Time To Leave


delphine_icon.gif ethan_icon.gif

Scene Title Time To Leave
Synopsis Ethan's decided it's time to do just that.
Date March 8, 2009


"God damnit!"

The sounds of men struggling echoes above the basement, in the stairwell, something is happening. The sounds of a conflict. Flesh hitting flesh.

"Fucker broke my fucking nose!" The first voice calls out.

"Come here you little cunt."A second voice.

The sounds of men struggling against men continues until a low groan and a soft, pained chuckle is let out. Finally, three men come from around the corner. Two of which dragging a fourth body. Ethan Holden, a gaping hole is in his cheek. A spike having penetrated into the hollow of his mouth. The same spike intruded into his chest, just below his left shoulder. He's losing blood. And so are the two men carrying him. One has blood dripping from his nose, the other a broken lip and what will eventually turn into a black eye.

The door opens with a creak.

The man is thrown into the room, that soft chuckle continuing to emit from him. He got to have at least one last play at defiance. He's loosing blood. He'll probably die soon. His back lands squarely against the cot set up in the room the men brought him to.

"Fucker has holes in him and he still wants to play games." One of the men says, as the door closes harshly.

Looking down at the ground, he opens his mouth allowing blood to drip out from his lips to the ground below. That raspy chuckling still flowing as fluidly as the blood. His head slowly tilts back to rest against the cot behind him, his eyes searching the fairly dark room quietly.

A few seconds stretch out and out into minutes. When your life is leaking red from your chest, what time you have left must crawl on and on. But Ethan's eyes do eventually land on something, the shine of minimal light against bared skin - a bony pair of knees, and the longer plan of shins - and the twin glints of open eyes peering at him from the darkness.

"I told 'em… not to bring me the broken ones."

A female voice, a little rough, an Irish lilt to it. Those legs shift, folding beneath her and she stands up, stepping forward and out of her hiding place in the shadowed corner. Long dark hair, skin that should have a healthy tan but seems drained and pale. A larger hooded sweater swamps her torso, extends halfway down her thighs, legs bare despite the chill in the room. On bare feet, she pads towards Ethan.

"You're on m'bed."

Ethan's head tilts at the woman who seems very, out of place. He watches her for a moment. He recognizes the accent easily. He would tell her so, but he's a tad occupied having a hole in his mouth. And conscious of how funny his voice might sound should he speak with a hole in his speaking apparatus, he chooses not to. But instead spits. Blood and saliva flies straight out of his mouth onto the ground in front of him. And a tad flies out the side of his mouth as well.

After giving her his declaration of whatever it is he is trying to declare, he turns his head away from her. Not moving, letting his head hang. He brings up his knees and encircles his arms around them. It wasn't the first time he was vaguely aware he would probably die. He isn't exactly a cynic, just realistic. And he knows if he doesn't get care soon, he will probably be gone. But then again, right now, right this second… He doesn't much care.

Her eyebrows go up as he spits, studying the substance on the floor, and the fact that it's mostly blood. There's a moment of silence before she shuffles closer, pushing back wavy, greasy hair over her shoulders. She's pretty, in an unusual way, and looks older than she is, and doesn't seem offended by his reply. Distracted, perhaps, by the gravity of his injuries.

She sits on the side of the cot, brown eyes studying the facial injury, before that gaze drags down to his chest, the deeper hole, looking at it closely. "Someone got y'good," she murmurs, bottom lip catching when she bites it, for a moment, then extends a hand. "I can try fixing ye. Y'gotta want it, though."

A snort leaves him as he looks up at her with disbelief. A slow raking chuckle is let out as he turns his gaze from her. Another blood lugie is sent flying as he tries to gather himself and speak. "Wot.." Swallow. His voice sounds gargled, the cockney barely shining through in his new, holeinmouth accent. "Wot y'want me t'do, say pl'se?" The words sound labored. Though he still manages to sound incredulous as he spits out the words, covered in blood. He slowly looks up at her with another soft chuckle. The hand is looked at for a moment, but not yet taken.

"A please would be nice," she chuckles, with a sudden, charming smile. "No one hardly does, but…" That hand moves, not waiting for him to take it, her palm moving to hover over the gory wound. Nothing happens for a moment, and she lets out a small breath of displeasure and some sadness, before something new starts to happen. Specks of light flicker to life in the air around her fingertips, spiralling for a moment before a warmer, pure white glow emits from her hand, light without radiating, almost ghost-like and smoky without substance.

The pain is what is noticeable, first, or the lack of it - drawn out of his wound like poison from a snakebite, the shimmering smokiness leaking into the deep wound. The healing begins, muscle weaving back together, broken veins and arteries repairing, skin closing as if nothing had ever happened, but not before blood both dried and not reverses its flow and seeps back inside.

The light flickers into nothing, and the woman's smile is bright, happier. "It don't always work," she explains, at a whisper. "Here. Lemme fix y'face, love."

