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xp_logsArthur, still depowered, remains under observation in the Medlab following his injuries during Death's advance on District-X. His condition is not improving, but he’s stable enough for visitors.
Content warning for all: mental distress, potentially disturbing content
***
Quentin has questions, but Arthur is not entirely himself.
The world was flat and colorless.
In actuality, his world at this moment still consisted of a recovery room in the med lab. Arthur had been moved out of initial observation, and into one of the more liminal private rooms. There were colorful trinkets and flowers arranged to denote a sense of cheer, but Arthur Centino stared fixedly at the wall in front of him. The screens in the room were covered. The only light came from the ever-blinking monitoring equipment.
Why was he here? Arthur made to move, but found himself quickly tangled in a breathing tube and hospital sheets. There was also the pain. The pain made a lot more sense.
"I'm sorrr —" He tried to speak to no one in particular, but his throat was hoarse. Who was he talking to? Was it Marius? Maybe the redheaded child. He'd never gotten her name. "I lost myself for a minute there."
"Stop talking and stay still." The voice seemed to come from nowhere, speaking directly into Arthur's head. Quentin stepped into the room, his Louboutin loafers clacking against the medlab flooring with each step. "It's just me. Do you need anything? Should I get Voght?"
"Oh," came a response in a very small voice.
Arthur was a vision in red as the bruising had begun. A mess of crimson. Soon it would all start to bloom into other colors, but the furthest along was the shape of a hand mark on the man's neck. He had the worst hickey imaginable. One arm was in a split. His chest was covered in bandages.
He sat there like someone cast to be a coma patient. Another role.
"Don't. She won't leave me alone. She's obsessed with me."
"You know, it always sucks to see anyone laid up like this," Quentin mused, setting down the small bouquet and teddy bear with a sash that read I'm beary sorry you're sick before taking the seat near the bed. "But this is especially a bad look on you. Like, you look awful, and your whole deal is supposed to spare you injury like this." He looked down at his hands, folded on his lap. "You're not a fighter, Arthur. Why did you put yourself into that situation?"
"No," and it was still that small, beaten voice. "It was," but the strength in his delivery grew with each new word, "it has always been my choice. I usually choose not to fight. I chose to do it, this time."
"So why did you make the choice to fight? Let the X-Men and X-Force do their damn jobs . . . "
"Why?" The edge in his voice might have been the concussion talking, "You know you’re the first person who has asked? Why did I do it? Why would I risk myself? Why? To save one kid? All of the kids? To save the whole community I've helped build? Quentin, that’s who I am. I help people."
Arthur's eyes hardened, and his expression grew cold as he looked directly at Quentin. His voice was growing hoarse from overuse.
"I know you would have done the same thing."
That cold distance in Arthur's tone set Quentin on edge. He was brought back to last spring when they were tracking down Arthur's salary deposits, and the older man let slip the mask of innocence and vacuousness that kept him on the universe's good side. When the yawning abyss threatened to open and consume everything. Quentin forced his telepathy inwards, hastily building whatever meager shields he could to keep that maw far far away.
But still, Arthur's response shamed him, and he found himself answering honestly, not hiding behind any quip or distraction.
"No, I wouldn't have. I'm too much of a coward for that."
The abyss shifted, and it focused on Quentin Quire.
"I know."
Quentin raised an eyebrow. "Arthur? Careful..."
Where the normal, too polite, Arthur would never dare, this version didn't even flinch.
"You stop that," he practically growled. "We're done with that. I'm free for once. I gave my power away. I'm free, and I can finally say whatever I want."
His fisted hands shook as he tried to pull himself up in the bed. His anger was as sharp and as pointed as one of his throwing knives.
"Quentin Quire, you spend all of your energy making excuses. Someone else's job. Not our responsibility. Yet when it comes down to it, you're there for me and the rest of us. You will stop pretending you're less than who you are. Hiding behind your ego. Guess what? We're all cowards. We all feel bad. There's never a reason to not do everything you can — to take a chance — even if you could get hurt."
