the month for Charles. Between the struggle of being one of the few left propping Haven up throughout the storm, Kyle's death and return, and Tim's struggle to handle his panic over their mutual partner's death, he's not sleeping well. He's not worrying about Kyle (as much) any more, but there's still work to be done now that the storm's released the city from its clutches.
Things were damaged by the supernatural cold, and the fluctuating power's inability to sustain machinery and systems that require stability. Patients who suffered when the power went out, are now being supported back to stability in the ICU. Samples in the laboratory are spoiled, and need to be redrawn and tested again. People are all still recovering from the emergency that had, once again, made everyone in the city powerless in a way Charles still resents bitterly -- and resents himself for, too. He hadn't been prepared at all for any of it. A gross error on his part, particularly after the earthquake that had rocked the hospital a year ago. He's reeling from the arbitrary cruelty of all of it, and the non-stop frenetic activity of being on his feet for what now feels like over a week.
It's difficulty and weight that must continue to be pushed through and handled as it comes. He sees no other option in any of it. Kyle needs the time to process dying dragging back the trauma of his other deaths, and enough of Haven's staff are also still recovering from friends and loved ones having died, or from having died themselves. The people left standing on their feet, need to stay that way for the sake of everyone else.
So, when a call lights up the triage while the lone on-duty nurse is taking a break, Charles picks it up. He shifts his other hand to rub at the headache pulling tight behind his eyes.
There's no opportunity to offer a greeting.]
D'Artagnan? [An uncomfortable twist of dull, old, and grudging irritation hits his stomach as the caller registers to him. Charles takes it for granted that this man didn't mean to call him, and also quickly assumes D'Artagnan wouldn't have wanted to reach him, either.
But he knows immediately what the man means by 'liberation centre'. More than likely, D'Artagnan's not in a good state right now. Especially when this came after the difficulties of the storm. In light of that, there's a swell of sympathy, and Charles starts trying to marshal some of his less agreeable feelings about the other man aside.]
It's Charles Saville; I'll come, [his tone is completely willing, and determined] I only need ten minutes to leave things here in the right hands.
[It's not a question of whether he should. This man may need help, and he's in a position to offer it. Lingering confusion, and distaste for the man's assumed disrespectful and excessively prideful nature, aren't at all acceptable or good reasons to not reach out his hand.]
[Oh, but he has made a terrible choice, a soft disgruntled noise coming out like a sigh as the half familiar voice confirms its identity. D'Artagnan presses his lips together as he listens, not allowing himself commentary when Charles is without question willing to aide him in this matter.]
I'm in an alley close to the entrance, by the street light.
[Which may or may not be a sufficient description for directions, but D'Artagnan doesn't clarify beyond it. He ends the call instead, moving further into the alley, to keep out of sight, and with a good vantage point to the street, ducked half behind a fire escape and some plastic cartons. While he waits, he convinces himself this turn of circumstances is for the best. Had he reached McCoy, the man would've yelled at him first for a few minutes, then again upon finding him, and perhaps on the way home. He has no desire to be lectured thrice, nor does he wish to explain why he'd not completed the challenge in the first place, which he's certain McCoy would demand of him in his invasive and accusatory way. God, he doesn't even wish to go home now, thinking on it. Somewhere along in his irritable pondering, he's started to sweat even in the cold, heat in his abdomen burning from the inside out, the snow becoming a balm as he sets his hands to it, further freezing his fingers without the current capacity to concretely understand that's also a terrible choice. It's just... hot, and uncomfortable, and a desperation for relief builds steadily that he adamantly refuses to squirm over.]
[It's not the most detailed description, but it works, and the man's already hung up on him anyway. Impolite, of course, but he can imagine reasons for the rudeness - the most obvious feeling like the man having found himself in a place to need assistance of some kind. His assistance. If he ends up struggling to find him, Charles assumes he'll be able to follow the scent of the man's distress, sweat, blood, or spent arousal to him directly once he gets close. That's what the centre leaves people with after taking from them, after all-- and it's that thought that has him quickening to wrap things up at the hospital.
As promised, it's ten minutes later, and then a further ten more spent making his way through the city, until Charles reaches the SLUT centre. Just in case, he's brought along a folded-up disaster blanket and a pair of hand warmers in a pocket of his medical coat. They're nothing more than what he was able to pull together quickly from the hospital's dwindling supplies of such items, but if the man was thrust from the centre improperly clothed, they should help.
If the man will accept them. Which feels like a significant if-- but one that may find more unexpected openness than he's seen so far, when D'Artagnan's allowing himself to be helped at all right now. Charles doesn't know, but if he finds the man hypothermic, he's not going to broker the man's needlessly dangerous sense of pride for a moment.
Rounding the corner of the alley, he spots the other man and beelines over to him through the snow.]
There you are. [He breathes out, eying D'Artagnan's pressing of his hands into the snow with a hiking of a confused eyebrow. Confusion aside, some of the irritation he felt in the hospital begins to ebb as he stands before the other man in the snow. The last thing he'd want to do, himself, is wait around this terrible place after just coming through it, and he just made him stand here in the cold for twenty minutes.] Where's home for you? I'm afraid I don't know where Dr. McCoy lives.
[In what may be a mistake, but Charles can't quite help when he knows the terrible nature of the centre's treatments, he lays a chill hand on the man's shoulder to grip it from beside him. They have their differences in ways that feel clear to him, but he does care-- this man has shown him some of his struggles, told him about a few of them, and now he's found himself here. None of the people he's met in the city, disrespectful to him personally or not, deserve any of what the centre does.]
