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xp_logsAfter Marius’s warning about the side effects of his feeding, the medlab team works to give Arthur an extra dose of healing to offset his reduced recovery.
Content warning: mental distress
***
Warren has his blood drawn for donation by Dr. Jean Grey. Haller tries to keep tensions low.
It was all ready.
A simple procedure, honestly, for what was turning out to be a rather complicated recovery for a typically lucky mansion resident. The tools of the trade were all laid out, lit by the familiar, clinical light of the Medlab: safety needles, butterfly needles, syringes, transfer device, tubes, tourniquets, and antiseptic. It wasn't the act that was complicated. Like anything in life, it was the people involved.
Jim hung back a little awkwardly, feeling like a mediator at the custody hearing for an acrimonious divorce. The tension was especially uncomfortable because only one member of the supervised duo was aware of it.
He'd told Warren he was here for moral support, which was technically true, but perhaps somewhat less accurate than the other reason: human shield.
"Thanks again for doing this," said Jim.
"Obviously. Every part of me is perfect, including my blood. How could I possibly withhold that? And from a friend?" Warren removed his suit jacket and draped it very carefully on the back of his chair. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled his sleeves up and settled into his spot.
"Also Jean, studies show if you kiss a booboo it heals faster, so please keep that in mind when you're bandaging me later. "
Jean appeared unphased as she tied a tourniquet around Warren's arm, swabbed his skin with alcohol, and picked up a needle. "You'll feel a little prick. Just like you," she said with a light smile. Despite her words, she did lance the needle into his skin professionally and with as much care as she could, however. She wasn't a monster.
Watching the needle go in, Jim wished Cecelia had been available for more than just a remote consult; possibly her forcefield could have been attuned to deflect especially pointed comments. Having not been personally wronged by Warren Worthington would also have been a plus.
Being ignored was not enjoyable. Warren watched Jean work in ruthless efficiency and shook his head. "This is not the bedside manner porn promised me."
"Guess it's time to live in reality," Jean said, readying a tube and bag to put the blood into. She rubbed her temple. Damn physician's oath.
"If you start to feel faint or dizzy let me know."
"Reality sucks." He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting out a long suffering sigh. "I'd better get orange juice out of this."
"If it gets Arthur tethered to reality again I'll hand-squeeze it myself," said Jim. He glanced at Jean. "How long does this sort of draw usually take?"
"With this amount of blood...About 10 minutes," Jean said, eying the clock on the wall behind them.
"Seriously, if you start to feel off or faint let me know. I do not want to have any more people in the medlab than I have to. I just got people out."
Warren peeked open an eye. "Are you kidding me? This is the most you've said to me in months. Take as much as you want, I'm in no rush."
Jim raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure what was more impressive: that Jean had managed to avoid Warren for so long, or that Warren had noticed -- and cared.
Jean noticed Jim's expression but didn't say anything, save for briefly meeting his eyes and narrowing hers before looking back to the clock.
"But I am," she said. She'd rather get back to adding up more months in between visits with Warren. If at all.
"We're almost done and you and your perfect everything can get back to slutting up the journals."
"Slutting up?" Warren laughed loudly. " I'm not the one with the harem rumors going around. Everyone knows where I stand and how little clothes I wear while doing it. You're just mad you didn't get it when you could. You're on my 'absolutely not' list now. "
Jim somehow managed to perform that most difficult of reactions: doing a spit-take without a drink.
"As if I wanted to be. That was the whole reason you cheated on me in the first place, remember? I'm either a prude or in a harem, which is it?" Jean said. She leaned forward.
"It must ruffle your feathers that you have no idea where I stand and you have to rely on rumors to try to figure it out."
"I allow room for character development, " Warren retorted back. "And yeah, it does actually. I'd rather truth from the source. And I already apologized for the cheating. Didn't I tell you we'd be terrible together? Or maybe I just thought it really loudly and you ignored me. "
Jean did not expect to have this conversation today. As it stood, it was making her eye start to twitch and blood pressure start to rise. "No. You didn't apologize. You deflected. You said the same thing, just like now. You made our relationship a goddamn self fulfilling prophecy because you thought you'd fuck it up. So you started sleeping around instead of just breaking it off when it got too much for you. That's why I don't talk to you. Because you're an asshole in an overpriced suit who can't even be a grown up and say sorry."
Flame burst into life between them. It was only about the size of a marble and quickly extinguished, but the flash was as emphatic as a referee's whistle. There was a single, harsh clap as Cyndi stepped forward.
"Okay, I'm calling it," said the pyrokinetic. "You guys got beef, I get it, but there's a dude in the other room with literal brain damage who needs Warren's magic juices or whatever, so can we maybe focus here?"
"I don't see how we're off topic here. All my juices are magical, " Warren huffed. He wanted to say more but for once showed restraint and instead muttered to himself about disrespect.
"Arthur appreciates me."
Jean rolled her eyes, then shoved a cookie in Warren's mouth, if only to stop the talking about magic juices. "He's not the only one who seems to have brain damage," she said, removing the needle from his arm before adding a piece of cotton and winding medical tape around it.
"We're done," she said, taking the bag of blood. She walked from the room, leaving only the sound click-clacking high heels in her wake.
Jim, back to the front now that the conflict had been resolved, looked from the departing redhead to the blond man now sulkily regarding a cookie that was no doubt well below his own culinary standards.
Four weeks in a state of catatonia, and somehow that had been the longest ten minutes of his life.
***
Warren visits Arthur after the transfusion is successful, and Arthur shares his worries about healing.
The world came back slowly this time.
This time there wasn't any thrashing, flashbacks, or confusion. He merely blinked.
A white haze of light, soft and gentle, fell over the room. There were familiar landmarks. The side table, the covered over screen, and a newly acquired plush dog. The whiteboard on the easel continued to assure:
"You are okay! This is your room. It is Saturday. Big day today."
There were now other pictures, too, hinting that he'd been here long enough to start a collection. A stick figure with a knife chased a hastily scribbled dog. Another far more realistic portrait of the golden retriever adorned the opposite corner. Scattered hearts of various sizes were pierced with arrows and signed "J + A ". There was what might have been a phone with a single, pointed slash mark through it.
That date. It had only been Wednesday. Where was Ji —
There was a book on the table. That was new. The hardback was navy blue and well worn, but the title was hidden by a post-it note that told him not to read it in truly horrible penmanship. A scrawled "KG" promised they'd get back to it later.
The man remembered something about frantically thumbed messages.
Another blur of emotion caught his attention, and Arthur turned to find he was in the middle of a board game with a familiar face.
"I'm sorry," and he meant it more this time, "I lost myself."
"Welcome back then," Warren responded, rolling his dice. "But no apologies even if it's because you landed on my little guy. I know the game is called Sorry, but it's dumb to say sorry when the point of the game is to demolish."
Playing board games (or any game) with Arthur meant losing perpetually since his powers usually meant he'd win. Warren didn't truly care though because it was quiet time to spend with his friend; that being said, he was not going to miss the opportunity to finally (maybe) win a game.
Sorry was the most chanciest game he could think of.
"Do you think you’ll need more than one transfusion? I'm still pretty pissed off no one thought to ask me to donate right away. I wonder if people think we're not friends."
"You know how it is," came automatically with only a hint of Friday Arthur’s choice toward violence, but his muscle memory for easy conversation was returning easier than breathing.
Breathing. He coughed. That was still an issue.
"If nothing is on fire, folks here think nothing is happening." The man in the bed tried his best to focus on the game, but it felt miles away. "I need what?"
"Transfusion. The one today. I assumed they told you . . . they didn't, did they?" Warren narrowed his eyes.
"Everyone forgets I have healing blood. I have so many good qualities about me, most useless but the one thing that could help . . . " He shook his head.
"Wanna be blood brothers?"
The game has been completely forgotten, and Arthur's eyes looked like they were struggling to keep up with the weight of this conversation. What he eventually settled on was, "that's really generous. Is there someone else who needs it more?"
Another automatic response. A habit.
"Arthur, who cares? You need it. You. You're someone else. Why can't you just think of yourself for once? Channel your inner Warren and take it knowing it is yours for the taking?" He stopped and realized that he was probably overwhelming his friend with his usual muchness and needed to take a step back. "Look. All the reasons that make you such a good friend mean you are a terrible friend to yourself. I consider myself a professional in selfishness, and I can tell that you're on the other side of the spectrum . . . but nothing I say is going to do any good, is it?"
"No," Arthur’s eyes met Warren’s. "You're right. This week I've gotten to live like I did in my old life. Before. I could say whatever I want, feel whatever I want. Warren, I — I think I — scolded Quentin. It made me feel good. Sure, the Medlab isn't the Nobu Malibu, but for once I didn't have to worry about my thoughts. I didn’t have to pretend."