The heart rate monitor gave a little beep of alarm.
"I finally get to do whatever I want. I was a coward last time I was free, but now I can actually want things," Arthur sighed. His burst of energy had faded just as abruptly as it had come.
"And right now? I want you to leave. Be better."
Quentin was still for a moment, rooted in his seat by Arthur's chastisement. Finally, he broke free, nodded, and stood up. "You've clearly suffered a TBI," he said calmly as he turned to leave. "I'll inform Voght so she can take good care of you and you can be back on your feet soon. I'll see you at work."
The weight of Arthur's sharp judgment didn't leave his retreating form.
"Q," he warned, but there was a real note of concern. "Pull yourself together. You're melting."
"Hmm?" Quentin examined his hand, and nearly gasped at the sight of his skin sloughing off like wax melting from a candle. But the illusion vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he was back to normal. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur, glaring at him, although the older man hadn't moved an inch and was pointedly not looking in his direction anymore. Unnerved, he hastily retreated from the medlab without another word.
***
Beatrice reads to Arthur to help ease him, but Arthur isn’t following her own plot.
The world. He was really tired of the world.
He kept trying to explain.
No one understood.
Everything came back in flashes, cut together like a poorly edited tape. A cut deep and slow, an obsidian knife. Moments blurred and fuzzed. Faces were beginning to ebb and flow together. There was a black hole in him, and it was going to eat everything he had.
Couldn’t they hear him?
“I’m sorry,” Arthur tried again. “I’m tired of being free. I’m lost. I’ve lost myself.”
"You're not lost, Arthur," came the soft reply from the blonde seated beside his bed, book set aside hastily as she sat forward, one hand raised to touch him before she instead folded her hands on her lap.
Her eyes darted to the door, head cocked just a tad. "Are you alright, dear? Shall I get you a doctor?"
His eyes were wild. "Dr. Voght isn't a real person. We can't trust her. Worse off, she won't leave me alone. Won't listen. The problem is in my head, not the rest of it."
And when her eyes met his again, a calm had settled. One brow slowly raised. "Ah, I see. Won't listen? In your head? What's going on that they're not listening about?" Bea's voice remained soft, not breaking eye contact as she spoke.
Those wild eyes settled a little, trapped in her gaze, before they hardened like ice. "Are you real, Beatrice Davis? I don't have to pretend anymore that I don't see it. That's the secret to me, you see. I have to fool everyone. Especially myself."
The back of her neck tingled, and she swallowed thickly. "Of course I'm real, Arthur." And she did raise a hand again, though she set it on the edge of his bed.
"You don't have to fool me, I promise. But I am worried about you. You're hurt and my friend, I like to think. I don't like my friends to be hurt."
He crooked his head. "You're badly written. Sure, you have plenty of layers. A compelling backstory. But you're like those old, long-healed scars under the fresh wounds you had when we met — you gotta make sure those layers of storytelling match from scene to scene when building a character to really sell it. Can't just focus on the new parts."
"We can't help the parts we're given, Arthur Centino. There are worse ones to play and worse partners to play them with, I know," as she spoke, Bea's eyes left his, flicking to the monitor, to watch the readings distantly. “I like to think you understand that.”
"You need a better agent. Don't call mine."
"I won't." Slowly, she retracted her hand, fingers lacing together to stop the slight tremble that had started. "Would you like me to call someone for you? Or . . . is there anything I can do for you? Shall I leave? I don't... I don't think you care for my visit right now, and I . . . I don't want to cause you any discomfort."
"Don't worry," he reassured her. His voice grew in pitch as his mania escalated. "I'm already there. No one understands because it is in my head, and I'm not supposed to put stuff in there. I saw the end of all things. I," and he was pleading now, "I can't close my eyes and not see it again. I need to get rid of it."