[By the time Charles appears in the alley, D'Artagnan can't fathom how he got there, too close and somehow passed beyond his notice that he'd entered the space at all. His eyebrows furrow and he scowls petulantly at the words. There you are, as if he's a lost child at the market needing to be taken by the hand.]
Here I am.
[It's spoken in a disgruntled manner as D'Artagnan steps away from the wall and his chilling snowbank, eying Charles's hand on his shoulder, but not shaking it off or glaring particularly pointedly. He's too addled for that at the moment, tolerating its presence as he stumbles the first step, but recovers his stride near immediately as he belatedly gives Charles the address, sounding a bit unsure on the numbers of the house.]
It's called Sunnybrook.
[He adds that, he presumes, helpfully. It may not be.]
You can leave me at the garage, I'll go in through there...
[D'Artagnan pauses, and though it may appear he's to finally issue gratitude for Charles's assistance, it's instead an accusation.]
You didn't call him on my behalf, did you? If he's up waiting...
No, I left directly after we spoke. [He eyes D'Artagnan a bit as the man stumbles before him, and... doesn't quite react with his usual alert, and animal way of surveying his movements and expressions for something to find offence in. There's something off here, but he still can't pick up the scent of blood or excessive distress. Drugged in some fashion, maybe? It's likely, and if he is, Charles knows there's nothing he can do about it except try to help the man get somewhere safe. All of this is a further cruelty heaped upon the evil of the storm using people's grief against them. Grimacing tightly - an anger Charles quickly pushes back down because it's not helpful here - the vampire pulls out his device to search for a location called 'Sunnyside'.]
I haven't seen him in days [Which may be down to how chaotic everything's been, or the few winks of fretful sleep he's grabbed here and there during the days, he doesn't know.] everything's been a mess since the storm, and particularly the hospital. [People died, after losing themselves to chasing their grief into the spider's web of the storm. He should have checked in on Leonard, and the remainder of Haven's other staff who he couldn't reach for whatever reason, but there's simply been too much going on. He's only one man, for as terribly inadequate that very natural limitation makes him feel right now.
Once his device pings back with a location, Charles reaches to curls his arm securely in the other man's nearest one, and starts them following the path towards their destination.]
Tell me if you're ill. I don't accept you being harmed by being hypothermic. [Which is certainly a demanding way to say it, but he's now angry and concerned about whatever the centre may have done to this man, angry about the lingering awfulness of the storm's cascading effects on the good people around him, and just... exhausted. Exhausted down to his bones.]
[A soft sigh of relief is all D'Artagnan has for Charles's ramblings on why he'd not seen McCoy, the explanation somehow dragging on in his perspective; he's tuned out of it by the lamenting of the hospital's state of existence. It's not that he isn't appropriately concerned about it, he would be, had the information come at a different time. He hasn't spoken to McCoy since before the storm, and he'd only bits and pieces of the hospital situation noted by Harmony in between an exchange of lewd messages... His focus returns as Charles takes his arm like he can't keep himself upright, and D'Artagnan sighs irritably. It's quickly replaced with a small breathy distressed noise as he pulls away upon Charles's demand and comments. D'Artagnan places some space between them, but he's now moved himself closer to the side of a building and not allowed much route for escape should he need to take it, unaware of that mistake, his hand held protectively at the side of his neck.]
I'm not ill! I've no need of your hypo... devices!
[His tone is still rather flat, but frustration and apprehension seeps into it, along with a fever bright fire in his eyes, fear unfortunately mixing with the induced lust his body will not rid itself of, and it's simply a very uncomfortable position to be in. D'Artagnan has no inkling of what hypothermic is, and the only word close to it he understands is that "a hypo" is that instrument McCoy has that injects "medication" or sedatives through the skin at his neck. His presumptions are that all of the doctors use them, and it's some standard practice quite invasive of personal space and so easily administered, on guard as if Charles may be looking to stab him, though he holds no weapons on his person presently to defend himself, fortunately for Charles. He's lucky he has clothing.]
[Charles sighs when the man pulls away from him, but it's an entreating and tired sound, rather than exasperated. Belatedly, he recognizes that he should have said 'please', at the very least. He's been treating people and problems over the last few days by taking them instantly in hand and without much question -- and he just tried to do that with this man, too. It's bitingly reminiscent of how Vash had told him he felt betrayed and terrified by McCoy attempting to inject him with something against his will. It's not how any doctor, or person, should behave.
Likewise, it's easy to see that D'Artagnan's afraid-- on top of everything he already assumes the man must have gone through. That's enough to further pull back recognition that he should be making an effort to bring some softness and overt care back into his manner. It's calling for emotional resources he's thoroughly drained by this point, but he resolves himself to trying.]
I'm sorry. [Charles lowers his hands, palms tilted slightly upwards.] I'm not going to use a device on you. [No wonder the man seems angry and afraid, if he might be imagining he's about to whip something alien out of a pocket to use on him.] I was asking you to tell me if you're colder than you ought to be.
[Charles relaxes a bit further, some of that loosening a purposeful effort on his part, and lowers his hands further to his sides.]
Please, let's just bring you to Sunnyside; I won't try to touch you unless you ask it of me. [Or the man collapses in front of him. He's not tolerating something like that.]
[If he'd been more alert, D'Artagnan might've caught himself and his reactions sooner, but instead he's obviously knitting his eyebrows and narrowing his eyes in suspicion, a small twist to his lip, breath coming out in hot visible puffs of air in the cold. Charles has nothing in his hands, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have... devices in his pockets. The man says he'll not use one of those hypos, but... he might try to convince D'Artagnan he should, let it be his choice, badger until he relents, make him feel as if he's being unreasonable for refusing medical assistance he doesn't need, that he's simply ignorant and doesn't understand that it's helping. As McCoy does. As he will if D'Artagnan goes home and doesn't stay locked in his room on the bottom floor until he's less... unquestionably in distress. God, he'd not meant to panic about this, but it's happening. He bites his lip, swallowing down a squeaky whimpering noise he absolutely detests himself for making. He holds up one hand, index finger extended and the others curled loosely as he hunches over, his other hand pressed firmly at his chest as if he might tear it open to free his lungs and allow himself to breathe.]
I need a minute.
[His words are raw and whispered, and the shame of requesting that moment is viscerally painful. He's not going to cry out here in the street in front of this man... No, no he is. Well. It's fine. His tears are slow, and he ignores them as he collects himself. It doesn't take long, and when he addresses Charles again, sniffling and licking the salty mix of tears and sweat from his lips, the cadence of his voice is calm and even, and it remains low and droll, as he finally responds to Charles's probably important statement.]
I'm not cold. I'm hot. It's very hot. But I'm not ill, I swear to you. It's them.
[He points vaguely back towards the SLUT centre. Clearly, that is all that's wrong with him.]
[In a fashion that's ongoing for him with this man, he's never met someone who feels so clear in their distress, and yet entirely self-contained and protective of those responses. In some ways, it reminds him of how he's heard professionals describe the veterinary sciences: of having to learn how to know what's happening, and then further react, when a patient isn't capable of communicating or responding to their own condition, when it's beyond what they have the tools for solving. Which... he doesn't know how to begin working with something like that. Rapport requires clear and direct communication, he thinks. But he made a promise that he wasn't going to touch D'Artagnan unless asked, and he will at least try to hold himself to that.
Maybe it's simply enough to try to be patient and present. He doesn't know.]
No doubt. I've had similar things done to me in the centre. ['Uncomfortable' is the most minimal descriptor of that pool of feelings and physical sensations. Charles frowns softly, glancing over a shoulder to gauge how crowded the immediate area around them is, and to give the other man a break from his approach. He doesn't know how D'Artagnan may feel about any of the centre's 'treatments' (anger feels obvious), but what he's experienced himself has always been humiliating. If he were in D'Artagnan's shoes, he'd want as much privacy as could be mustered between them.]
I'll wait until you're ready. [Charles slips out a hand to rest it on the nearby brick wall to further block the view into the alley. It's not a great solution, and likely looks suspicious from the outside: He's clearly a doctor who left a hospital in enough of a hurry not to change out of his coat, and now is hovering awkwardly at the edge of a grungy alleyway for no immediately obviously reason. But this is what he feels he can do right now to try to offer some measure of decency.]
[D'Artagnan offers that without any discernible emotion in the admission. He notes the positioning of Charles's hand, understands this is some measure of attempted protection, of his vulnerability or to stave off the embarrassment should someone step into the alley and witness his emotional disruption. Charles has already seen it, and so... by that measure, D'Artagnan cares not if others do presently, onlookers. He knows, despite what he says, what he claims, that he is profoundly disturbed, and it colours many things that he does or says, or how he responds when something slides him so sharply into being overwhelmed by emotions and physical sensations, culminating in... this. But he can handle it, and he will handle it, and he doesn't need be shielded and coddled to do so.]
I'm fine.
[With that assertion that may or may be true, he nods for Charles to leave the alley, and he'll follow. Though his expression is determined and his stare daring the man to state otherwise, he's half wishing he'd not already made a mess of things where Charles feels it best to be distant, and wary of him.]
I will take care of this when I'm home. I doubt you wish the details.
[It's acerbic and unnecessary, but it gives him some false measure of control over the circumstances to be brusque and discourteous.]
[He doesn't understand the man's cutting tone towards him, but the apparent lack of gratitude is easier to wrap his head around. This is an awkward and undesirable situation that both of them would rather not be happening. One that the man is telling him he's experienced before. But truly, neither former aspect feels like it matters right now. The only assumptions he can make that feel like they make any kind of sense to him, are that this man simply does not appreciate his presence, and does not like being helped-- no matter what kind of effort or approach he makes. Perhaps that most people make. And that's... fine.
Those aren't feelings he sees himself overcoming-- at this moment, anyway. But it's also beyond the point, when the important part of all of this, is seeing D'Artagnan safely home in whatever way that can work. Right now, that's accepting the man's gesture for him to start them on their way.
Nodding, Charles lingers for a moment, but then raises his device to start following the path through the city to Sunnyside. He gathers his billowing coat about him with one hand as he goes, starting to button it back together so it won't flap quite so dramatically in the wind.]
No, I don't. [But that's about him being particular and gentlemanly (prudish) in his approach to sex in general.] But I am interested in the details of this situation in general, if you're willing to tell me-- or how the storm went for you.
I feel we got off on a bad foot, [Charles adds as justification for his thoughts, as he continues to make their way through the snowy city.] and perhaps you know why, but I don't. I'm troubled by it.
[Because this man hasn't struck him yet as the type of person who ultimately doesn't deserve his care, or respect. He's disrespectful and rude, sometimes very disrespectful, as in the time he told him he'd kill him, but he also leapt into battle when he thought he might be in danger. There's something in that contradiction that makes him hold out hope.]
[D'Artagnan walks with little regard for the biting wind, more taking relief from it as he lets the cold run through his thin jacket and half unbuttoned shirt. He'd made sure to stand on the street side of the sidewalk, so he's not perceived to be seeking shelter from Charles's presence, though it's exactly what he'd called about in his moment of desperation. Charles's question has D'Artagnan glancing over at him with a perplexed expression at first, that shifts to contemplative. He's not exactly sure what the man's asking for, what he wants to know, and as such, his answers may be insufficient. Perhaps he should say something to that effect, as he had spoken with Charles before about his issues with misinterpretation...]
I failed the challenge, which I'd think was obvious. They kept me in there longer than the last time, because I resisted and that was, well, I can't do that without... hurting myself, and it brought more attention. I don't know what else they'd given me. I don't feel anything but aroused, and hot, and slightly disoriented.
[The next topic, the storm, seems wholly unrelated, but D'Artagnan speaks on that too, abruptly and without concern. Dismissive.]
I was at Stark Naked during the storm. There were no incidents.
[A slight pause before he attempts to meander through a response to the 'bad foot' supposition.]
We'd started out not terribly, I'd thought, with the letters. During the gang fight, I found you to be insufferable... and then you'd clearly no interest in my opinions on it later... and now, if tonight is what you'd truly been referencing I... I'm not... angry with you. Perhaps that's not the right word, angry, but it's generally the assumption when someone is... unsettled with me... I'm... I thought, not... I was... I panicked.
[Christ. There it is, though.]
Forgive me if I've not properly addressed your concerns. You've been unclear.
[This is a lot, and it's also a surprising response that Charles isn't expecting. He didn't imagine that an attempt to open up a conversation about feelings with D'Artagnan was destined to go well - it never does seem to go well for him with the young men in the city he knows. But this is... helpful. Including, what he finds to be, the unnecessary rudeness of the man calling him insufferable.
Is that a misunderstanding in the end, along the lines of the man casually telling him he'd kill him? A slap thrown at him purely out of spontaneous, frustrated feeling? It doesn't make it more acceptable if it is, but it would merely make this man impulsive, rather than callously and intentionally villainous.
He's glad to hear that the storm, at least, doesn't sound like it was too eventful for D'Artagnan. The way it's reported on feels curious - as if it's coming from a police officer of some kind, who's offering only the objective details of the situation. Charles notes his own impression, and files it thoughtfully away.]
No, it's quite fine. Thank you for explaining thoroughly. [Because that is what this feels like. The man making a considerable effort despite his own condition. He appreciates it.] If I can be clearer, I always want to try to do more to that effect. I'm always open to being asked. [Clarity is essential. Slowing slightly, Charles waits for D'Artagnan to catch the few steps he's behind him up to him, and then walks beside him so he can better see the man's face.]
I am sorry that I made it feel like I wasn't interested in your opinions. I generally am. [Even though he definitely wasn't at the time. He was too wrapped up in trying to suppress his own anger.] I was angry at the time [he won't lie about that] but I don't feel that way now, either. [A beat.] And even if I was, I don't see anger on anyone's part as a worthy reason not to try to work things out with someone again.
[There's clear panic in the man beside him, and it automatically trips the desire to try to comfort, to protect-- but after a moment, Charles decides... to try allowing it to happen without attempted intervention. All along, this man has shown him that he seems to exist in a state of near perpetual tumult. Is a reaction like this, that looks like distress in need of assistance, something for this man that isn't the dire thing it would be coming from someone who isn't this way?
That's the new theory, anyway. If giving some patience and listening may be more workable with D'Artagnan, Charles is willing to try holding back other more natural instincts on his part.]
[That's an odd apology, and D'Artagnan furrows his eyebrows, the twist to his mouth minutely sceptical and mostly judging.]
I've no quarrel with you rejecting my opinions. You need not apologise for it.
[Charles will reap the consequences for that on his own, for not listening to anything D'Artagnan may have to say on the gangs, and that is a satisfactory end for the slight of ignoring him. He sighs. A short irritable noise, regarding Charles's further comments on that.]
I was unaware we'd needed working anything out. You understand we're barely acquaintances, do you not?
[This is not a friendship in need of tending to, there's been little established as far as D'Artagnan is concerned.]
Yes, but that's a first step to something more. [And reasons to care feel enough for him to want to make effort here.]
I want to make an effort for that. I won't if you're uninterested, but that's my intention now. [Right now, he doesn't see any reason why he can't, or shouldn't, try.] It would be pleasant, but I don't think us understanding one another perfectly is required for it.
[Because at this point, he's not sure if that's possible. Especially as D'Artagnan seems to be taking his admission of not liking how things went between them in the Down, as some kind of accusation of wrongdoing.]
[D'Artagnan snorts loudly then, and crosses his arms at his ribs. The latter motion is not in a display of anger or upset, but coincides as if it may be, he's simply feeling more effects from the treatment given, and needing to physically keep hold of himself lest he... approach Charles in an unwanted fashion just as they're attempting some unnecessary, but strangely not unappreciated, reconciliation.]
I can't require that of anyone... I am, moderately, interested.
[His teeth press into his lower lip, and he looks away, watching the other side of the street.]
I'd thought you insightful, despite your peculiarities. Well, before you'd displayed them. You wished to help me once, and I...
[It's something difficult to speak on now, after his behaviour in the alley, and he feels deeply, penetratingly, exposed, flayed before this man through no intent of his own.]
I don't believe myself to be as unwell as you've claimed, but... I am... I've not found solutions to my... struggles, presently.
[The consenting ('moderately' is more than enough consent), but 'hmph' reaction he's getting earns a curious look. It's not immediately offensive, while he's resolving himself to try to be open-minded about what, coming from other people in the city he's met, would be a reaction of disgust or offence in need of addressing.
He's not affected by being told he's peculiar; Even though he doesn't understand the judgment, enough people have always reacted to him in that way that he knows it's true.]
I'm willing to talk about things like that. [But he thinks it's clear their approach to anything like it with this man hasn't gone well so far. Still, it's something D'Artagnan does seem to be telling him it's what he likes the idea of.] But I don't want to give an impression that I think a friendship has to be about something like that, always.