He turned away. "What if I liked it?"
Warren tried not to roll his eyes. "Everyone loves yelling at Q. It's like in my top 10 list of things to do ever. I'm sure he deserved it as well, so if that makes you happy, do it up. I have his cell number, want it?" He looked down at the Sorry board and tilted his head. "Wait, so you used to not be all golden retriever? Were you a chihuahua once?"
"No what," and Arthur's sour attitude was broken by the statement, "I was at least a Weimaraner."
"What the fuck is that? No wait, I'll google." And he did. And then he went "awww oh my god I want one. Why aren't you actually one? Look at its eyes!" He turned his phone around fleetingly before turning it back and texting Bobbi furiously. "I can own a second dog . . . what were we talking about again? Oh right, you being an a-hole. Why can't you just be an a-hole all the time? I don't get it. Everyone has cheat days. Be a dick randomly on like the third Tuesday of the month. Why deny yourself pleasure?"
"They're arrogant jerks," he explained, "My Tannie bred them. Think the world of themselves. Sure, they're pretty and flashy, but no there's no warmth. No love." Arthur's cold tone was laced with resentment. This possibly wasn't about dogs. "Obedient, easy to train. Show dogs. Trophies."
He was staring into another place and evaluating another version of himself.
"I was the star who wouldn't die. The Lucky Devil Longshot, charming and fearless. Did anything I wanted. Turns out that's not how my power works. It takes all of that bad luck, what I should have had, and hurts others if I want things too hard or think about stuff. It's fickle. I had to be mind-wiped constantly for it not to destroy everything." Arthur shut his eyes against the image. "I’ve tried and tried to make up for that, but I wrote a check I’m afraid I can't cash back in District-X. What happens when that comes due?”
“What if,” and he looked down, “I don't want my luck back?"
"So that's how your powers work? I'd always wondered but figured it wasn't appropriate to ask so I never did." Warren tapped his fingers on the table and thought for a moment. "Those are all very valid thoughts, by the way. It sounds exhausting being nice all the time. I mean, you're inherently nice so there's that. I'd die, but that's not a surprise. I wouldn't want to be in your position either. With your . . . weird object psychic stuff, can you just . . . transfer that bad juju to a mirror and make it a cursed object?"
There was a beat as Arthur stared at Warren in an unblinking confusion.
Then, he laughed. It was so good to laugh. He held his cracked ribs against the pain, folding against himself in honest, relieved laughter.
"Warren? Thank you."
Warren looked at him warily. "Are you thanking me because it's a good idea?"
"You have a talent for making the world make sense. I needed that."
"Oh!" Warren puffed up a little bit in his seat. "I have excellent perceptions. People should listen to me more. " He paused for a moment. "I . . . was helpful, right?"
"More than I can tell you," the bed-bound man added softly, but Arthur's mood had noticeably brightened. Like a weight lifted. He still looked like hell, but there was a resolve that hadn't been there since he had woken up. "Afterall, we're going to be blood-brothers. Like Springsteen. Pretty sure that means I have to listen to you."
Warren snorted. "You're my friend, you're exempt from listening to me . . . but before I go, can I beat you at Sorry? Just once?"
That got a real smile. "I might have lost my luck, but you're going to need more than that to win."
***
Sam comes to visit Arthur sometime after the transfusion. Arthur confesses some of what’s been haunting him.
The world was white.
The man in the bed woke with a shallow gasp, his muscles seizing in remembered pain. His face was burning. His eye was a supernova. Arthur reached up, hand clawing toward his left eye. But, no. There was no heat. There was no power.
Not yet.
He sighed as deep as he could, only now realizing he had a visitor. The man turned, features painted with confusion. How long had he had a visitor? How long had it been since the transfusion?
"I'm sorry," he offered again. "I lost myself for a second there. I’m out of my head."
“‘S all good.” Sam said quietly, smiling at Arthur gently. He gestured to his shoulder, a bit of burn scar visible peeking out from under the sleeve of his tee shirt. “I get it. How’re you holdin’ up?”
The scrutinizing look didn't leave Arthur's face. He was pretty sure he knew this young man. But as Arthur studied Sam, his apprehension melted away.
"I've been better. I took a look at something I shouldn't." It was a confession as freely given as admitteding he'd forgotten something at the supermarket. Apologies were second nature by this point. "I stretched myself too far."
None of this accounted for the cast or the colorful litany of bruises — the worst of all around Arthur's neck. They were already looking better.
