silenttrainbaby | arrival (closed to Curtis)

Entry tags:

arrival (closed to Curtis)

The pain wasn't bad, not really. As he'd trained, he'd been hurt a lot, muscles and joints bruised and bones nearly broken. He's used to pain. This - this pain he felt now - was nothing new, not really. It was just more final and Grey knew it. Since Gilliam was dead, this - death - was nearly a relief. He'd done what he could to help Curtis, to avenge Gilliam's death. Nothing more could be done. As he felt the knife press into his chest, he sank into oblivion.

Only to wake up with a start at the train seeming to have stopped. He was on the floor, of course. The pain woke up a second later and he hissed out between clenched teeth. He pulled and realized that the knife was still lodged through his right hand. That hand throbbed and his entire body felt as if he had been been through too much, worse than any training session. His left hand hung from his wrist uselessly. He forced his eyes open and stared at the ceiling of the steam car of the train.

Where was the old man in the suit?, he suddenly wondered, the one who had been fighting him? Grey's vigilance forced him to sitting, ready for more fighting despite the pain. He pushed the knife from his hand and held it, even if the pain seared through his palm, his left hand still hung loosely; the wrist was broken. It didn't mattier. Surely, if the train had stopped, he must be ready for anything. He pushed to his feet and forward in the train, it not yet occurring to him to go outside the car. After all, wasn't the world still frozen?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

So, that meant what? What was Grey to do? All he knew to do was fight and take care of Gilliam. Gilliam was dead and there was no reason to fight.

His head ached so much it brought tears to his eyes; the pain seeming to increase exponentially. He didn't understand anything: what this place was, what Curtis meant, what he was to do, why he was alive. Nothing.

There wasn't anything he could say. Darrow wasn't a place you could be told about. You had to live it, to figure it out on your own. Or maybe Curtis was just as useless as a leader as he'd always suspected.

Grey deserved better. They all deserved better.

Dragging in a breath, Curtis pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the twinge in the tendons and bones, still newly healed after being shot through.

"We're going to the hospital," he explained flatly. "Where they can patch you up. Then we'll... We'll figure out where you can stay."

He'd have an apartment of his own, but there was no way the kid could be left entirely to his own devices.

Hospital? Any scars Grey had were dealt with by one of the elders. A hospital was a vague concept.

Left to his own devices might mean that Grey became entirely feral.

Either way, he sat, slumped low in his seat, dirty, smelly, and injured. He dragged his eyes up to look around, to take in the train, the people, what was outside the windows. He hadn't dreamed much on the train. Maybe this was a dream.

Falling into silence, the trained carried them toward the hospital, the rumble familiar under their feet, but while it might've been a comfort to Grey, it made Curtis' skin crawl.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited until the polite, automated voice over the loud speakers announced that they were approaching the stop at Darrow General.

"Come on," he said, climbing to his feet, and after a moment of hesitation, he rested his hand on Grey's shoulder. Comfort was something that came rarely, in the tail, but Curtis knew that Grey was used to being close to someone. Close to Gilliam.

Gritting his teeth, Curtis lead them through the door and onto the platform. It was a short walk to the sleek, automatic doors of the ER. As they walked, they passed cars, pedestrians, a hot dog cart. Curtis kept Grey close. No matter how capable of protecting himself the boy might've been, there was no way he was prepared for all of this.

No, he wasn't. Curtis was right. It took a great deal of effort just to walk, but as he did, his vision hazy from the pain, he looked around.

The smells alone discombobulated him. It was good that no one, aside from Curtis, tried to touch him. Inside the hospital waiting room, it was a new set of smells: antiseptic, dry and terrifying. He squeezed the knife, making his hand bleed, his jaw set.

That fear, that constant vigilance, was what had kept them all alive for eighteen years. It was good, it was smart, but Curtis still found himself giving Grey's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Wait here," he said, lowering him into one of the uncomfortable, plastic seats. "I'm going right there to sign you in," he said, pointing to the nearby window, behind which a nurse was currently eyeing them skeptically.

"Don't stab anybody while I'm gone," he said, and it might've been a joke, had he said it to anyone else.

If he - or Curtis - wasn't threatened, he wouldn't stab. In that way, Grey's life was simple, even here.

He squinted at how white it was, how clean everyone was. Was this like the front of the train?

(ooc: good grief. Sorry about that!)

After a curt exchange with the nurse, Curtis sank down into the chair at Grey's side, heaving a sigh and letting his eyes fall shut for a brief moment.

Head lulling in Grey's direction, he looked the kid over, noticing-- really noticing all the grime, the scars, the marks of a lifetime in the tail. Curtis was clean, was fed, but there were some scars that would never fade.

"They'll take you back in a few minutes," he explained, "They're going to want to set that wrist and do something about the hand. I'll..." He paused, lips pressed into a line, "I'll come back with you."

There was no fucking way he was letting them take the kid out of his sight. Not yet.

"You're gonna need to keep that knife away. They call the cops on us and we're fucked."