[Particularly after his Finder thrashed him so thoroughly for it and made him rethink his instincts, and then his efforts with Elle to try and be more casual. The latter of which were inspired by the man in front of him now. He's more okay, currently, with the idea of working towards a connection that's more about respect and general good will.
Or even (god forbid) fun. Somehow.]
We can also... 'chill'. [An expression he immediately regrets coming out of his mouth, because the man may not understand it.]
[He meets Charles's eyes again, eyebrows slightly knitted in confusion. Certainly, that's what had intrigued this man about him, D'Artagnan presumes. Charles didn't wish for fighting or violence, or a general discussion, but had been asking questions of his responses to things and trying to unearth more of it. He makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs. It matters not, in the end. 'Chill' though, receives another stare of puzzlement, and then D'Artagnan glances at the snow.]
... I am hot?
[That might be a strange response, he feels, and he should've simply asked what the word meant, but he's continually frustrated by his ignorance in such matters, and sometimes he wishes to pretend he understands, more difficult when context is not provided, as it hasn't been here.]
[This is curious, and also feels like some kind of attempt to be of use to him? To centre his own wants between them in some way? He's not sure there, but it feels odd.]
It does interest me, but I've realized that talking to people like that can make them feel like they need to be 'fixed'. I don't think that's a good state of mind to put people in. As I said, I am willing, but I want to aim to be better in it if that's what you'd like to do. [Supportive, rather than pushy. He does think shortcomings and limitations are worth pushing on, especially if they're causing problems for people, but he now thinks there have to be better ways to do it than what he has been doing: taking people apart before they've even consented to it or knew it was about to happen. Charles shakes his head at his own regrets there, and then glances down at their shifting icon on the map on his device to gauge their route. Not too far away.
And, as he thought, he's confused D'Artagnan with informal wording he's not a big fan of using, either.]
'Chill' is a word [...young, usually informal...frequently irreverent...] people in the city use, that means spending time together without needing to accomplish anything in particular. Fun, more or less. [Which is the un-fun way to explain that.]
[D'Artagnan scoffs quietly at that statement. It's a delicate thing to approach, he does understand that much, and he's been viciously resentful in the past over accusations there is something broken within him, even if he acknowledges that privately. Charles may be willing, but for D'Artagnan this is where that conversation ends. He'll not pursue it, will not claim it as something he'd like to do. He looks down at the device as Charles does, but he's long since recognised the streets and he knows where they are. The townhouse will be in sight after another right turn and half way down that block.]
Why need there be a word for that separation...
[That's mostly musing to himself, but there was less clear delineation between such things for him in his past. He can enjoy himself in the drive for accomplishment as much as he can in spending a night in a tavern.]
[His feelings aired and his offer on the table, Charles is fine with leaving things there, too. He's not going to push anything while he's not at his best, and this man just came through the SLUT centre, too.]
I don't know, honestly. [A lot of slang feels to him like it more confuses things than anything else.
As they approach the garage, Charles turns off his device and tucks it away in a pocket of his coat. He reaches a hand up to correct what feels like his very wind-tousled hair in preparation to start heading back to the hospital again.]
If something like this comes up again sometime, please know that I welcome you contacting me directly.
[As D'Artagnan opens the garage, slowly, to avoid a squeaking, and just enough he might duck under and vanish into the darkness beyond, he regards Charles and his offer. His immediate response, stopped by the literal biting of his tongue, is one of unwarranted derision for reasons unknown, in the vein of a proclamation of needing no further assistance for the same predicament, but it is his second time already. Instead he nods with slight deference.]
You've made less of a fuss than McCoy would have.
[It's as good as Charles will get to a thank you and assurance he might be considered for a call. D'Artagnan hopes it's enough, and such parting words haven't undone progress made in civility tonight. He slinks into the garage without waiting for acknowledgement.]
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mattersofscience) wrote2016-05-31 10:57 pm
no subject
Things were damaged by the supernatural cold, and the fluctuating power's inability to sustain machinery and systems that require stability. Patients who suffered when the power went out, are now being supported back to stability in the ICU. Samples in the laboratory are spoiled, and need to be redrawn and tested again. People are all still recovering from the emergency that had, once again, made everyone in the city powerless in a way Charles still resents bitterly -- and resents himself for, too. He hadn't been prepared at all for any of it. A gross error on his part, particularly after the earthquake that had rocked the hospital a year ago. He's reeling from the arbitrary cruelty of all of it, and the non-stop frenetic activity of being on his feet for what now feels like over a week.
It's difficulty and weight that must continue to be pushed through and handled as it comes. He sees no other option in any of it. Kyle needs the time to process dying dragging back the trauma of his other deaths, and enough of Haven's staff are also still recovering from friends and loved ones having died, or from having died themselves. The people left standing on their feet, need to stay that way for the sake of everyone else.
So, when a call lights up the triage while the lone on-duty nurse is taking a break, Charles picks it up. He shifts his other hand to rub at the headache pulling tight behind his eyes.
There's no opportunity to offer a greeting.]
D'Artagnan? [An uncomfortable twist of dull, old, and grudging irritation hits his stomach as the caller registers to him. Charles takes it for granted that this man didn't mean to call him, and also quickly assumes D'Artagnan wouldn't have wanted to reach him, either.
But he knows immediately what the man means by 'liberation centre'. More than likely, D'Artagnan's not in a good state right now. Especially when this came after the difficulties of the storm. In light of that, there's a swell of sympathy, and Charles starts trying to marshal some of his less agreeable feelings about the other man aside.]
It's Charles Saville; I'll come, [his tone is completely willing, and determined] I only need ten minutes to leave things here in the right hands.
