ethan_icon.gif eileen4_icon.gif

Scene Title Acetaminophen
Synopsis Ethan is concussed and Eileen is confusing.
Date August 18, 2009

The Garden

There is nothing that smells quite like iodine. It's one of those sour disinfectant scents associated with sterile hospital halls by so many, and while Ethan's bedroom at the Garden is a long way from St. Luke's, it's as safe a place as any for him to lay low until he's fully recovered from the injuries dealt to him by his former Vanguard associate, Feng Daiyu. The twin bed Eileen laid him out on is at least more comfortable than a standard issue cot, even if he might rather be someplace else. Resting his head in Delphine Kuhr's lap, for instance.

Propped against the headboard with a pair of goose down pillows to support his head and neck, the Wolf has been stripped from the waist up, covered in quilts from the waist down, and is presently being seen to by the only Ferrymen associate in the safehouse with more than a cursory knowledge of medicine. Which, incidentally, brings us back to the iodine.

Eileen dabs at one of the nastier-looking cuts on his cheek with a cotton swab drenched in the stuff, careful not to get any near his eyes or mouth as she works, speaking to him in a low voice usually reserved for lovers or the softness of a mother to her child.

"I'm going to slit his throat."

With a face that would be more suited for a horror movie, or one of those educational films they show you in highschool to try and scare you into not doing drugs or alcohol or a combination of both. Ethan's hand continuously raises toward his face, to gently poke at the different lacerations and bruises there, mapping out mentally his different wounds and calculating whether or not the same or more damage was dealt to his opponent. Poking at his face, Ethan glances down at the cotton swab. Groan.

But the groan swiftly turns into something more whimsical and elated at the last comment. His chuckle rings out, his upper body shaking somewhat as he laughs. At the end of his laughter, the emotions on his face draw out as if suddenly confused as to why he was chuckling. Or where he even was. Looking concerned for a moment, his eyes dart over to Eileen. Lips drawn thin for a moment his features are grave until…

"Allo princess." Big grin.

Eileen's free hand firmly closes around Ethan's wrist and forces his away from his face. Every time he pokes the lacerations, she has to disinfect them again before she can start stitching them up. What she really needs is a syringe of morphine that she can stick him with to keep him subdued, but she'll make do with what she has — unfortunately, it isn't much. "Stop that," she murmurs thickly and under her breath, patience beginning to audibly deteriorate. "You'll only make it worse."

He recognizes who she is. That's a good sign. "These are going to scar something awful. If I had a dog that looked like you do right now, I'd shave its arse and make it walk backwards. Christ."

"You'll only make it worse." Ethan retorts hotly, his voice subdued. Though the comeback is implied. He weakly tries to pull his wrist away from Eileen's grip, though after a little tugtug he gives up and lets his arm relax. His back sinks into the pillows behind him, his body practically sagging into the bed. His brows furrow as she makes comments about dogs and asses.

"I'm still handsome." He argues weakly, his other hand sloowly and stealthily sneaking towards his face to give it a little poke poke but even though he is trying to practice stealth in his endeavor, his arm isn't that hard to notice.

"Do you suppose I get my good looks from you, then?" asks Eileen as she relents, releasing his wrist in order to begin threading a needle with a long length of ugly black suture that glistens obsidian in the bedroom's half-light. It isn't a wholly innocent question. She's testing him, not just in an attempt to gauge how serious his concussion is, but on the off-chance he may divulge information that Daiyu did not.

She avoids his eyes, focusing on the immediate task at hand and feigning the casual disinterest of a feline pretending not to notice a flicker of movement inside a fish bowl.

Ethan's screwed up features screw up a little bit more at that question. A blunt, "Whot?" is dragged out after the question. A little chuckle is let out, his chest convulsing a wee bit at the chuckle. "Sorry love, my 'ead must be… swimmier, than I thought. Whot'd you say?" He's given up on poking at his face, for now.

Instead his hands go to pick at the quilt draped over at him. Pulling out loose pieces of fabric or string that he might find, he starts making a small little string pile on his stomach.

"I said, you're my da, aren't you?" Eileen might as well replace the word da with King Louis XV of France for all the sense it makes. She can hardly believe the words are even leaving her mouth. Satisfied that the suture won't come loose, she cups his jaw in the seat of her palm and tilts his chin upward, assessing the best place to start.

The tip of the needle slides swiftly beneath the skin of his cheek and creates a sharp pinching sensation, though the pain is quick to pass. She's done this enough times to perform the procedure without needing to dedicate her full attention to it, minimizing discomfort with a precise and practiced hand. "Mum wasn't that attractive, so if Sylar fancies me then it must be thanks to you."

"Whot the ffffuu…" His head rolls back somewhat as if retreating from her hand. Though like before he gives up quickly and allows his chin to be cupped by her. "Th'fuck 're y' talkin bout." His eyes flick around, losing her for a moment they practically dance around trying to find her. Finally locating her face once again he settles a lazy gaze on her.

"Are you bei—" A groan cuts off his murmur, when the needle slides in. Scowling, he seems to lose his train of thought after that sudden interruption. So he's left to stare blankly up at her for a long moment. And then…

"Allo princess." Smile.

The smile Eileen gives him in return is tentative at best, heartsick at worst. "'Lo, Ethan." A snap of her teeth severs the excess thread, suture held in place by a little black knot the size of a bullet ant's head and just as cruel-looking. The other lacerations and scrapes will heal on their own with only the aid of rectangular bandages cut to conform to the shape of his face with the size of each individual slash in mind.

"You've got a concussion," she tells him then, not for the first time since she brought him into the bedroom by his arm. "You need a glass of water. Acetaminophen. Cloths for your head." As she speaks, she fondly strokes her knuckles along the less mangled of his cheeks. "Are you tired?"

"I don't have a concussion." He argues mildly, "I just have a little headache." One hand comes up from his blanket picking to wave dismissively. No chance he has a concussion. "Acetam-unifunnfin…." His tongue stumbles over itself, "Acatemephano…" Pursing his lips he looks frustrated. "Acetaminupherp…" With that he'll give up on trying to repeat the dumb word. "Okay." He concedes giving a little smile.

Placing his fingers over her hand, he gives a gentle squeeze as her knuckles trace along his cheek. "No, I'm not tired." He says, as his eyes practically flitter close then open again.

"Okay." Smoothing her other hand across his brow, Eileen presses her lips to the top of Ethan's head and plants a chaste kiss there. Her mouth lingers, lips moving against his skin, eyes squeezed shut and resisting the temptation to tear up. "I'm going downstairs for a few minutes so I can talk to Mage," she says, "but I'll be back soon. Maybe Delphine can pop in for a visit, too."

She snaps her first aid kit shut, replaces the cap on the bottle of iodine and, pulling away from Ethan, rises from her seat at the edge of his bed. "Rest."

"We know someone named Mage." A short abrupt bark of a laugh is let out. "Ask 'er if she knows 'arry Potter." A dumb grin raises up on his lips as the kiss is planted on top of his head. Squeezing her hand gently once again his hand then flops like a dead fish next to his body. Letting his head loll to the side, his eyes slowly flutter close. "I love you, princess." And with that, he passes out.

Eileen stands in the doorway for longer than she probably needs to, watching the rise and fall of Ethan's chest, measuring the rhythm of his breathing. Her mouth forms the words without voice, no need for verbal reciprocation now that's he's unconscious and deaf to it. Eventually, the door clicks shut behind her and her retreating footsteps diminish down the hall.

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