Participants:
| Scene Title | Ready to Wake |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Days after depositing Delia safely on a boat to Pollepel, Vincent comes to. |
| Date | November 12, 2010 |
"Light, get that mag light over here… Gunshot to the right side. I need shears."
Delia's commanding voice drifts in through the smoke that clouds Vincent's vision. Fading from black, to gray, to white, it's like he's falling through clouds only to reappear and see himself on the deck of a boat with the redhead over him. There's another one, holding a gun and shining the light onto the wet patch on his coat. With a wince, he realizes that there's no tailor on earth that's going to be able to repair the butcher job she's doing to his suit. Rumpled as it was, it could have been salvaged. No more.
A few quick slices through the material expose the wound to cold air, he can almost feel it pressing at his side. "Alcohol, sponge, I need clean cloth and water here. Clean water. That bottle unopened? Crack it and give it to me." No one seems to be questioning the young woman's orders, not with the sight of the blood on the unconscious man.
There's the distinct sensation of liquid flowing over that patch of skin and Vincent can hear the other redhead curse as she watches out behind the boat. "You have to do that now? Plug him up and patch it… We'll get to it later. There's gauze in the kit."
"He might not survive until later, just let me… I can do this." The protest isn't as much a bid for permission as it is a reassurance that it can be done. Holding the small flashlight between her teeth, Delia gets to work cleaning around the wound. Small flickers of light sweep from the bloody mess to the bag as she turns her head.
He can almost feel it. Almost. Pressure, a cold tingle further down his side, following a ridge of exposed scar tissue. A pill bottle rattles ineffectually in his pocket with the deck's list and sway.
Restless unease prickles terse at the back of his neck while he watches, not quite sure what to do. Entirely out of his element. Without control.
If this is what dying feels like, he is underwhelmed. Perfectly content to lay in invisible wait to observe the passage of every personal drama except, evidently, his own. Eyes black, aquiline countenance intent, he's left to try to will himself back down there somehow. To wake up.
It's not all that much blood, after all, jelly coagulation darker than the thinner stuff stringing red away with spilled water. He's been conscious for worse.
"I got you Mister Lazzaro, don't worry…" Is the soft murmur to the unconscious body. From above, he can see her working frantically to clean and poke into his wound, feeling underneath his body for an exit point, if there is one. There isn't much blood, not as much as she once thought but Delia's not stopping in her self appointed task.
A jolt to the boat catches just as her fingers find the exit point and the pressure of her long digits pushing against the entry point. There's not much pain to it, certainly not as much as the wound itself provides, but still there's the apologetic glance of the young woman to her charge. "Try not to hit any more waves, please?" A simple request that might be too hard to fill.
The other passengers, faceless masses, merely watch as the nurse tends to the downed man.
It's likely that Vincent doesn't dream much. He doesn't sleep much. He tends to think in direct lines, without metaphor or analogy. People and things and situations are what they are.
Which is a long way of saying that his discomfort persists — even moreso once Delia really starts to get in there with the poking and prodding. He doesn't like to be touched. Even less at a sort of alien third person remove, where he can see what it looks like with his side exposed fishbelly pale under squelchy blood to a crowd of people he does not know or trust. Or want to know.
Delia is safe. He should go. He's just, you know. Unconscious. Or dying. It's hard to tell from where he's at.
"You, grab me the pressure cuff and the stethescope." Directing one of the faceless passengers toward the medical bag, she has the person place the scope into her ears and then press the bell against his heart. With one bloody hand, she replaces the little flashlight into her mouth.
Whatever she's doing underneath him, it's starting to ache but the blood running onto the deck slows. Vincent isn't the only one wounded, toward the side a blonde woman is unconscious with something sticking out of her side. Probably a pipe or something.
Eventually, the bleeding stops completely, and her red hands are washed free of the dark blood covering them. Only then does she begin to wrap the wound from the top by placing squares of guaze over it eventually, the whole assembly is wrapped by way of a thick strip wound completely around his body.
"Come on Mister Lazzaro… you can pull through…" This time the voice is murmured somewhere closer to his ear.
The more of himself he realizes is exposed to the faceless crowd, the more Vincent rankles. Scars net in thick intervals across his chest, coarse black hair broken up by a pattern that still bears some distorted, sprawling resemblance to sprawling chain link. Down across the muscular contour of one shoulder. Both arms. Slashed in ragged across his ribs. His neck.
Far more subtly, the right side of his skull.
Tension bit steely into traps translates into the angry clamp of his jaw and he swivels his focus a little sharply to the sound of a murmur nearly at his ear.
There, beside him, Delia phases into view, her hair a little brighter as she looks down on the version of herself that works… worked… to stop the seeping wound. A few blinks and she turns to meet his gaze, "It's been a few days since that night, Mister Lazzaro. I wanted to make sure you were alright."
Holding her hand out to him, palm up, she gives him a very small smile. "Are you ready to wake up yet? I can help guide you out." The nurse's blue eyes don't waver from his at all, there's apology in them, simply for the fact that she basically just violated an authority figure.
"I'm fine," says Vincent, quiet and a little clipped. His self-image is analogous with what anyone who's ever spoken to him would expect: impeccable black suit over just the right shade of grey with a darker tie. No single bristle out've place, the remnant haze of his hairline shadowed down to a bare minimum. No blood. He's shorter than her, though, even here, boot black eyes lifted by necessary degrees to soak the improbability of this entire situation in. She's using her ability.
The idea that this occurred a few days ago is slower to take. It means he's been unconscious for over 24 hours since New York fell into chaos, which means he's over 24 hours out of the loop. A fidget of hand to nose segues quickly into a distracted nod and he's the first to look away. "Please."
As Vincent's palm meets hers, Delia's long fingers are quick to clasp around his hand. Once that happens, the scenery is quick to change, too quick. It's a veritable blur of colors that seems to switch directions at the speed of a simple thought. Which it is, sort of. A veritable maze of memories and random thoughts are passed by as Delia ignores each and every one of them. Perhaps the reason for the speed.
Finally, the two break free and it all disappears into a fog which also disperses at a rate a little too fast to be natural. Into something as dark as his eyes. The hand around Vincent's squeezes just a little before it slips away and disappears into the shadow. "Wake up Mister Lazzaro… wake up…" The now disembodied voice echoes.
With lucidity comes pain. Most old and familiar, imbedded inextricably into mangled nerves and stiff muscle. Some new.
Spine lifted and carefully resettled against bedding before he slits open his eyes, Vincent rolls the dry patch of his tongue thick off the roof of his mouth and swallows for what feels like the first time in days. Probably because it is.
"Where are we?"
Like in the dream, Delia's hand is clamped onto Vincent's as he lays in the bed. She is slumped in a chair with her head resting on her other arm. Asleep. When he speaks, her eyes flutter open and she finally lets go using both of her hands to rub at her eyes and then finally look at the man sitting up in the cot.
"Pollepel Island… Where the Ferry evacuated." Her sleepy reply is given with a croaking voice, one that hasn't had much sleep at all. The dark circles under her eyes and the unruly tangle of red hair are just a hint at the amount of time she's spent at the man's side, rather than taking care of her own needs. "I-.. You're thirsty… I have water."
Shifting her chair, she gets up and grabs a pitcher of ice water. A plastic cup is filled up halfway before she passes it over with a trembling hand. "Are you… How are you feeling? I…"
The fact that the gown he's wearing gives a papery crinkle once he's more than halfway upright is cause for no small amount of indignance; Lazzaro cranes a slow look down around at his side before he reaches to take the offered cup with his left hand, familiar enough with medical routine. Even if this specific arrangement is far from normal.
As in the dream, scarring loops pale around his bicep and bites furrows into the ropy flex of his forearm, every long line eventually criss-crossed by another in near perfect perpendicular. It's not a good look for him. It's not a very good look for anyone, and he's avoiding looking at her far too hard while he sips his water not to be staunchly self-conscious about it.
"Ridiculous," rings of dry honesty once he's had another glance down at his gown, increasingly beardy stubble scuffed over with the back of his knuckles before he ventures to look at the rest of the room he's been holed up in. "What day is it?"
"Friday," Delia answers quietly, her eyebrow shooting together in worry as the agent gets up so quickly. "I'll.. I have some clothes for you. They're not what you're used to, but I found some people who were about the same size… They match." Unlike her own outfit.
The nurse scurries toward a back room and emerges just a few minutes later carrying a folded outfit consisting of a pair of jeans, a button down shirt, a sweater, and a pair of socks. "Uhm… underwear… I… ordered you some." A glad tiding in all of Vincent's misery is that he won't be forced to wear second hand ginch.
Still seated, if only because he trusts his legs less than he trusts the rest of himself after a few days of very little articulation, Vincent is quiet and oddly still for the time it takes a rolling pulse of hot pain to dim across the side of his skull. Cup poised in hand, he's still sitting that way when she returns with clothing, breathing redirected into a softer puff through his sinuses.
'All of Vincent's misery,' is — a lot of misery. Probably more even than he is interested in discussing in detail. "I had pills with me," doesn't sound even remotely like a, 'Thank you for bringing me things to make me less naked.' "Do you still have them?"
Placing the clothing on the bed beside him, Delia reaches into her pocket and brings out the bottles. It rattles as she hands them off to him. "I … I tried to find more. In case you ran out but we're in sort of short supply. If.. you like, there's someone here that can… Sort of a pharmaceutical expert." or something like it. More like a strung out ex-model looking for victims to test her new ability on.
"If I can't get more of them before you run out, that is." She hadn't been giving them to him while he slept, rather, she had hoped he would bring himself back to consciousness. "I'm sure I'll find something for you, though. Before we have to resort to anything like that."
"I made arrangements in advance."
The upside of having your treachery upgraded into an even more premeditated offense. "I won't run out."
Bottles taken up (again) without him really looking at her, Vincent squints at the labels before popping the cap off the larger of the pair and, you know. Medicating himself. A certain cinch of a twist in his side makes his face go a little gray in the process, but it doesn't linger.
He's still again after that, one knee issued a tentative bend before it's relaxed and he reaches to turn over the clothes she's set down within his reach. More of an examination than a real effort towards getting dressed.
"Were you hurt?"
"N-no.. Not much more than a few bumps and bruises. After everyone else was taken care of, Missus Young checked me out to make sure I didn't have a concussion or anything." Pulling her chair up again, she sits down wearily and slumps at the shoulders. Delia lifts her head to look up at Vincent again and gives him a small smile. "Thanks, by the way, for… I don't know who those guys were. One minute I was running to where the boats were supposed to be and then…" A shrug.
"I owe you like… everything. More than my life… probably everyone's here because… because I knew where the boats were going." Had those men started questioning her, who knows what sorts of danger could have been waiting for the boats upon arrival.
"Well," says Vincent, who reaches resignedly to feel over the sheets before creaking a careful look over the side of the cot onto the floor next to him, "In for a penny." If his pills were kept around, odds are his cigarettes were too. Unless she threw them away. In which case: PROBLEMS.
Unhappy at a kind of low key simmer, he manuevers continued search efforts into a bland gesture at her pockets instead, reluctant to lean where her more able-bodied self is more capable of simply handing them to him. "Are my cigarettes in there?"
At first, Delia's lips part to speak and she takes a big breath before just biting down on her lower lip. "I… They… Blood? And uhm.. water…" There's about to be problems because the cigarettes have gone the way of his old clothes. "I… I can find you some… Someone here has to have cigarettes. My boyfriend, he might have some…" Not that Jaiden smokes, but he's been known to pack odd things that he can trade in strange situations.
"I'm sorry… I know.. But I can get you more." If she can't, there will be a very cranky Mister Lazzaro until he's able to leave. The fact he can turn into smoke might help in that respect.
Seriously? No cigarettes. Crankiness is an apt descriptor in this case, suppressed as it is. His brows level with irritation that he has to struggle to direct elsewhere, gnawing pain cinched in tight lines at the corners of his eyes. It'll be a little while still before whatever he just swallowed mellows through his system.
"It's alright," lied plainly through his teeth, he sifts out a slow breath and drags himself back together some to reach for the clothing again. "Am I allowed to put these on?"
"Oh… uhm… yeah, of course. Lemme… I…" Delia's still reeling over the fact that she lost the man's cigarettes more than anything. Glancing around, she points toward the back room, the only place with any measure of privacy. She gets up from her chair and offers her arm if he's unable to walk be himself.
"There's no curtains in here…" she explains needlessly, of course the money would have been used for other things. Patient privacy isn't as important right now as keeping them alive and with the duty split between only two people, curtains would only get in the way. "There's rooms too, if you want to leave the infirmary. Three to four people per room… but I can try to find .. uhm… Do you have people that you don't want to bunk with?"
Three to four people per room? Brows tilted in I'm sorry did I just hear you correctly? inquiry, Vincent stalls out've his sluggish push towards getting to his feet while he reconsiders the magnitude of the operation he managed to drop in on. There are a lot of people, here.
A lot. Of people.
Pills temporarily left behind, he finally maneuvers himself around enough to get his legs off the side of where he's settled, one clearly less mobile than the other even before he's let his bare feet touch the floor. "I won't be staying," flatly informed after another scuff at his nose, he delays taking the plunge until it starts to be embarrassing that he's hesitated as long as he has. A solid push up from his undamaged side, a stiff catch at his knee. "Thank you, though."
"There's a meeting in a while… If you could stay at least as long for that…" Delia manages to catch herself before rushing to his aid for fear of insulting the man even further. Tasha's father is so different from her own. He shares the same stubborn independent streak but he commands much more respect from his demeanor alone. Not a proud lion as much as a lone wolf, or something like that.
Keeping her hands a few inches from his body, hovering but not close enough to be suffocating, she guides him toward the back room. Once they're a few feet away, she slows to a stop and allows him his measure of privacy. "I'll watch your things, I doubt anyone will touch them but…" It gives her an excuse not to hover over him.
Lazzaro is a lone wolf in desperate need of a shower, ill-temper multiplied several-fold for the fresh onslaught involved in having feeling creep back into places he wishes it wouldn't. He's quiet again accordingly. And still. Slow and steady isn't winning him any races, but it is keeping him off his face, so. With a reproachful look sideways for her near assistance that would undoubtedly be worse if she hadn't caught herself in the nick of time, he shifts the bundle of clothing under his left arm and gimps the rest of the way into the back room. Without looking at her. Because that is how he does things when he is indecent.
"Okay," allowed her information and offer, he settles jeans and shirt and sweater onto a shelf on his way to plucking unhappily at the constraints of his gown.
Tasha didn't make it here.
Delia would've said something if she had.