Sam nodded. “I ain’t gonna say you look like shit — but I will say I can see you’ve been better . . . I’m glad you’re alright. Was worryin’ bout you.”
"I'm touched." The softness in his voice underscored this point, and Arthur made sure that he was making direct eye contact with the kid in front of him. "I could say the same about you though," he smiled through the words, "I'm sorry about what happened to your family. I hope you aren't too tired of hearing that. I never had any siblings — growing up was just me, mamma, and pappa. Tell me about them?"
His smile broadened. "I could use some stories. You see, they took my phone."
Sam shrugged. “You oughta see the other guys. But uh . . . my one sister, Joelle, she’s mad at me for leavin’ home now but when she was little, god she wanted this Easter dress in a store in town somethin’ awful but we couldn’t afford it. So I picked up some extra shifts at the mine and one of my baseball teammates gave me the last five dollars to buy it. And she was so excited she wore it to school and lost a button at recess and just lost it. I’m talkin’ full on water works. A couple of my teammates and I looked all over the playground till we found it and I could sew it back on for her and she made us all flower crowns as a thank you. I miss her somethin’ awful.”.
Arthur had a far away look like he was picturing this scene in full, cinematic detail. "That's lovely, Sam. Is she still back home?"
“Yeah, she’s fifteen now. Crazy to think she’s gotten so big. An’ my brother Jeb still won’t wear his glasses but he loooved the comic books I got him for his birthday. Cissie and Lewis survived their first semester of middle school. And Liz is gonna be in the top ten of her graduating class I’m sure of it. An’ Mel . . . she’ll be visitin here soon . . . We’ll see how that goes . . .”
Sam sighed. “Anyhow I’m glad you’re alright, anything I can get ya and bring by later?”
"I haven't talked to my family in over ten years," was the answer he got. Arthur's gaze was drifting again, staring back at the covered window.
“I uh — prolly ain’t the person to do it, but if you’d want someone to reach out to ‘em for ya . . .” Sam trailed off. This could be dangerous territory.
"I wasn't the same after . . . " He was now fully adrift, lost in a haze. "When I first died. I shouldn’t have made it off that train, years ago. They don't tell you that you can already be dead and still walking around. That made it easier, you know? That Horseman couldn't scare me. I've been dead for years."
You can already be dead and still walking around.
Sam blinked and followed Arthur's gaze to the covered window. The curtains reminded him of his Mamaw's house.
They reminded him of divine death.
"Arthur." Sam said gently. "What . . . what exactly did you see?"
The other man didn't turn back. "The end of all choices. It was nothing, Sam. Nothing, forever."
Sam thought of walking down into the mine. The end of all choices.
He thought of the darkness of the rocks caving in around him. It was nothing, Sam.
Mamaw said God can be killt.
He thought of his old fervent prayers that his Daddy would be one of those spectral spectators the old folks talked about. That he'd look after him down in the mines.
He remembers Lewis' face, torn up in pain. Nothing, forever.
"Yeah." Sam said. "I think I'm familiar with that."
Arthur's expression softened like it was good to have someone understand. At some point in the story he had refocused Sam, and what he saw took the edges off his earlier distress.
"Thanks for getting it."
There might have been more, but Arthur was soon quietly asleep.
Sam reached out and squeezed Arthur’s hand, waiting to be sure that the other man was fully asleep before he left.
As he reached the doorway, Sam looked back at Arthur and whispered. “I’m sorry that you do.”
Content warning: mental distress
***
Warren has his blood drawn for donation by Dr. Jean Grey. Haller tries to keep tensions low.
It was all ready.
A simple procedure, honestly, for what was turning out to be a rather complicated recovery for a typically lucky mansion resident. The tools of the trade were all laid out, lit by the familiar, clinical light of the Medlab: safety needles, butterfly needles, syringes, transfer device, tubes, tourniquets, and antiseptic. It wasn't the act that was complicated. Like anything in life, it was the people involved.
Jim hung back a little awkwardly, feeling like a mediator at the custody hearing for an acrimonious divorce. The tension was especially uncomfortable because only one member of the supervised duo was aware of it.
He'd told Warren he was here for moral support, which was technically true, but perhaps somewhat less accurate than the other reason: human shield.
"Thanks again for doing this," said Jim.
"Obviously. Every part of me is perfect, including my blood. How could I possibly withhold that? And from a friend?" Warren removed his suit jacket and draped it very carefully on the back of his chair. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled his sleeves up and settled into his spot.