[It's not a question of whether he should. This man may need help, and he's in a position to offer it. Lingering confusion, and distaste for the man's assumed disrespectful and excessively prideful nature, aren't at all acceptable or good reasons to not reach out his hand.]
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I'm in an alley close to the entrance, by the street light.
[Which may or may not be a sufficient description for directions, but D'Artagnan doesn't clarify beyond it. He ends the call instead, moving further into the alley, to keep out of sight, and with a good vantage point to the street, ducked half behind a fire escape and some plastic cartons. While he waits, he convinces himself this turn of circumstances is for the best. Had he reached McCoy, the man would've yelled at him first for a few minutes, then again upon finding him, and perhaps on the way home. He has no desire to be lectured thrice, nor does he wish to explain why he'd not completed the challenge in the first place, which he's certain McCoy would demand of him in his invasive and accusatory way. God, he doesn't even wish to go home now, thinking on it. Somewhere along in his irritable pondering, he's started to sweat even in the cold, heat in his abdomen burning from the inside out, the snow becoming a balm as he sets his hands to it, further freezing his fingers without the current capacity to concretely understand that's also a terrible choice. It's just... hot, and uncomfortable, and a desperation for relief builds steadily that he adamantly refuses to squirm over.]
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As promised, it's ten minutes later, and then a further ten more spent making his way through the city, until Charles reaches the SLUT centre. Just in case, he's brought along a folded-up disaster blanket and a pair of hand warmers in a pocket of his medical coat. They're nothing more than what he was able to pull together quickly from the hospital's dwindling supplies of such items, but if the man was thrust from the centre improperly clothed, they should help.
If the man will accept them. Which feels like a significant if-- but one that may find more unexpected openness than he's seen so far, when D'Artagnan's allowing himself to be helped at all right now. Charles doesn't know, but if he finds the man hypothermic, he's not going to broker the man's needlessly dangerous sense of pride for a moment.
Rounding the corner of the alley, he spots the other man and beelines over to him through the snow.]
There you are. [He breathes out, eying D'Artagnan's pressing of his hands into the snow with a hiking of a confused eyebrow. Confusion aside, some of the irritation he felt in the hospital begins to ebb as he stands before the other man in the snow. The last thing he'd want to do, himself, is wait around this terrible place after just coming through it, and he just made him stand here in the cold for twenty minutes.] Where's home for you? I'm afraid I don't know where Dr. McCoy lives.
[In what may be a mistake, but Charles can't quite help when he knows the terrible nature of the centre's treatments, he lays a chill hand on the man's shoulder to grip it from beside him. They have their differences in ways that feel clear to him, but he does care-- this man has shown him some of his struggles, told him about a few of them, and now he's found himself here. None of the people he's met in the city, disrespectful to him personally or not, deserve any of what the centre does.]
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Here I am.
[It's spoken in a disgruntled manner as D'Artagnan steps away from the wall and his chilling snowbank, eying Charles's hand on his shoulder, but not shaking it off or glaring particularly pointedly. He's too addled for that at the moment, tolerating its presence as he stumbles the first step, but recovers his stride near immediately as he belatedly gives Charles the address, sounding a bit unsure on the numbers of the house.]
It's called Sunnybrook.
[He adds that, he presumes, helpfully. It may not be.]
You can leave me at the garage, I'll go in through there...
[D'Artagnan pauses, and though it may appear he's to finally issue gratitude for Charles's assistance, it's instead an accusation.]
You didn't call him on my behalf, did you? If he's up waiting...
[Also a bit of a threat, it seems.]
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I haven't seen him in days [Which may be down to how chaotic everything's been, or the few winks of fretful sleep he's grabbed here and there during the days, he doesn't know.] everything's been a mess since the storm, and particularly the hospital. [People died, after losing themselves to chasing their grief into the spider's web of the storm. He should have checked in on Leonard, and the remainder of Haven's other staff who he couldn't reach for whatever reason, but there's simply been too much going on. He's only one man, for as terribly inadequate that very natural limitation makes him feel right now.
Once his device pings back with a location, Charles reaches to curls his arm securely in the other man's nearest one, and starts them following the path towards their destination.]
Tell me if you're ill. I don't accept you being harmed by being hypothermic. [Which is certainly a demanding way to say it, but he's now angry and concerned about whatever the centre may have done to this man, angry about the lingering awfulness of the storm's cascading effects on the good people around him, and just... exhausted. Exhausted down to his bones.]
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I'm not ill! I've no need of your hypo... devices!
[His tone is still rather flat, but frustration and apprehension seeps into it, along with a fever bright fire in his eyes, fear unfortunately mixing with the induced lust his body will not rid itself of, and it's simply a very uncomfortable position to be in. D'Artagnan has no inkling of what hypothermic is, and the only word close to it he understands is that "a hypo" is that instrument McCoy has that injects "medication" or sedatives through the skin at his neck. His presumptions are that all of the doctors use them, and it's some standard practice quite invasive of personal space and so easily administered, on guard as if Charles may be looking to stab him, though he holds no weapons on his person presently to defend himself, fortunately for Charles. He's lucky he has clothing.]
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Likewise, it's easy to see that D'Artagnan's afraid-- on top of everything he already assumes the man must have gone through. That's enough to further pull back recognition that he should be making an effort to bring some softness and overt care back into his manner. It's calling for emotional resources he's thoroughly drained by this point, but he resolves himself to trying.]
I'm sorry. [Charles lowers his hands, palms tilted slightly upwards.] I'm not going to use a device on you. [No wonder the man seems angry and afraid, if he might be imagining he's about to whip something alien out of a pocket to use on him.] I was asking you to tell me if you're colder than you ought to be.
[Charles relaxes a bit further, some of that loosening a purposeful effort on his part, and lowers his hands further to his sides.]
Please, let's just bring you to Sunnyside; I won't try to touch you unless you ask it of me. [Or the man collapses in front of him. He's not tolerating something like that.]
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I need a minute.
[His words are raw and whispered, and the shame of requesting that moment is viscerally painful. He's not going to cry out here in the street in front of this man... No, no he is. Well. It's fine. His tears are slow, and he ignores them as he collects himself. It doesn't take long, and when he addresses Charles again, sniffling and licking the salty mix of tears and sweat from his lips, the cadence of his voice is calm and even, and it remains low and droll, as he finally responds to Charles's probably important statement.]
I'm not cold. I'm hot. It's very hot. But I'm not ill, I swear to you. It's them.
[He points vaguely back towards the SLUT centre. Clearly, that is all that's wrong with him.]
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Maybe it's simply enough to try to be patient and present. He doesn't know.]
No doubt. I've had similar things done to me in the centre. ['Uncomfortable' is the most minimal descriptor of that pool of feelings and physical sensations. Charles frowns softly, glancing over a shoulder to gauge how crowded the immediate area around them is, and to give the other man a break from his approach. He doesn't know how D'Artagnan may feel about any of the centre's 'treatments' (anger feels obvious), but what he's experienced himself has always been humiliating. If he were in D'Artagnan's shoes, he'd want as much privacy as could be mustered between them.]
I'll wait until you're ready. [Charles slips out a hand to rest it on the nearby brick wall to further block the view into the alley. It's not a great solution, and likely looks suspicious from the outside: He's clearly a doctor who left a hospital in enough of a hurry not to change out of his coat, and now is hovering awkwardly at the edge of a grungy alleyway for no immediately obviously reason. But this is what he feels he can do right now to try to offer some measure of decency.]
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[D'Artagnan offers that without any discernible emotion in the admission. He notes the positioning of Charles's hand, understands this is some measure of attempted protection, of his vulnerability or to stave off the embarrassment should someone step into the alley and witness his emotional disruption. Charles has already seen it, and so... by that measure, D'Artagnan cares not if others do presently, onlookers. He knows, despite what he says, what he claims, that he is profoundly disturbed, and it colours many things that he does or says, or how he responds when something slides him so sharply into being overwhelmed by emotions and physical sensations, culminating in... this. But he can handle it, and he will handle it, and he doesn't need be shielded and coddled to do so.]
I'm fine.
[With that assertion that may or may be true, he nods for Charles to leave the alley, and he'll follow. Though his expression is determined and his stare daring the man to state otherwise, he's half wishing he'd not already made a mess of things where Charles feels it best to be distant, and wary of him.]
I will take care of this when I'm home. I doubt you wish the details.
[It's acerbic and unnecessary, but it gives him some false measure of control over the circumstances to be brusque and discourteous.]
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Those aren't feelings he sees himself overcoming-- at this moment, anyway. But it's also beyond the point, when the important part of all of this, is seeing D'Artagnan safely home in whatever way that can work. Right now, that's accepting the man's gesture for him to start them on their way.
Nodding, Charles lingers for a moment, but then raises his device to start following the path through the city to Sunnyside. He gathers his billowing coat about him with one hand as he goes, starting to button it back together so it won't flap quite so dramatically in the wind.]
No, I don't. [But that's about him being particular and gentlemanly (prudish) in his approach to sex in general.] But I am interested in the details of this situation in general, if you're willing to tell me-- or how the storm went for you.
I feel we got off on a bad foot, [Charles adds as justification for his thoughts, as he continues to make their way through the snowy city.] and perhaps you know why, but I don't. I'm troubled by it.
[Because this man hasn't struck him yet as the type of person who ultimately doesn't deserve his care, or respect. He's disrespectful and rude, sometimes very disrespectful, as in the time he told him he'd kill him, but he also leapt into battle when he thought he might be in danger. There's something in that contradiction that makes him hold out hope.]
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I failed the challenge, which I'd think was obvious. They kept me in there longer than the last time, because I resisted and that was, well, I can't do that without... hurting myself, and it brought more attention. I don't know what else they'd given me. I don't feel anything but aroused, and hot, and slightly disoriented.
[The next topic, the storm, seems wholly unrelated, but D'Artagnan speaks on that too, abruptly and without concern. Dismissive.]
I was at Stark Naked during the storm. There were no incidents.
[A slight pause before he attempts to meander through a response to the 'bad foot' supposition.]
We'd started out not terribly, I'd thought, with the letters. During the gang fight, I found you to be insufferable... and then you'd clearly no interest in my opinions on it later... and now, if tonight is what you'd truly been referencing I... I'm not... angry with you. Perhaps that's not the right word, angry, but it's generally the assumption when someone is... unsettled with me... I'm... I thought, not... I was... I panicked.
[Christ. There it is, though.]
Forgive me if I've not properly addressed your concerns. You've been unclear.
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Is that a misunderstanding in the end, along the lines of the man casually telling him he'd kill him? A slap thrown at him purely out of spontaneous, frustrated feeling? It doesn't make it more acceptable if it is, but it would merely make this man impulsive, rather than callously and intentionally villainous.
He's glad to hear that the storm, at least, doesn't sound like it was too eventful for D'Artagnan. The way it's reported on feels curious - as if it's coming from a police officer of some kind, who's offering only the objective details of the situation. Charles notes his own impression, and files it thoughtfully away.]