"I — it sounds like you've experienced something beyond you, Arthur," Bea reasoned slowly. "If — if you truly feel you that way, when it's not a spur of the moment request, I can take it away. I promise."
"Yes," he answered immediately in a hiss. Arthur was not himself.
"No." An instant recoil, as fear immediately took over. "No, you need to be sure, Arthur. I — I don't know if I can reverse it, I've never tried."
"Haller thinks I'm made of cards. Too unstable."
"Mr. Haller's very smart," Bea offered. "Which is to say, I don't know about unstable, but I don't want to undo any work that may be in your head already, due to your previous experiences with telepathy."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Then what kind of friend are you?"
Then what use are you? A familiar voice asked — against her ear? In her head?
Beatrice stared at Arthur in shock. On her lap, her fingers twisted together as her breath quickened. "Don't say that," she pleaded gently. "Please. I . . . I'll see what I can do? Okay. But you need to talk to Mr. Haller about it first."
He couldn't look at her any longer, but there were plenty of other walls in this room. "Maybe I will call my old agent. Except . . ."
Arthur's face clouded over with confusion at the thought, and his anger evaporated like it had been scrubbed away as the concussion's hold tightened. "Bea, how long have you been here? I'm sorry. I lost myself."
His eyes darted around, trying to get his bearings. "I . . . have a thing in my head. Something I saw. I need to let someone know about it. It is important."
Her breathing slowed, confusion taking over before she offered him a hesitant smile. "Not long, I — Yes, I know. You told me, I'll talk to Haller about it, okay?"
***
Terry tries to get Arthur to eat and he’s confused, but worse? He’s not hungry.
The world was fuzzy.
Arthur took a shallow breath, shutting his eyes against the haze. It didn't help.
There was a sound. He blinked, refocusing, to discover that he had a guest. A blank look crossed his face, and he stared at the figure at his bedside. The room — not his room — came into stark relief. The beep of monitoring equipment was persistent.
A whiteboard with the image of a helpful smile sat immediately opposite the bed. Its grin was wide and overly cheerful, and it made reassurances in a careful hand lettering that reminded him of someone familiar’s precise, careful consideration: "You are okay! It is Wednesday. You are in the medlab. Your powers are still recovering."
"I'm sorry," he offered for what felt like the hundredth time. "I lost myself for a second there."
"Don't you worry yourself," Terry said, speaking quietly. She knew what overextension was like, how fragile it could make a body feel. "I've brought y'your match, though, if you'd like it? And a bit o'breakfast. Just toast with a bit o'butter an' jam, but if you'd like somethin' else, I can get that for you, love." She'd sat the tray on the bedside table and held herself back from reaching for Arthur to hold his hand or touch his arm like she normally would have. With his psychometry coming in over the last year . . . well. She wasn't sure between that and his luck that physical contact would help him in the least. His powers were recovering, but the whiteboard wasn’t generous with the details.
The man in bed blinked. His eyes slowly traced from Terry, to the tray, and then back to her as if he was having trouble registering what she intended. "I'm sorry," he offered again. "I'm not hungry."
Terry fought the urge to call someone from medical and tell them Arthur was dying. He wasn't a huge eater, anyway. It was fine. He was like Shatterstar that way. She'd thought the whole wheat toast might work and if he didn't want the butter then she'd brought his favourite raspberry jam, but.
No, it was fine. He was just still out of sorts. Being sick did that to people.
Smiling, she pulled a chair up next to Arthur's bed and settled herself in it. "Y'don't have t'apologise, love. If you're alright for someone sittin' with you, I'd like to. You just let me know if there's anythin' y'need, aye?"
"I've just . . . I have never been this tired. They say I'm supposed to be improving," Arthur shut his eyes to recenter himself, and the man's features slackened for a moment, and he was very pale where he wasn’t covered in bruises and bandages. A man wrung dry.
When his eyes opened, however, he was extremely confused. He offered the same, bland smile, but it was rough at the edges. Worn. "What? I'm sorry. I lost myself."