"Also Jean, studies show if you kiss a booboo it heals faster, so please keep that in mind when you're bandaging me later. "
Jean appeared unphased as she tied a tourniquet around Warren's arm, swabbed his skin with alcohol, and picked up a needle. "You'll feel a little prick. Just like you," she said with a light smile. Despite her words, she did lance the needle into his skin professionally and with as much care as she could, however. She wasn't a monster.
Watching the needle go in, Jim wished Cecelia had been available for more than just a remote consult; possibly her forcefield could have been attuned to deflect especially pointed comments. Having not been personally wronged by Warren Worthington would also have been a plus.
Being ignored was not enjoyable. Warren watched Jean work in ruthless efficiency and shook his head. "This is not the bedside manner porn promised me."
"Guess it's time to live in reality," Jean said, readying a tube and bag to put the blood into. She rubbed her temple. Damn physician's oath.
"If you start to feel faint or dizzy let me know."
"Reality sucks." He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting out a long suffering sigh. "I'd better get orange juice out of this."
"If it gets Arthur tethered to reality again I'll hand-squeeze it myself," said Jim. He glanced at Jean. "How long does this sort of draw usually take?"
"With this amount of blood...About 10 minutes," Jean said, eying the clock on the wall behind them.
"Seriously, if you start to feel off or faint let me know. I do not want to have any more people in the medlab than I have to. I just got people out."
Warren peeked open an eye. "Are you kidding me? This is the most you've said to me in months. Take as much as you want, I'm in no rush."
Jim raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure what was more impressive: that Jean had managed to avoid Warren for so long, or that Warren had noticed -- and cared.
Jean noticed Jim's expression but didn't say anything, save for briefly meeting his eyes and narrowing hers before looking back to the clock.
"But I am," she said. She'd rather get back to adding up more months in between visits with Warren. If at all.
"We're almost done and you and your perfect everything can get back to slutting up the journals."
"Slutting up?" Warren laughed loudly. " I'm not the one with the harem rumors going around. Everyone knows where I stand and how little clothes I wear while doing it. You're just mad you didn't get it when you could. You're on my 'absolutely not' list now. "
Jim somehow managed to perform that most difficult of reactions: doing a spit-take without a drink.
"As if I wanted to be. That was the whole reason you cheated on me in the first place, remember? I'm either a prude or in a harem, which is it?" Jean said. She leaned forward.
"It must ruffle your feathers that you have no idea where I stand and you have to rely on rumors to try to figure it out."
"I allow room for character development, " Warren retorted back. "And yeah, it does actually. I'd rather truth from the source. And I already apologized for the cheating. Didn't I tell you we'd be terrible together? Or maybe I just thought it really loudly and you ignored me. "
Jean did not expect to have this conversation today. As it stood, it was making her eye start to twitch and blood pressure start to rise. "No. You didn't apologize. You deflected. You said the same thing, just like now. You made our relationship a goddamn self fulfilling prophecy because you thought you'd fuck it up. So you started sleeping around instead of just breaking it off when it got too much for you. That's why I don't talk to you. Because you're an asshole in an overpriced suit who can't even be a grown up and say sorry."
Flame burst into life between them. It was only about the size of a marble and quickly extinguished, but the flash was as emphatic as a referee's whistle. There was a single, harsh clap as Cyndi stepped forward.
"Okay, I'm calling it," said the pyrokinetic. "You guys got beef, I get it, but there's a dude in the other room with literal brain damage who needs Warren's magic juices or whatever, so can we maybe focus here?"
"I don't see how we're off topic here. All my juices are magical, " Warren huffed. He wanted to say more but for once showed restraint and instead muttered to himself about disrespect.
"Arthur appreciates me."
Jean rolled her eyes, then shoved a cookie in Warren's mouth, if only to stop the talking about magic juices. "He's not the only one who seems to have brain damage," she said, removing the needle from his arm before adding a piece of cotton and winding medical tape around it.
"We're done," she said, taking the bag of blood. She walked from the room, leaving only the sound click-clacking high heels in her wake.
Jim, back to the front now that the conflict had been resolved, looked from the departing redhead to the blond man now sulkily regarding a cookie that was no doubt well below his own culinary standards.
Four weeks in a state of catatonia, and somehow that had been the longest ten minutes of his life.
***
Warren visits Arthur after the transfusion is successful, and Arthur shares his worries about healing.
The world came back slowly this time.
