Participants:
| Scene Title | I Do Believe In Fairies |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Baxter is aaaall fucked up. Fortunately, Liz knows people, and those people earlier made the poor decision to like him. |
| Date | March 21, 2009 |
St. Luke's Hospital is known for its high-quality care and its contributions to medical research. Its staff place an emphasis on compassion for and sensitivity to the needs of their patients and the communities they serve. In addition to nearby Columbia University, the hospital collaborates with several community groups, churches, and programs at local high schools. The associated Roosevelt Hospital offers a special wing of rooms and suites with more amenities than the standard hospital environment; they wouldn't seem out of place in a top-rated hotel. That said, a hospital is a hospital — every corridor and room still smells faintly of antiseptic.
The call went out before the ambulance even got on the scene of the situation. Liz sat next to his burned, bleeding body and dialed her phone as soon as she made sure Isabelle was safely out cold on the ground. It didn't matter that it was the wee hours of the morning, and Abby needed her sleep, … Baxter took the hit for Liz, and that…. she can't live with. She already feels at fault for not catching that the person they were going after couldn't possibly have been the instigator of The 36. As soon as the blonde picks up the phone on the other end, Elisbeth's worried voice said only, "Abby… I need you. St. Luke's. I'll… explain everything when you get there. Can I send a uniform to escort you?"
And by the time the blonde gets to the hospital, Baxter's being assessed in the ER and Elisabeth is pacing near the doorway waiting for the blonde. There are cops all over the place waiting to see what the prognosis is. It's always bad with burns. Elisabeth herself has waved off almost everyone, her injuries mostly limited to blisters, minor burns, singed hair, and bruises thanks to Baxter's quick actions and kevlar — her jacket and the back of her kevlar are complete losses, but that's about it. "Abby," is breathed with great relief that the singed, grimy officer spots Abigail getting out of a patrol car.
She was up already when the call came through and Brian had worked hard to get her ready in time for the police who came up to the building. They were going to have to be careful, lest the landlord start to question the validity of renting to the blonde, that was the fourht time she'd been visited by cops to either pick her up or drop her off. But out of the car Abby creeps, clutching purse close, frowning when she see's Liz's state. "Elisabeth. you said it was imporant. Lord in heaven, what happened to you?" Her hand is out, offered to the other woman. Elisabeth should know what's going to happen if she touches the woman's hand.
In the meantime, Jordan Baxter's tattoo is gone. Tinkerbell, scorched off, scoured away along with the thin black cotton tee sleeve that had covered it, legs, and the hair on the back of his head, the nape of his neck and sides of his pretty face.
The front of it remains intact, fortunately enough; he'd probably boast about that if he were conscious, always the paragon of deserved vanity, but chemically induced comas are a necessity for someone who's suffered burns as extensive as his. Funny story — though protective gear generally is exactly that, his pant legs had melted into the flesh of his calves and thighs like cloth wick into candlewax. A small fleet of doctors and bladed implements have already done their best to extricate that.
Skin grafts on hold. They say Harrison has contacts. The officer is, thus, instead a half-naked corpus that smells more like hotdog than deodorant or mid-range cologne. Pips of blackened epidermis keep flaking off, speckling the linens underneath him. His EKG reads steady as a rock, clipped to his thumb. The Emergency Room is a hubbub of activity around him, leaving his plight oddly unacknowledged until further notice.
Shaking her head, Liz deliberately keeps herself out of contact. "Deal with me if you've got anything left after seeing Bax, okay?" She looks worried to death, but she pulls a cloak of silence around them as she talks so only Abby hears what's next as words spill out of her at high speed. "They sent us after an Evo suspected of being the instigator of The 36." And Abby knows how close to that case Liz is. "They said her name was Isabelle Ashford. I swear to fucking God, Abby… I had no idea who she was. I didn't GET her name when she helped us get to you, and I had no clue who she was until we were mid-pursuit. It just didn't click until she threw a fireball through a door at me. And then she threw some kind of massive fire explosion at us, and Bax is…. " She swallows. "The amount of his body burned and the severity of the burns….. don't look good for his survival, Abby. And I know… God, there's a whole metric shit-ton of things that you could say to me right now, and I swear, I'll let you have at me later for Isabelle's situation, but.. please? This isn't Bax's fault." She's got tears in her eyes, feeling terribly responsible for this. "He was hurt saving me from being burned."
Her boss. Her boss hurt a member of the NYPD. Of course Isabelle would. She's a pryo with a temper and volatile, self defenseive. "Bax.. baxter? Peter pan?" Abby follows, quick as she can go, trying to keep her eyes off of anyone else who's hurt that she see's. Resist the urge to reach out and touch Liz. But there's a SCOUT officer and likely to die. She'd been to the burn unit and help some of the people there before. Not all the way but helped give them the chance to get a life back instead of burned and likely to die. "Just.. bring me to him. I'll see what I can do" Lord, everyones getting hurt, or they're all just showing up now that she's around again. "Liz, i'm not supp" She holds off, she can have that particular lecture later. Right now, prtty fly boy sounds like he needs a miracle and SCOUT can't afford to lose Peter Pan.
Elisabeth just hustles with Abby through the hospital and says quietly, "Just… believe me, I know, Abby. His whole back is…. I wouldn't have called if it weren't life or death… and my fault for not being on the ball." She's definitely in self-flagellation mode at the moment — it's not really her fault, and she'll get around to that eventually, but right now? He could die. Burns this bad usually do. "I swear, I'll … anything you want, Abby." And when they get there, she stops at the window into the room, cuz she's nowhere near sterile enough to go in there.
Sterility, frankly, can go out the window. Abby's there. It's not like she'll be wearing gloves. She's not openly known to the people in the hospital, not all of them, only some. But off comes her jacket, and purses handed over to elisbaeth. She's trying very hard to stay calm right now because if she's not, there will be no healing. Through the door Abby goes with her magic pass. her registration card. Touch Healer written under the ability section. "I'm here to heal Officer Baxter" Incoming miracle.
An ER doctor accepts the card, studies its contents with the sort of sharpness that comes from novelty rather than real criticism. The woman lifts her eyes to study Abigail for a moment, matching the gaunt face between those bright yellow locks of hair to the photograph that smiles up at her from the laminated plastic. After a moment, she nods, and motions with one latex-gloved hand. "This way," she says, her shoes clicking the clean tile floor.
And, indeed, that way, there he is. Tubes going in, the surface of much of his skin sloughed off, looking more like a black pork grease patina than identifiable cells. Unscathed, the middle band of his face betrays tranquility strangely at odds with his waking behavior. You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? God willing, Pan isn't there right now.
Watching through the window, Elisabeth crosses her arms and bites on her lower lip. As frightened as she is for Baxter, she's also worried about the toll this will take on Abby's health. And she regrets the need to call. A nurse approaches her, and Liz shakes off the offer of having her own burns checked once more. She'll have time when this is done.
"I'll need something to sit on, a stool, some water. That would be good" lord the smell. "A mask, please" Hoping it might defer the smell somewhat. She's going to be here for a bit. "I need him on his stomach an if.. someone could make sure he's covered…" A gesture to the lower half of him. "Uh.. might want to … taper off his drugs, i'll have him good in about.. twenty minutes? Just something for his pain, I can't do a lick about the pain" She's a little anxious mini-general. But she knows what her ability can do. They don't" THe gaunt woman walks up to the head of his bed, a sad look crossing her face as she lets a hand stray across his brow. "Poor peter pan. You met izzy. For that, I am truly sorry. She's a firey woman literally" Talking as if he's awake and concious. "i'll get you up in the air again real soon" Lord the smell is enough to make her gag almost.
There's nothing wrong with hotdogs! Hotdogs are delicious. Mystery meat. All right; maybe the smell does leave something to be desired. In any case, Abby's request meets immediate compliance.
An orderly fetches Abigail a round stool, a plastic cup of water, a mask to strap over her ears, failing to appear overly irritated that he's been asked to do so. After all, Jordan Baxter is one of New York's finest. Cop. Gem of the city. 'Pause' said so. You know, the magazine that has a year-long subscription that costs more than an orphan from Shanghai. Granted, he had looked much better in those photographic representations, but fortunately they have Abigail for that.
Just because she can heal, doesn't means he won't wash her hands either. She's going to be touching injured flesh. The mask helps, a little, the little elastic straps tucked around her ears, and adjusting her stool as they maneuver baxter to how he needs to be. The ruins of his back as it's revealed prompt the blonde to tear up, back of her hand pressed to her mouth with the layer of throw away cloth between her, but easily enough she's sitting, and her cool palms are settled on the middle of his back, careful not to press.
They say there's a place, where dreams have all gone, They never said where, but I think I know, It's miles through the night, just over the dawn, on the road that will take me home.
I know in my bones, I've been here before, The ground feels the same, though the land's been torn, I've a long way to go, The stars tell me so, on this road that will take me home.
Love waits for me 'round the bend, Leads me endlessly on, Surely sorrows shall find their end, and all our troubles will be gone, And I'll know what I've lost, and all that I've won, when the road finally takes me home.
Her gift courses through him, flesh turning from blackened and red, raw to healthy flesh from her palm outwards little by little. The rest of him just barely starting the same, but nowhere near the speed that where her palm rest turn. ABigails voice is low, liz likely able to hear only through the grace of her own ability, and Baxter beneath her, depending on how they taper his medication. But it helps to calm the woman doing this all and give her focus that she needs.
As Abby gets started, the healing becomes slowly visible. And Elisabeth catches her breath, watching with a great deal of gratitude. The nurses and doctors are staring with a massive amount of 'holy shit!' going around.
The drip of the medication into Baxter's tube and needle has slowed, but there's nothing to indicate an immediate return to consciousness. Not yet. No, the only movement available in him is his breathing and the eerie coil and shift of his physiological parts correcting themselves with Abigail's inspiration.
Damaged muscle smoothing out, new skin eroding through the brackish smear of the discarded old. Even plummeting— however many stories, he had barely bruised. Peter fucking Pan, you know? It's the burns that need to go. And they do, with faint sounds of moisture, growth, and crisp and seamless sealing.
It's the oddest thing, seeing the golden lashes at the corners of his eyes spring out, one by one, like daisies from snow.
Slow and steady wins the race. Takes less from her. But she pushes, even when she knows she shouldn't. Medium paced, BAM! Kicked it up a notch as a cooking personality is bound to say. One hand lifts, away from the middle of his back, reach for the back of his neck and rest there. Flesh hearkens back ot how it shoudl be faster when her palm touches down. She's used to this miracle, every time, though even some of it still surprises her. it's the eyelashes really, that get her this time.
"And when I pass by, don't lead me astray, Don't try to stop me, Don't stand in my way, I'm bound for the hills, where cool waters flow, on this road that will take me home.
Love waits for me 'round the bend, Leads me endlessly on, Surely sorrows shall find their end, and all our troubles will be gone, And we'll know what we've lost, and all that we've won, when the road finally takes me home.
I'm going home. I'm going home. I'm going home." It's getting there, he's looking more and more like the SCOUT posterboy, though she can't bring back his tattoo, it wasn't encoded in his genetic structure, in whatever coda God imprinted on the flyboy. He'll need to get that done again.
SCOUT's posterboy does look it with every passing increment of time, every line that Abby whittles out of her singsong stanzas. He's getting prettier, in other words. The angry red welts laddering the edges of his face fade out, his arms are returned to their handsome cut, muscle definition showing underneath the frail fabric of his bedsheet and hospital gown, both.
His breathing's getting easier, that infinitessimal whimper that each inhale, exhale had carried fading to seamless quiet.
Off to Elisabeth's left, down the reverberating length of pastel-colored hallway, there's a tumult of new arrival. A familiar voice, masculine, rib-rumbling bass in depth, a burly, black-skinned figure cutting through the fluorescent ceiling light. She'd know of him. His skin is as often made of metal. "Where's Jordan Baxter? Where— Harrison?"
The song's finished, and there's a tired weak smile, seeing everything that's coming along. "It's okay Baxter. Pain'll go away soon enough. It sucks, i'm sorry, but it'll go away" Nerves regenerate, flare to life, stubble on the back of his head springing to life from mottled flesh. Twenty minutes was a conservative number, seeing how well he's taking to it, so it's kicked up another notch, her hand trembles on his back as she shuffles down. One palm switched out to the small of his back, and a murmur to a nurse to help her so she can get a look at his legs. They're had the least attention though they're working, So on the calf of his right leg goes her free palm, bringing health back to it as she launches into another song.