Alarmed once more, Terry kept her expression placid. She pulled her phone out to text Jeanie and Amelia about Arthur's confusion and his repetitious speech after a moment with his eyes closed. "I know, love. Just rest a bit more." If he wasn't hungry, he'd need something like an IV or, God forbid, one of those nose tubes she'd seen used in hospitals. Regardless, she'd sit with him and walk him through this however many times. "Sleep'll do y'some good."
"No, no." The word "good" seemed to trigger him. "I can't. She's out there, you see, that girl. She's going after Death. I have to help. I have..."
That was too much for him, and he devolved into a coughing fit as his breath hitched.
Terry sat forward immediately, hesitating again to touch Arthur. Still, his sheets and clothing didn't seem to be bothering his psychometry, so she pulled the blanket from the end of the bed and folded it over her hands before reaching for the glass of water she'd brought on the tray. "Can y'take a sip, love? Just enough to wet your throat. She had no idea who the 'she' was that he was talking about, but Terry took note of it and determined she'd be speaking with... well. Someone about it. "Y'don't need t'worry about Death any longer. He's... Kyle an' the others, they took care o'him."
This pulled Arthur out of his coughing. "Kyle? What happened? They don't know what I . . ."
He shook his head, cutting off his own words. "No, no. They must have won. We’re still here."
"Aye," Terry said, nodding. "It's over an' done, love. You all stopped him in District-X. The people are safe, y'did so well. D'you need your water?"
"District-X. Our work. Is it still standing?"
"Aye," Terry answered again, nodding. "A little rough around the edges, but standin' and proud of't."
"Good," and this finally calmed him. "Good."
Arthur shut his eyes, and was almost immediately back asleep.
Sighing softly, Terry put the glass down and refolded the blanket, keeping it in her lap as she sat back down. She said a silent prayer, hoping for some good luck from something other than Arthur's powers. At least he'd settled. She didn't know how he'd be when he woke up again, but she'd sit with him regardless. No one should be left alone in such a state.
Content warning for all: mental distress, potentially disturbing content
***
Quentin has questions, but Arthur is not entirely himself.
The world was flat and colorless.
In actuality, his world at this moment still consisted of a recovery room in the med lab. Arthur had been moved out of initial observation, and into one of the more liminal private rooms. There were colorful trinkets and flowers arranged to denote a sense of cheer, but Arthur Centino stared fixedly at the wall in front of him. The screens in the room were covered. The only light came from the ever-blinking monitoring equipment.
Why was he here? Arthur made to move, but found himself quickly tangled in a breathing tube and hospital sheets. There was also the pain. The pain made a lot more sense.
"I'm sorrr —" He tried to speak to no one in particular, but his throat was hoarse. Who was he talking to? Was it Marius? Maybe the redheaded child. He'd never gotten her name. "I lost myself for a minute there."
"Stop talking and stay still." The voice seemed to come from nowhere, speaking directly into Arthur's head. Quentin stepped into the room, his Louboutin loafers clacking against the medlab flooring with each step. "It's just me. Do you need anything? Should I get Voght?"
"Oh," came a response in a very small voice.
Arthur was a vision in red as the bruising had begun. A mess of crimson. Soon it would all start to bloom into other colors, but the furthest along was the shape of a hand mark on the man's neck. He had the worst hickey imaginable. One arm was in a split. His chest was covered in bandages.
He sat there like someone cast to be a coma patient. Another role.
"Don't. She won't leave me alone. She's obsessed with me."
"You know, it always sucks to see anyone laid up like this," Quentin mused, setting down the small bouquet and teddy bear with a sash that read I'm beary sorry you're sick before taking the seat near the bed. "But this is especially a bad look on you. Like, you look awful, and your whole deal is supposed to spare you injury like this." He looked down at his hands, folded on his lap. "You're not a fighter, Arthur. Why did you put yourself into that situation?"