This time there wasn't any thrashing, flashbacks, or confusion. He merely blinked.
A white haze of light, soft and gentle, fell over the room. There were familiar landmarks. The side table, the covered over screen, and a newly acquired plush dog. The whiteboard on the easel continued to assure:
"You are okay! This is your room. It is Saturday. Big day today."
There were now other pictures, too, hinting that he'd been here long enough to start a collection. A stick figure with a knife chased a hastily scribbled dog. Another far more realistic portrait of the golden retriever adorned the opposite corner. Scattered hearts of various sizes were pierced with arrows and signed "J + A ". There was what might have been a phone with a single, pointed slash mark through it.
That date. It had only been Wednesday. Where was Ji —
There was a book on the table. That was new. The hardback was navy blue and well worn, but the title was hidden by a post-it note that told him not to read it in truly horrible penmanship. A scrawled "KG" promised they'd get back to it later.
The man remembered something about frantically thumbed messages.
Another blur of emotion caught his attention, and Arthur turned to find he was in the middle of a board game with a familiar face.
"I'm sorry," and he meant it more this time, "I lost myself."
"Welcome back then," Warren responded, rolling his dice. "But no apologies even if it's because you landed on my little guy. I know the game is called Sorry, but it's dumb to say sorry when the point of the game is to demolish."
Playing board games (or any game) with Arthur meant losing perpetually since his powers usually meant he'd win. Warren didn't truly care though because it was quiet time to spend with his friend; that being said, he was not going to miss the opportunity to finally (maybe) win a game.
Sorry was the most chanciest game he could think of.
"Do you think you’ll need more than one transfusion? I'm still pretty pissed off no one thought to ask me to donate right away. I wonder if people think we're not friends."
"You know how it is," came automatically with only a hint of Friday Arthur’s choice toward violence, but his muscle memory for easy conversation was returning easier than breathing.
Breathing. He coughed. That was still an issue.
"If nothing is on fire, folks here think nothing is happening." The man in the bed tried his best to focus on the game, but it felt miles away. "I need what?"
"Transfusion. The one today. I assumed they told you . . . they didn't, did they?" Warren narrowed his eyes.
"Everyone forgets I have healing blood. I have so many good qualities about me, most useless but the one thing that could help . . . " He shook his head.
"Wanna be blood brothers?"
The game has been completely forgotten, and Arthur's eyes looked like they were struggling to keep up with the weight of this conversation. What he eventually settled on was, "that's really generous. Is there someone else who needs it more?"
Another automatic response. A habit.
"Arthur, who cares? You need it. You. You're someone else. Why can't you just think of yourself for once? Channel your inner Warren and take it knowing it is yours for the taking?" He stopped and realized that he was probably overwhelming his friend with his usual muchness and needed to take a step back. "Look. All the reasons that make you such a good friend mean you are a terrible friend to yourself. I consider myself a professional in selfishness, and I can tell that you're on the other side of the spectrum . . . but nothing I say is going to do any good, is it?"
"No," Arthur’s eyes met Warren’s. "You're right. This week I've gotten to live like I did in my old life. Before. I could say whatever I want, feel whatever I want. Warren, I — I think I — scolded Quentin. It made me feel good. Sure, the Medlab isn't the Nobu Malibu, but for once I didn't have to worry about my thoughts. I didn’t have to pretend."
He turned away. "What if I liked it?"
Warren tried not to roll his eyes. "Everyone loves yelling at Q. It's like in my top 10 list of things to do ever. I'm sure he deserved it as well, so if that makes you happy, do it up. I have his cell number, want it?" He looked down at the Sorry board and tilted his head. "Wait, so you used to not be all golden retriever? Were you a chihuahua once?"
"No what," and Arthur's sour attitude was broken by the statement, "I was at least a Weimaraner."
"What the fuck is that? No wait, I'll google." And he did. And then he went "awww oh my god I want one. Why aren't you actually one? Look at its eyes!" He turned his phone around fleetingly before turning it back and texting Bobbi furiously. "I can own a second dog . . . what were we talking about again? Oh right, you being an a-hole. Why can't you just be an a-hole all the time? I don't get it. Everyone has cheat days. Be a dick randomly on like the third Tuesday of the month. Why deny yourself pleasure?"
"They're arrogant jerks," he explained, "My Tannie bred them. Think the world of themselves. Sure, they're pretty and flashy, but no there's no warmth. No love." Arthur's cold tone was laced with resentment. This possibly wasn't about dogs. "Obedient, easy to train. Show dogs. Trophies."