No, it's quite fine. Thank you for explaining thoroughly. [Because that is what this feels like. The man making a considerable effort despite his own condition. He appreciates it.] If I can be clearer, I always want to try to do more to that effect. I'm always open to being asked. [Clarity is essential. Slowing slightly, Charles waits for D'Artagnan to catch the few steps he's behind him up to him, and then walks beside him so he can better see the man's face.]
I am sorry that I made it feel like I wasn't interested in your opinions. I generally am. [Even though he definitely wasn't at the time. He was too wrapped up in trying to suppress his own anger.] I was angry at the time [he won't lie about that] but I don't feel that way now, either. [A beat.] And even if I was, I don't see anger on anyone's part as a worthy reason not to try to work things out with someone again.
[There's clear panic in the man beside him, and it automatically trips the desire to try to comfort, to protect-- but after a moment, Charles decides... to try allowing it to happen without attempted intervention. All along, this man has shown him that he seems to exist in a state of near perpetual tumult. Is a reaction like this, that looks like distress in need of assistance, something for this man that isn't the dire thing it would be coming from someone who isn't this way?
That's the new theory, anyway. If giving some patience and listening may be more workable with D'Artagnan, Charles is willing to try holding back other more natural instincts on his part.]
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I've no quarrel with you rejecting my opinions. You need not apologise for it.
[Charles will reap the consequences for that on his own, for not listening to anything D'Artagnan may have to say on the gangs, and that is a satisfactory end for the slight of ignoring him. He sighs. A short irritable noise, regarding Charles's further comments on that.]
I was unaware we'd needed working anything out. You understand we're barely acquaintances, do you not?
[This is not a friendship in need of tending to, there's been little established as far as D'Artagnan is concerned.]
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Yes, but that's a first step to something more. [And reasons to care feel enough for him to want to make effort here.]
I want to make an effort for that. I won't if you're uninterested, but that's my intention now. [Right now, he doesn't see any reason why he can't, or shouldn't, try.] It would be pleasant, but I don't think us understanding one another perfectly is required for it.
[Because at this point, he's not sure if that's possible. Especially as D'Artagnan seems to be taking his admission of not liking how things went between them in the Down, as some kind of accusation of wrongdoing.]
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I can't require that of anyone... I am, moderately, interested.
[His teeth press into his lower lip, and he looks away, watching the other side of the street.]
I'd thought you insightful, despite your peculiarities. Well, before you'd displayed them. You wished to help me once, and I...
[It's something difficult to speak on now, after his behaviour in the alley, and he feels deeply, penetratingly, exposed, flayed before this man through no intent of his own.]
I don't believe myself to be as unwell as you've claimed, but... I am... I've not found solutions to my... struggles, presently.
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He's not affected by being told he's peculiar; Even though he doesn't understand the judgment, enough people have always reacted to him in that way that he knows it's true.]
I'm willing to talk about things like that. [But he thinks it's clear their approach to anything like it with this man hasn't gone well so far. Still, it's something D'Artagnan does seem to be telling him it's what he likes the idea of.] But I don't want to give an impression that I think a friendship has to be about something like that, always.
[Particularly after his Finder thrashed him so thoroughly for it and made him rethink his instincts, and then his efforts with Elle to try and be more casual. The latter of which were inspired by the man in front of him now. He's more okay, currently, with the idea of working towards a connection that's more about respect and general good will.
Or even (god forbid) fun. Somehow.]
We can also... 'chill'. [An expression he immediately regrets coming out of his mouth, because the man may not understand it.]
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[He meets Charles's eyes again, eyebrows slightly knitted in confusion. Certainly, that's what had intrigued this man about him, D'Artagnan presumes. Charles didn't wish for fighting or violence, or a general discussion, but had been asking questions of his responses to things and trying to unearth more of it. He makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs. It matters not, in the end. 'Chill' though, receives another stare of puzzlement, and then D'Artagnan glances at the snow.]
... I am hot?
[That might be a strange response, he feels, and he should've simply asked what the word meant, but he's continually frustrated by his ignorance in such matters, and sometimes he wishes to pretend he understands, more difficult when context is not provided, as it hasn't been here.]
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It does interest me, but I've realized that talking to people like that can make them feel like they need to be 'fixed'. I don't think that's a good state of mind to put people in. As I said, I am willing, but I want to aim to be better in it if that's what you'd like to do. [Supportive, rather than pushy. He does think shortcomings and limitations are worth pushing on, especially if they're causing problems for people, but he now thinks there have to be better ways to do it than what he has been doing: taking people apart before they've even consented to it or knew it was about to happen. Charles shakes his head at his own regrets there, and then glances down at their shifting icon on the map on his device to gauge their route. Not too far away.
And, as he thought, he's confused D'Artagnan with informal wording he's not a big fan of using, either.]
'Chill' is a word [...young, usually informal...frequently irreverent...] people in the city use, that means spending time together without needing to accomplish anything in particular. Fun, more or less. [Which is the un-fun way to explain that.]
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Why need there be a word for that separation...
[That's mostly musing to himself, but there was less clear delineation between such things for him in his past. He can enjoy himself in the drive for accomplishment as much as he can in spending a night in a tavern.]
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I don't know, honestly. [A lot of slang feels to him like it more confuses things than anything else.
As they approach the garage, Charles turns off his device and tucks it away in a pocket of his coat. He reaches a hand up to correct what feels like his very wind-tousled hair in preparation to start heading back to the hospital again.]
If something like this comes up again sometime, please know that I welcome you contacting me directly.
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You've made less of a fuss than McCoy would have.
[It's as good as Charles will get to a thank you and assurance he might be considered for a call. D'Artagnan hopes it's enough, and such parting words haven't undone progress made in civility tonight. He slinks into the garage without waiting for acknowledgement.]