"No," and it was still that small, beaten voice. "It was," but the strength in his delivery grew with each new word, "it has always been my choice. I usually choose not to fight. I chose to do it, this time."
"So why did you make the choice to fight? Let the X-Men and X-Force do their damn jobs . . . "
"Why?" The edge in his voice might have been the concussion talking, "You know you’re the first person who has asked? Why did I do it? Why would I risk myself? Why? To save one kid? All of the kids? To save the whole community I've helped build? Quentin, that’s who I am. I help people."
Arthur's eyes hardened, and his expression grew cold as he looked directly at Quentin. His voice was growing hoarse from overuse.
"I know you would have done the same thing."
That cold distance in Arthur's tone set Quentin on edge. He was brought back to last spring when they were tracking down Arthur's salary deposits, and the older man let slip the mask of innocence and vacuousness that kept him on the universe's good side. When the yawning abyss threatened to open and consume everything. Quentin forced his telepathy inwards, hastily building whatever meager shields he could to keep that maw far far away.
But still, Arthur's response shamed him, and he found himself answering honestly, not hiding behind any quip or distraction.
"No, I wouldn't have. I'm too much of a coward for that."
The abyss shifted, and it focused on Quentin Quire.
"I know."
Quentin raised an eyebrow. "Arthur? Careful..."
Where the normal, too polite, Arthur would never dare, this version didn't even flinch.
"You stop that," he practically growled. "We're done with that. I'm free for once. I gave my power away. I'm free, and I can finally say whatever I want."
His fisted hands shook as he tried to pull himself up in the bed. His anger was as sharp and as pointed as one of his throwing knives.
"Quentin Quire, you spend all of your energy making excuses. Someone else's job. Not our responsibility. Yet when it comes down to it, you're there for me and the rest of us. You will stop pretending you're less than who you are. Hiding behind your ego. Guess what? We're all cowards. We all feel bad. There's never a reason to not do everything you can — to take a chance — even if you could get hurt."
The heart rate monitor gave a little beep of alarm.
"I finally get to do whatever I want. I was a coward last time I was free, but now I can actually want things," Arthur sighed. His burst of energy had faded just as abruptly as it had come.
"And right now? I want you to leave. Be better."
Quentin was still for a moment, rooted in his seat by Arthur's chastisement. Finally, he broke free, nodded, and stood up. "You've clearly suffered a TBI," he said calmly as he turned to leave. "I'll inform Voght so she can take good care of you and you can be back on your feet soon. I'll see you at work."
The weight of Arthur's sharp judgment didn't leave his retreating form.
"Q," he warned, but there was a real note of concern. "Pull yourself together. You're melting."
"Hmm?" Quentin examined his hand, and nearly gasped at the sight of his skin sloughing off like wax melting from a candle. But the illusion vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he was back to normal. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur, glaring at him, although the older man hadn't moved an inch and was pointedly not looking in his direction anymore. Unnerved, he hastily retreated from the medlab without another word.
***
Beatrice reads to Arthur to help ease him, but Arthur isn’t following her own plot.
The world. He was really tired of the world.
He kept trying to explain.
No one understood.
Everything came back in flashes, cut together like a poorly edited tape. A cut deep and slow, an obsidian knife. Moments blurred and fuzzed. Faces were beginning to ebb and flow together. There was a black hole in him, and it was going to eat everything he had.
Couldn’t they hear him?
“I’m sorry,” Arthur tried again. “I’m tired of being free. I’m lost. I’ve lost myself.”
"You're not lost, Arthur," came the soft reply from the blonde seated beside his bed, book set aside hastily as she sat forward, one hand raised to touch him before she instead folded her hands on her lap.
Her eyes darted to the door, head cocked just a tad. "Are you alright, dear? Shall I get you a doctor?"
His eyes were wild. "Dr. Voght isn't a real person. We can't trust her. Worse off, she won't leave me alone. Won't listen. The problem is in my head, not the rest of it."
And when her eyes met his again, a calm had settled. One brow slowly raised. "Ah, I see. Won't listen? In your head? What's going on that they're not listening about?" Bea's voice remained soft, not breaking eye contact as she spoke.
Those wild eyes settled a little, trapped in her gaze, before they hardened like ice. "Are you real, Beatrice Davis? I don't have to pretend anymore that I don't see it. That's the secret to me, you see. I have to fool everyone. Especially myself."
The back of her neck tingled, and she swallowed thickly. "Of course I'm real, Arthur." And she did raise a hand again, though she set it on the edge of his bed.
"You don't have to fool me, I promise. But I am worried about you. You're hurt and my friend, I like to think. I don't like my friends to be hurt."
He crooked his head. "You're badly written. Sure, you have plenty of layers. A compelling backstory. But you're like those old, long-healed scars under the fresh wounds you had when we met — you gotta make sure those layers of storytelling match from scene to scene when building a character to really sell it. Can't just focus on the new parts."
"We can't help the parts we're given, Arthur Centino. There are worse ones to play and worse partners to play them with, I know," as she spoke, Bea's eyes left his, flicking to the monitor, to watch the readings distantly. “I like to think you understand that.”
"You need a better agent. Don't call mine."
"I won't." Slowly, she retracted her hand, fingers lacing together to stop the slight tremble that had started. "Would you like me to call someone for you? Or . . . is there anything I can do for you? Shall I leave? I don't... I don't think you care for my visit right now, and I . . . I don't want to cause you any discomfort."
"Don't worry," he reassured her. His voice grew in pitch as his mania escalated. "I'm already there. No one understands because it is in my head, and I'm not supposed to put stuff in there. I saw the end of all things. I," and he was pleading now, "I can't close my eyes and not see it again. I need to get rid of it."
"I — it sounds like you've experienced something beyond you, Arthur," Bea reasoned slowly. "If — if you truly feel you that way, when it's not a spur of the moment request, I can take it away. I promise."
"Yes," he answered immediately in a hiss. Arthur was not himself.
"No." An instant recoil, as fear immediately took over. "No, you need to be sure, Arthur. I — I don't know if I can reverse it, I've never tried."
"Haller thinks I'm made of cards. Too unstable."
"Mr. Haller's very smart," Bea offered. "Which is to say, I don't know about unstable, but I don't want to undo any work that may be in your head already, due to your previous experiences with telepathy."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Then what kind of friend are you?"
Then what use are you? A familiar voice asked — against her ear? In her head?
Beatrice stared at Arthur in shock. On her lap, her fingers twisted together as her breath quickened. "Don't say that," she pleaded gently. "Please. I . . . I'll see what I can do? Okay. But you need to talk to Mr. Haller about it first."
He couldn't look at her any longer, but there were plenty of other walls in this room. "Maybe I will call my old agent. Except . . ."
Arthur's face clouded over with confusion at the thought, and his anger evaporated like it had been scrubbed away as the concussion's hold tightened. "Bea, how long have you been here? I'm sorry. I lost myself."
His eyes darted around, trying to get his bearings. "I . . . have a thing in my head. Something I saw. I need to let someone know about it. It is important."
Her breathing slowed, confusion taking over before she offered him a hesitant smile. "Not long, I — Yes, I know. You told me, I'll talk to Haller about it, okay?"
***
Terry tries to get Arthur to eat and he’s confused, but worse? He’s not hungry.
The world was fuzzy.
Arthur took a shallow breath, shutting his eyes against the haze. It didn't help.
There was a sound. He blinked, refocusing, to discover that he had a guest. A blank look crossed his face, and he stared at the figure at his bedside. The room — not his room — came into stark relief. The beep of monitoring equipment was persistent.
A whiteboard with the image of a helpful smile sat immediately opposite the bed. Its grin was wide and overly cheerful, and it made reassurances in a careful hand lettering that reminded him of someone familiar’s precise, careful consideration: "You are okay! It is Wednesday. You are in the medlab. Your powers are still recovering."
"I'm sorry," he offered for what felt like the hundredth time. "I lost myself for a second there."
"Don't you worry yourself," Terry said, speaking quietly. She knew what overextension was like, how fragile it could make a body feel. "I've brought y'your match, though, if you'd like it? And a bit o'breakfast. Just toast with a bit o'butter an' jam, but if you'd like somethin' else, I can get that for you, love." She'd sat the tray on the bedside table and held herself back from reaching for Arthur to hold his hand or touch his arm like she normally would have. With his psychometry coming in over the last year . . . well. She wasn't sure between that and his luck that physical contact would help him in the least. His powers were recovering, but the whiteboard wasn’t generous with the details.
The man in bed blinked. His eyes slowly traced from Terry, to the tray, and then back to her as if he was having trouble registering what she intended. "I'm sorry," he offered again. "I'm not hungry."
Terry fought the urge to call someone from medical and tell them Arthur was dying. He wasn't a huge eater, anyway. It was fine. He was like Shatterstar that way. She'd thought the whole wheat toast might work and if he didn't want the butter then she'd brought his favourite raspberry jam, but.
No, it was fine. He was just still out of sorts. Being sick did that to people.
Smiling, she pulled a chair up next to Arthur's bed and settled herself in it. "Y'don't have t'apologise, love. If you're alright for someone sittin' with you, I'd like to. You just let me know if there's anythin' y'need, aye?"
"I've just . . . I have never been this tired. They say I'm supposed to be improving," Arthur shut his eyes to recenter himself, and the man's features slackened for a moment, and he was very pale where he wasn’t covered in bruises and bandages. A man wrung dry.
When his eyes opened, however, he was extremely confused. He offered the same, bland smile, but it was rough at the edges. Worn. "What? I'm sorry. I lost myself."
Alarmed once more, Terry kept her expression placid. She pulled her phone out to text Jeanie and Amelia about Arthur's confusion and his repetitious speech after a moment with his eyes closed. "I know, love. Just rest a bit more." If he wasn't hungry, he'd need something like an IV or, God forbid, one of those nose tubes she'd seen used in hospitals. Regardless, she'd sit with him and walk him through this however many times. "Sleep'll do y'some good."
"No, no." The word "good" seemed to trigger him. "I can't. She's out there, you see, that girl. She's going after Death. I have to help. I have..."
That was too much for him, and he devolved into a coughing fit as his breath hitched.
Terry sat forward immediately, hesitating again to touch Arthur. Still, his sheets and clothing didn't seem to be bothering his psychometry, so she pulled the blanket from the end of the bed and folded it over her hands before reaching for the glass of water she'd brought on the tray. "Can y'take a sip, love? Just enough to wet your throat. She had no idea who the 'she' was that he was talking about, but Terry took note of it and determined she'd be speaking with... well. Someone about it. "Y'don't need t'worry about Death any longer. He's... Kyle an' the others, they took care o'him."
This pulled Arthur out of his coughing. "Kyle? What happened? They don't know what I . . ."
He shook his head, cutting off his own words. "No, no. They must have won. We’re still here."
"Aye," Terry said, nodding. "It's over an' done, love. You all stopped him in District-X. The people are safe, y'did so well. D'you need your water?"
"District-X. Our work. Is it still standing?"
"Aye," Terry answered again, nodding. "A little rough around the edges, but standin' and proud of't."
"Good," and this finally calmed him. "Good."
Arthur shut his eyes, and was almost immediately back asleep.
Sighing softly, Terry put the glass down and refolded the blanket, keeping it in her lap as she sat back down. She said a silent prayer, hoping for some good luck from something other than Arthur's powers. At least he'd settled. She didn't know how he'd be when he woke up again, but she'd sit with him regardless. No one should be left alone in such a state.
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Date: 2024-01-10 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-01-11 12:39 am (UTC)