He was staring into another place and evaluating another version of himself.
"I was the star who wouldn't die. The Lucky Devil Longshot, charming and fearless. Did anything I wanted. Turns out that's not how my power works. It takes all of that bad luck, what I should have had, and hurts others if I want things too hard or think about stuff. It's fickle. I had to be mind-wiped constantly for it not to destroy everything." Arthur shut his eyes against the image. "I’ve tried and tried to make up for that, but I wrote a check I’m afraid I can't cash back in District-X. What happens when that comes due?”
“What if,” and he looked down, “I don't want my luck back?"
"So that's how your powers work? I'd always wondered but figured it wasn't appropriate to ask so I never did." Warren tapped his fingers on the table and thought for a moment. "Those are all very valid thoughts, by the way. It sounds exhausting being nice all the time. I mean, you're inherently nice so there's that. I'd die, but that's not a surprise. I wouldn't want to be in your position either. With your . . . weird object psychic stuff, can you just . . . transfer that bad juju to a mirror and make it a cursed object?"
There was a beat as Arthur stared at Warren in an unblinking confusion.
Then, he laughed. It was so good to laugh. He held his cracked ribs against the pain, folding against himself in honest, relieved laughter.
"Warren? Thank you."
Warren looked at him warily. "Are you thanking me because it's a good idea?"
"You have a talent for making the world make sense. I needed that."
"Oh!" Warren puffed up a little bit in his seat. "I have excellent perceptions. People should listen to me more. " He paused for a moment. "I . . . was helpful, right?"
"More than I can tell you," the bed-bound man added softly, but Arthur's mood had noticeably brightened. Like a weight lifted. He still looked like hell, but there was a resolve that hadn't been there since he had woken up. "Afterall, we're going to be blood-brothers. Like Springsteen. Pretty sure that means I have to listen to you."
Warren snorted. "You're my friend, you're exempt from listening to me . . . but before I go, can I beat you at Sorry? Just once?"
That got a real smile. "I might have lost my luck, but you're going to need more than that to win."
***
Sam comes to visit Arthur sometime after the transfusion. Arthur confesses some of what’s been haunting him.
The world was white.
The man in the bed woke with a shallow gasp, his muscles seizing in remembered pain. His face was burning. His eye was a supernova. Arthur reached up, hand clawing toward his left eye. But, no. There was no heat. There was no power.
Not yet.
He sighed as deep as he could, only now realizing he had a visitor. The man turned, features painted with confusion. How long had he had a visitor? How long had it been since the transfusion?
"I'm sorry," he offered again. "I lost myself for a second there. I’m out of my head."
“‘S all good.” Sam said quietly, smiling at Arthur gently. He gestured to his shoulder, a bit of burn scar visible peeking out from under the sleeve of his tee shirt. “I get it. How’re you holdin’ up?”
The scrutinizing look didn't leave Arthur's face. He was pretty sure he knew this young man. But as Arthur studied Sam, his apprehension melted away.
"I've been better. I took a look at something I shouldn't." It was a confession as freely given as admitteding he'd forgotten something at the supermarket. Apologies were second nature by this point. "I stretched myself too far."
None of this accounted for the cast or the colorful litany of bruises — the worst of all around Arthur's neck. They were already looking better.
Sam nodded. “I ain’t gonna say you look like shit — but I will say I can see you’ve been better . . . I’m glad you’re alright. Was worryin’ bout you.”
"I'm touched." The softness in his voice underscored this point, and Arthur made sure that he was making direct eye contact with the kid in front of him. "I could say the same about you though," he smiled through the words, "I'm sorry about what happened to your family. I hope you aren't too tired of hearing that. I never had any siblings — growing up was just me, mamma, and pappa. Tell me about them?"
His smile broadened. "I could use some stories. You see, they took my phone."
Sam shrugged. “You oughta see the other guys. But uh . . . my one sister, Joelle, she’s mad at me for leavin’ home now but when she was little, god she wanted this Easter dress in a store in town somethin’ awful but we couldn’t afford it. So I picked up some extra shifts at the mine and one of my baseball teammates gave me the last five dollars to buy it. And she was so excited she wore it to school and lost a button at recess and just lost it. I’m talkin’ full on water works. A couple of my teammates and I looked all over the playground till we found it and I could sew it back on for her and she made us all flower crowns as a thank you. I miss her somethin’ awful.”.