Grey didn't need a knife to defend himself; Curtis knew that. So, slowly, he leaned forward, face creased with the effort, to slide it into the makeshift sheath on his rope-belt (as long as no one took it from him, that would be all right). He fell back with a hiss. He held the hand out, trying to flex it again; it hurt. A lot.

But he looked over at Curtis, too, then, how clean he was, indeed. He wanted to understand. That was all; he wanted to understand. He wasn't sure he could. He nudged up a sleeve. Die!. His brows were knit. Was this whatever came after dying?

Lips tugging into a line, though not quite a smile, Curtis lifted his own hand, holding it alongside Grey's, showing the scar that pierced through his palm. A bullet wound, instead of a knife, but not so different.

"I don't know. Maybe," he answered. Yona had told him she'd seen his body, lying there in the wreckage of the engine. Who's to say she hadn't died out there in the ice, too?

"Whatever happened, we're not dead now."

Philosophical discussions of life and death and their meanings would have to wait, not that Grey was the right person to have them with. There had been no talk of Heaven and Hell on the train.

He let his pierced hand fall to his knee and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

Curtis let the quiet stretch on, keeping his eye on the door, the exits, a habit he'd probably never break.

When a nurse finally stepped out, frowning at a file in her hands, and called for a Mr. Grey, Curtis huffed out a breath, something almost akin to a laugh, and got to his feet.

"Come on," he said, hand on Grey's arm to help him up, "That's you."

Eyes opening, Grey pushed himself to his feet, hissing out another sound. The ache seemed to be settling into his bones. The coverings on his feet slid along the shiny tiles as he moved as directed.

At the sight of the nurse, he stiffened, just a little. A stranger.

As soon as they were through the door, the nurse started asking questions and offering sympathetic platitudes for Grey's current state. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for a reply, her eyes flickering nervously toward Curtis' looming presence.

"He doesn't talk," Curtis said flatly. Wouldn't, couldn't. He'd never known why, had never asked. Someone knew, Curtis was sure. Probably Gilliam. Probably Wilford, the bastard.

"Oh," she said, frowning as she jotted something down on her file. "Are you his...?"

"Friend," Curtis said, even though that wasn't entirely true. There wasn't really a word for what they'd all been to each other. "I'm his friend."

While Grey didn't duck behind Curtis, he stood close, even if he was swaying on his feet. His gaze might even have been a disconcerting, it was so steady and unblinking (the focus helped keep him from falling).

Someone tried to take his coat and he snatched at it, pulling away, the motion causing a jolt of pain to rock him.

They were lead behind a curtain, where a sterile hospital bed waited, machines and equipment Grey would've never encountered.

"Let them take it," Curtis said firmly, calmly, as he claimed a place against the wall, relatively out of the way. "I'll hold onto it, you'll get it back."

It was all he had. Gilliam had found it for him. Reflexively, he held it closer, but Curtis's orders, he was used to following.

He handed it over and his knife too, meeting Curtis's eyes.

"You'll get it back," he promised again, his tone softening almost imperceptibly.

It stank. Like the train. Like they all had. But he slid the knife into a pocket and held the coat against his chest anyway.

There was murmuring and talk and Grey was urged by sterile strangers toward the spindly white bed. Against the clean, he looked dirtier, scrawnier, darker. Someone pressed something to his chest and he winced, hissing, flinching, hands flexing. He looked to Curtis, trying to ground himself there.

He didn't say anything, but he gave a faint but reassuring nod, watching intently as the nurses checked the kid over, ready to intervene if he had to.

He needed x-rays, they said, even though you could take one fucking look at that wrist and see that it was broken.

Curtis gritted his teeth. They were in for a long night.

None of what they were saying made any sense; it all sounded like noise to Grey. One of the "nurses" wrinkled her nose at how he smelled, how dirty he was. She, on the other hand, was too clean, too vulnerable.

He was tugged gently to stand, for the "x-rays." Where were they taking him?! Panic showed on his face; he started to struggle.

"Grey," Curtis said, taking a step forward, trying to draw the younger man's attention back to him, "They're going to look at your arm. You're going to need to let them, or it's not going to heal right, you know that."

They'd seen what happened, in the tail, when injuries weren't treated properly. A break like that could cripple a person for life.

And one of them needed two good arms.

The nurse, the one who'd led them back, looked between the two of them with big, sympathetic eyes and said softly, "You can go back with him, if it'll be better for him. We'll put you in a lead apron, you'll be fine."

Grey kept looking at Curtis, barely blinking. His heart was beating hard and fast, tension radiating off him.

They needed to do this to heal him? If Curtis was going with him, then Grey would go.

He let himself be led, turning to make sure Curtis followed.

The room was cavernous, daunting even for Curtis, gray walls and an ominous machine filling up the center.

"We're just going to take a picture. Okay, hon?" the nurse said, as if she were talking to a young child, "You won't feel a thing."

She handed Curtis the apron, and setting Grey's jacket down nearby, he slipped the apron awkwardly over his head, fumbling one-armed with the strap.

If Grey kept his eyes on Curtis, he was all right; he could control his breathing and his pulse. The machine hummed in a different way from the Train.

They guided his broken wrist toward it and he gritted his teeth, a low, inarticulate hum escaping.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject