Hollis can hear the voice on the edge of his consciousness long before he surfaces enough to make out what it’s saying. It’s just encouraging noise, praise and reassurance like he might lavish on Phantom, fully aware the old girl doesn’t understand a word he’s saying.
She’s around here, somewhere. Basement maybe; the loud noises of other, aggressive animals have always driven her to ground.
“...okay. It’ll be okay. Just have to hang on for us... just a little longer... oh god, By.”
His eyes slit open carefully. He’d fallen asleep on the job, obviously, but there hasn’t been much that’s needed doing. They’re out of penicillin and the morphine shouldn’t wear off for another few hours, and the armchair he’d dragged over alongside the makeshift operating table had been awfully comfortable. He is, despite common opinion, only human.
“This isn’t fair, is it?” the voice continues on, wobbling and listing left and right. “This isn’t what was supposed to...”
“Bill,” Hollis says, because that’s who it is, braced over the table on one hand, the other combing back through Byron’s sweat-and-blood-soaked hair. The body on the table is unresponsive, passed out. Bill’s out of costume--they all are, obviously--but there’s something of the innocent all-American golden boy still about him in the terribly visible way his heart is breaking.
“How is he?” Bill forces out, a breathy wheeze.
Hollis pushes himself more upright in the armchair. The chair opposite the table is empty; Ursula must have gone off to get some actual sleep. Smart lady. “Mostly the same. Out cold now, but that comes and goes. Not getting worse, anyway.”
“That’s... is that good? I guess that’s good.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
A slow blink, and Hollis has never seen anyone looking so lost. “Should I be?”
“I’d question your sanity if you were.”
A sharp bark of laughter, and nothing is funny.
Hollis watches him for a moment, propped there unsteadily, then gets up from the chair--goes to where the other one is and drags it around to the same side as his own. “Sit down with me here, for a minute?” he says, and then: “Before you fall over?”
He does, after however long it takes him to process the request. They sit in silence for a long moment, watching their teammate not breathe; watching him lie there in state, and only the heat pouring off of him tells them that he’s not gone.
“Bill,” Hollis says, because it’s a syllable he can put between himself and what he has to say next.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
part 3
Date: 2013-05-24 12:19 am (UTC)Hollis can hear the voice on the edge of his consciousness long before he surfaces enough to make out what it’s saying. It’s just encouraging noise, praise and reassurance like he might lavish on Phantom, fully aware the old girl doesn’t understand a word he’s saying.
She’s around here, somewhere. Basement maybe; the loud noises of other, aggressive animals have always driven her to ground.
“...okay. It’ll be okay. Just have to hang on for us... just a little longer... oh god, By.”
His eyes slit open carefully. He’d fallen asleep on the job, obviously, but there hasn’t been much that’s needed doing. They’re out of penicillin and the morphine shouldn’t wear off for another few hours, and the armchair he’d dragged over alongside the makeshift operating table had been awfully comfortable. He is, despite common opinion, only human.
“This isn’t fair, is it?” the voice continues on, wobbling and listing left and right. “This isn’t what was supposed to...”
“Bill,” Hollis says, because that’s who it is, braced over the table on one hand, the other combing back through Byron’s sweat-and-blood-soaked hair. The body on the table is unresponsive, passed out. Bill’s out of costume--they all are, obviously--but there’s something of the innocent all-American golden boy still about him in the terribly visible way his heart is breaking.
“How is he?” Bill forces out, a breathy wheeze.
Hollis pushes himself more upright in the armchair. The chair opposite the table is empty; Ursula must have gone off to get some actual sleep. Smart lady. “Mostly the same. Out cold now, but that comes and goes. Not getting worse, anyway.”
“That’s... is that good? I guess that’s good.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
A slow blink, and Hollis has never seen anyone looking so lost. “Should I be?”
“I’d question your sanity if you were.”
A sharp bark of laughter, and nothing is funny.
Hollis watches him for a moment, propped there unsteadily, then gets up from the chair--goes to where the other one is and drags it around to the same side as his own. “Sit down with me here, for a minute?” he says, and then: “Before you fall over?”
He does, after however long it takes him to process the request. They sit in silence for a long moment, watching their teammate not breathe; watching him lie there in state, and only the heat pouring off of him tells them that he’s not gone.
“Bill,” Hollis says, because it’s a syllable he can put between himself and what he has to say next.
“Mm?”
“...we should have a talk.”
*