A brow arches at the healing process. He's been healed before, but not like this. Before there was a scar, here… it's like it never happened. A finger comes up to prod at where the wound was recently. He gives a hum of acknowledgment, though his expressions remain neutral. His head turns slowly up to the woman and her bright smile. And even though his face is covered in blood and gore he can't help but produce a small smirk. "Thank y'lovely." He growls softly in response, his eyes closing lightly.

The cot creaks a little as she moves in closer, that hand moving to his face, as if about to cup his cheek, but her palm stays an inch or so away. The process is repeated, the smokey white tendril reaching out to steal away the damage, and once it's done, and his cheek is no longer such a mess, she touches the unbroken skin with the tips of her fingers, as if admiring her handiwork, before pulling away. "What's your name?"

"Good work, love." Ethan says in a teensy bit of admiration. His cockney accent much clearer now.

Though he says it as if she had just hit a baseball out of the park, rather than save him from his inevitable death. His own hand comes up to examine his cheek, briefly brushing aginst her fingers as he pokes at his recently reformed cheek. He rubs his tongue against the side of it. "Can't say I much enjoyed that." Ethan admits, slowly going to lift himself up and sit on the cot next to her.

He looks down at himself again, giving another light hum. "Please." He adds in, just because she wanted it. His eyes roll over to examine her. "They keep you 'ere under lock and key as well?" He asks, ignoring her question for now. He will answer it when he is good and ready to.

"Yeah," she says, not pushing as to what his name is. Her mostly bared legs cross, hands braced on the side of the bed and shoulders curl inwards, and a curtain of brown hair half of obscures her face. "For people like y'self. The nearly dead. Usually the famous ones, or so I understand. Y'must make 'em a good bit've money, love." She opens her mouth to say more, than stops.

Instead, she offers a slim hand, bony about the knuckles and nails a little unkempt, but clean, soft. "Delphine."

"I suppose I do." Ethan admits in regards to how much money he makes them. "I do believe I'm done making it for them, though." He murmurs. "I came 'ere looking for someone. I found 'er. I do believe I'll be leaving soon." The Brit says, leaning back on the cot somewhat, stretching his arms back. "Would you like to come with me?" Ethan asks as he rolls his gaze over to her.

His hand comes up to grasp hers, gently, he holds it for a moment before releasing it and averting his gaze once again. "Ethan."

Her eyebrows raise, hand withdrawing once the hold is over with, fingers lacing together in her lap. Silence settles, as if she were taken aback by this statement, eyes also searching his for the lie, the joke, whatever it is. "That'd certainly be better'n any thanks y'could give me," Delphine finally says, a little heavily. "If only it were that simple, yeah? I'm glad y'found y'girl, though. People come out the way to get lost, usually." A beat, mouth quirking into a half-smile, and he nods to him. "It's good to meet you, Ethan."

"Delphine." Ethan repeats quietly, bringing two fingers up to his lips. "When I escape, I'll come check on you 'ere. I'll get you out." He says confidently. No, not a joke, it's a solid promise. "Least I could do." He comments, going to stand up off of the cot. "It's good to meet you as well, Delphine. Where you from in Ireland? You been 'ere a while?"

The only reply he gets to his promise is another smile, and then a nod. As if she can't quite put words to how much gratitude she'd have for such a thing, or perhaps doesn't want to seal it in such a promise that could easily be broken. Still. She saved his life. It has to mean something. One day, maybe it'll all pay off. She doesn't stand up as he does, sliding back further onto the cot and letting a leg fold beneath her other. "Northern Ireland," she says, with a tip of her head. "Been livin' here for quite a bit now, though. You're an Englishmen by the sounds've it. Enjoyin' America the Free?"

He gives a little smirk when she declares she's from Northern Ireland. "Sorry." God knows he's done his own personal damage up that way. Though his apology doesn't really carry any weight. He did what he did, it's more of a word just to ensure that if she automatically hates him it will be a little less than normal. He gives a nod. "Near England. Went all over." He murmurs, meandering over to the door, pressing the side of his head to it.

"I'd like to take wot little I 'ave and get the fuck out." Ethan murmurs distractedly. "I don't 'ave much to live for. Just my daughter. I thought she was dead until recently." The girl that's not his daughter. But it's a lie that he's been telling more and more frequently, lately. "I came 'ere looking for 'er. I saw 'er in the crowd the other night. So I figure, it's time for us to leave, 'ey love?"

The apology gets a raised eyebrow, and a hand waving gesture, one that's aborted in favour of her gripping the back of her neck, squeezing some of the tension out of it with capable fingers. Being down here in the dark for so long alters your perception, maybe. Despite the fact she's even from Belfast, of all cities. "Aye," Delphine agrees. "Overdue, even, I'm thinkin'." She cants her head to the side as he regards him for a moment, a little more life and spark in her eyes. "If y'wantin' to leave the room, knock a bit. They come get you." Pause. "I'm always here."

March 8th: Obliterated
March 8th: Affectations
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License