Retched - String Theory: Aftermath

Retched

Log Archive » Logs for January 2009 » Retched

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Scene Title	Retched
Synopsis	Sonny's very bad, no good week is coming to an end. Hopefully.
Date	January 10, 2008

Between Here And There

Most would not recommend calling any political celebrity under thirty years of age at 9 AM on a Saturday morning, but Teo doesn't know enough political celebrities to know better. Either that, or he was merely hoping to snag a voicemail box and leave an erstwhile houseguest a statement of purpose there, avoiding the prospective awkwardness that tends to characterize their interactions. Doctor Bianco's phone is ringing, interrupting the cold, quiet clarity of the morning with its incessant twitter.

It's more than a twitter to Sonny's ears. It's a scream, a loud, babbling scream. He wakes up, still in his clothes from the night before, with only the faintest idea of how he got there. It's on instinct that he finds the phone, though for the first few tries, he tries to answer the clock radio. Fortunately voicemail doesn't pick up until after several rings.
"Nghlo?" That…vaguely sounded like a word.

"Hello?" The salutation comes a bit disjointed, delayed by a figment of surprise. Abruptly, Teo unsticks gears and moves onward: "Buongiorno. This is Teo. I got your number from Wireless. You left a tie at our apartment. I was just going to leave you a voicemail about picking it up or dorpping it off. I can call back later. Mi dispiace." There isn't any reason he should think he did more than interrupted a morning hung over after a Manhattan nightclub so important than no one knows about it.

It might sound like a hangover, but it sure doesn't feel like one. Every part of Sonny's body aches and his head swims. Details of the night before blend together, smear, like a wet oil painting. It hurts to open his eyes. "Teo?" a silence. There's the sound of fumbling. "…Teo, I think somebody drugged me."

That brings Teo's inoffensively helpful train of thought to a sudden wreck. Wherever he is, there's a rustle, a sudden sitting up, startlement. There's a syllable's pause where the Sicilian thinks better than to ask What? He heard. Hearing twice isn't going to help. "Do you need an ambulance?" He's a pragmatic creature, most times out of ten. "Should I call the police? I can get your location—"

"No," says Sonny. "No police. No authorities." That should say it all. "Listen. Remember…" he seems to be having difficulty talking. "…remember the stuff about bad people forcing me to do things? Well. Yeah." There's a sharp cough. He thinks to pull the receiver away after a minute so Teo doesn't get his ear coughed off. "I'm burnt out. But I can barely remember what happened." There's a beat, long enough for him to pull down his sleeve and see the pincture mark. "Yeah…they stuck me with something. But if they wanted to kill me I'd be dead."

That would have said it all, even without the bad people and mention of murder. Over half a year in, and Teo is still mildly flustered to realize that most of his acquaintances have been and will be continuously threatened at gunpoint, stuck with needles. "Do you need someone? I can ask Abigail to come. Or the rustlers." Cattle rustlers. Sonny's as familiar with the term as he is. A quaver-beat's pause. And almost wryly, "If you don't ask me to do something, I'll do the wrong thing. I'm like two seconds from apologizing pre-emptively. Checked yourself over yet?" Medically, he means.

"Teo, I…am having a hard time keeping…no, no don't tell…don't." Nngh. "…they'll ask what happened. I can't tell them." Sonny's desperately trying to keep his head together. There's the sound of rustling and fumbling with the phone. "…don't think they hurt me. Not…seeing anything. Jesus, hold…" and then the phone's dropped. Then the pleasant sound of retching.

Despite that some part of Teo would really rather not, he keeps the phone pressed to his ear. Keeps his face shut, despite the urge to yell Doctor fucking Sonny Bianco until the neighbours come running, either on Sonny's end of the line or on his. If it isn't one thing, there's always something else.

Somehow, Sonny finds his way back to the phone. He lays face-down on the bed, so his voice is muffled. "You can't tell anyone. They'll ask questions. Questions that'll get me killed if I answer them. These aren't people you fuck with, Teo."

"You wouldn't believe the kind of people I fuck with, signor," come the answer, too promptly despite the wryness of Teo's tone. He'd been waiting, heart in his throat, cell to his ear, like some hopeful, youthful swain horribly misappropriated from a different genre of fiction. "Are you in a safe place?"

"Home," says Sonny. "Which means they know where the fuck I live. I just hope they used my own key to get me in here and didn't make a copy. Don't know how they got me past the doorman." A haggard cough. "Jesus christ, what did they stick me with?"

Don't know. Teo would say so aloud, but that much would be redundant. Whoever these people are, changing the locks won't stop them if they want in. Might just piss them off further. Dio knows. "Get some water in you, amico," he suggests, quietly, despite that he's almost audibly biting down another barrage of inquiries. "I'm no doctor, but I've learned puking makes dehydration makes puking. No fun. No medication for another few hours, not even for your head, eh? Interactions could fuck you up further."

"Good plan," says Sonny, hoarsely. "I'm going to…I'm gonna sleep, okay? But do me a favor. Call me again in about…six hours. Just to make sure I'm still breathing. I think it's just…" sound of ruffling. "…well, the exhaustion made that shit go through me even faster, whatever they stuck me with."

To the contrary, it's the worst plan Teo ever heard of. Picking up the pieces instead of gunning after the fuckers just as likely to pull the same again; doing something analogous to nothing. "Six hours," he repeats, by way of confirmation, hesitation and unequivocal assent mingled in his tone. "Hopefully, you can eat by then." One faltering pause, an empty promise: "You'll be all right, Doctor Bianco."

"That's supposed to be my line," says Sonny with a rough chuckle. "And don't call me that, okay, it's Sonny. If you've seen me drunk and counselled me while I'm drugged, I think we're on a first-name basis." A grunt. "Now. I'm going to see if I can get to some water." A beat, then a genuine, exhausted, "…thank you."

Teo's smile sounds neither half-hearted nor mirthful. "It isn't a line." There's a rasp of fabric as he lets go of the phone with his hand, presses it to his ear with a shoulder and, with equal sincerity if far less fatigue: "You're welcome. 3 PM, then. Ciao."