"Dear Jesus, help me to spread Your fragrance everywhere I go. Flood my soul with Your spirit and life. Penetrate and possess my whole being so utterly, That my life may only be a radiance of Yours. Shine through me, and be so in me That every soul I come in contact with May feel Your presence in my soul. Let them look up and see no longer me, but only Jesus! Stay with me and then I shall begin to shine as You shine, So to shine as to be a light to others; The light, O Jesus will be all from You; none of it will be mine; It will be you, shining on others through me. Let me thus praise You the way You love best, by shining on those around me. Let me preach You without preaching, not by words but by my example, By the catching force of the sympathetic influence of what I do, The evident fullness of the love my heart bears to You. Amen."
Looking up as the sounds of Knowles barrelling down the hall hit her, Elisabeth turns to face the man. "Hey, Knowles," she says tiredly. She's still a mess herself, her arms crossed over herself. The blisters and bruises and what have you that she sustained are nothing compared to Baxter's. "He's okay. He's gonna be fine. I … brought in someone." She nods toward the window where Abigail is sitting in the room with Bax. Her blue eyes are narrowing on Abby, though, and Elisabeth is concerned about how much she's pushing. "It's time to make her stop, though. Too much, and she'll collapse too." She moves to go into the room. "Abby…"
The groan Baxter makes seems to come from his stomach more than his mouth, belched out toward the ceiling. He coughs. No smoke emerges, though it feels like there should have been, some kind of seismic or volcanic event. Tastes like ash, acrid. Hurts like a fangy-edged cunt. AhhhHell.
"Blondes," is the first thing he says, his eyes rolling open with a disoriented squiggle of motor coordination that isn't happening. His fingers flare, waving hello. The skin of his arm seals shut, the last traces of it slicking even, fair, tanned. Only the top of Tinkerbell's yellow head and a flare of her gossamer wings remains visible in the ink art of his shoulder. "'N' Knowwwles.
"'Eeeey, pretty." Pharmeceuticals are wreaking havoc on his enuncitation too, but the look on his face doesn't lack for clarity. He smiles at Abby even as two sets of footfalls thump up behind the young healer.
"Hey," quietly answered from Abby's lips. "Figured I owed you. You know, you save me from Sylar, I save you from a Pyro. Can't have SCOUTS golden boy groaning and all… messed up" She's slightly breathy, still keeping it up for Baxter. "Give me.. tne more minutes maybe less, i'll have you brand spanking new and you can terrorize the nurses" She's not paying attention to the people behind her, just sags in her chair, hands holding secure on the playboy's leg and lower back. Elisabeth warning of her voice unnoticed even as she lists to the left a bit.
Elisabeth jerks forward and puts gentle arms around Abby as she lists. "Nope… that's it, lady, you're done for now." She looks at Baxter. "Hang in there, Petey — Tink's gotta go have a rest first!" She glances at Knowles. "Can you sit with Bax for a bit while I get her to someplace she can lay down."
"Ffff," Baxter replies, a wan smile bending his mouth. "Take your time, sweetheart. I got what I need." He bends a thumb up out of a loose fist and jerks it over his shoulder at where he figures the IV stand is. His spatial logic remains intact: he gets it roughly right. Baby blue eyes crinkle with silent laughter as he turns his gaze up at Liz, but there's something subtly searching about the nature of his regard, despite the dizziness. Checking that she's all right.
They're both banished with a flip of a hand the next moment, and Knowles summoned with a mumble. "G'wan. The men need to talk now." Chauvinism. It's classy.
"Just a little more" But even as Liz's hands touch Abby and healing trasnfer's to the other woman, her own hands break away from Baxter, who's burnt flesh is now just pink, with renewed flesh that will later turn paler when he gets a second dosing from the healer to top him up. FOr now, reluctantly, off the stool she goes with liz. "later, I promise, when she lets me" There's a tired dip of her head and spill of blonde hair towards Knowles before off Abby's led, to find some bed to settle her in.
Elisabeth's state is grimy and sore and hurt, but she offers Baxter a faint nod. She's not bad off, and when Abby doesn't shut of the healing, Liz's injuries start taking on healing too. She can't pull away while Abby's shaky. "Damn it, Abigail, rein it in!" She sighs when Abby manages and she helps Abby find a room. The nurse that Liz speaks to is warned that Abby is still suffering traumatic nightmares, and a uniform is put on her door while she sleeps. Liz herself has to report to Knowles and Harvard about what happened, and fill out all the paperwork about this.
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