Arthur had a far away look like he was picturing this scene in full, cinematic detail. "That's lovely, Sam. Is she still back home?"
“Yeah, she’s fifteen now. Crazy to think she’s gotten so big. An’ my brother Jeb still won’t wear his glasses but he loooved the comic books I got him for his birthday. Cissie and Lewis survived their first semester of middle school. And Liz is gonna be in the top ten of her graduating class I’m sure of it. An’ Mel . . . she’ll be visitin here soon . . . We’ll see how that goes . . .”
Sam sighed. “Anyhow I’m glad you’re alright, anything I can get ya and bring by later?”
"I haven't talked to my family in over ten years," was the answer he got. Arthur's gaze was drifting again, staring back at the covered window.
“I uh — prolly ain’t the person to do it, but if you’d want someone to reach out to ‘em for ya . . .” Sam trailed off. This could be dangerous territory.
"I wasn't the same after . . . " He was now fully adrift, lost in a haze. "When I first died. I shouldn’t have made it off that train, years ago. They don't tell you that you can already be dead and still walking around. That made it easier, you know? That Horseman couldn't scare me. I've been dead for years."
You can already be dead and still walking around.
Sam blinked and followed Arthur's gaze to the covered window. The curtains reminded him of his Mamaw's house.
They reminded him of divine death.
Sam had finished helping Mamaw put the babies to bed and do the dishes and was finally going to bed himself. He and Jay shared a bed even at Mamaw and Papaw’s but something was different tonight. Jay didn’t seem quite right. Jay was tossing and turning under the quilt and kept looking to Baby 'Elle's crib and then up to the ceiling. Finally he shook at Sam's arm.
"Sammy?" he whispered, not quite truly quiet. "Mamaw said God can be killt."
Sam closed his eyes and did his best not to look annoyed. Jay was more religious than him. He had to remember that Jay cared about if God could die. “Yeah, so he can, accordin’ to Mamaw and the old folks. An’ they know pert near everythin’.”
"Does he come back after three days like Jesus?" Jay asked, moving to lay his head against Sam's chest. Even with the hall light still on while Papaw finished up in the bathroom, it was dark enough to not see Sam's face.
"D'ya reckon?" “Accordin’ to the old folks he just…. Dies.” Sam said carefully. “I don’t really understand it, Jay.”
Jay went quiet before screwing up his face and saying a little prayer to protect God too, just in case, under his breath. He went quiet for a while, enough that he might have started to falling asleep before shaking Sam again. "Sammy?"
"Yeah Joshie?"
"Does that mean the devil can be killt too?"
“Yeah. The way they say it all divinity can be killt.”
"Oh." Jay nodded his head against Sam's chest and went quiet for the rest of the night.
"Arthur." Sam said gently. "What . . . what exactly did you see?"
The other man didn't turn back. "The end of all choices. It was nothing, Sam. Nothing, forever."
Sam thought of walking down into the mine. The end of all choices.
He thought of the darkness of the rocks caving in around him. It was nothing, Sam.
Mamaw said God can be killt.
He thought of his old fervent prayers that his Daddy would be one of those spectral spectators the old folks talked about. That he'd look after him down in the mines.
He remembers Lewis' face, torn up in pain. Nothing, forever.
"Yeah." Sam said. "I think I'm familiar with that."
Arthur's expression softened like it was good to have someone understand. At some point in the story he had refocused Sam, and what he saw took the edges off his earlier distress.
"Thanks for getting it."
There might have been more, but Arthur was soon quietly asleep.
Sam reached out and squeezed Arthur’s hand, waiting to be sure that the other man was fully asleep before he left.
As he reached the doorway, Sam looked back at Arthur and whispered. “I’m sorry that you do.”
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Date: 2024-01-13 03:20 pm (UTC)Also I loved being part of this so much
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Date: 2024-01-13 03:33 pm (UTC)Love the theological turn it took with Sam as well. Sam bringing his very grounded experiences with family and culture into an environment like the mansion is such a nice contrast.
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Date: 2024-01-13 04:49 pm (UTC)These logs were so good, guys. From Warren showing his entire range of asshole to non-asshole to digging into the horror of Arthur's powers and what they've done to his free will to connecting Sam's experiences to the Apocalypse lore from PH - god damn, you guys are so fucking good.
Also, bonus points for the Cyndi appearance; Cyndi deserves everything.
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Date: 2024-01-13 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-01-13 05:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-01-13 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-01-13 09:04 pm (UTC)