“You’re gonna knock me over in a minute here,” Bill says after a moment, low enough to be just between them, joking. Trying to joke. “Heavier than you look,” he says, and Byron laughs again, and it sounds strange but also like it always has, with that sharp edge aimed inward. His hair is still a filthy mess, hanging between them in blood-stickied hanks, and Bill combs it back once with his fingers, steadies him back in the chair.
Moment passed, the scene unfreezes; Ursula goes back to poking and prodding at Byron’s bandages, not ungently but not with a healer’s touch either. Hollis is unreadable--he’s smiling like he’s happy but also like he’s overwhelmed, expression a little glazed.
“This hasn’t healed at all,” Ursula says, peeling back the dressing on Byron’s forearm, peering under it. They’ve thrown a bathrobe over the worst of it, a mess of badly-fitting maroon terrycloth. “How are you even moving your hand?”
“Same way he was when he was tied to the table,” Hollis says, pulling from the bottle.
Bill frowns, pulls up an empty chair of his own, turns it to sit in it reversed, leaning on the back.
“Why was I tied down? Someone getting a little--” Byron asks, and then flinches, because Ursula’s peeling away the bandage on his neck now and Bill has to think happy thoughts, happy thoughts, because it’s been flayed right down to the jugular and he didn’t really need to see that on anyone, much less a friend.
“What?” she asks, “Did that hurt?”
He bats at her hands, and one of his fingers is gone. “No, just, if I need a physical,” he says, grinning halfway again, “Can’t we get Dawn in here instead? You’re good at a lot of things, Urs, but bedside manner’s not one of ‘em.”
It’s like the temperature in the room drops ten degrees; Bill can feel his stomach drop out. No one says a word, though Ursula turns away, expression brittle and determined.
“...what?” Byron eventually asks, though it should be obvious, is obvious.
Hollis considers the label on the bottle he’s holding; has been peeling it away in little strips. “Dawn’s missing,” he answers without looking up. “Last heard from... what, two da--”
“Three days,” Ursula says, with the steadiness of careful, necessary control. “Not since all of this started.”
“...oh,” Byron says.
“And you were tied up because if you hadn’t been,” Hollis continues, “you would have killed all of us.”
“......oh.”
Hollis pushes up from the table, goes to the fridge for another beer; they can hear glass clinking too loudly, too carelessly.
“Edward’s going to be upset,” Ursula says, “if you take more than your ration.”
“‘Edward’ is hiding so he doesn’t have to deal with anything. Cowards don’t get beer.” Hollis’s voice sounds hollow, echoing out of the coldbox’s bare interior. “What do you say, Byron? Feel up to a Schlitz?”
“I’m... not sure I should. Thinking about eating or drinking anything feels... weird.”
“Let’s give it a try and find out, then,” Hollis says, a little strained, and two bottles drop onto the table. Ursula’s gone quietly back to her investigations, probing at his neck again; this time he tolerates it silently, picking up the open bottle in his free hand.
The normality of it hits Bill suddenly: they are back at HQ after a hard fight, after near-misses and near-losses, having a few drinks to celebrate pulling victory once more from the jaws of defeat. Maybe that’s what Hollis needed, but Ursula’s cold professionalism is a front and Byron grimaces at the taste of the beer, mutilated face scrunching up, and this is no Saturday Evening Post cover.
“...doesn’t taste like it used to,” Byron mutters, “but the fizzy’s good at least.”
We thought we were going to lose you, Bill wants to say; he rubs one hand over his face instead.
“Kinda clears the gunk out,” Byron says, looking down the bottle’s mouth like it’s the barrel of a gun.
part 9
“You’re gonna knock me over in a minute here,” Bill says after a moment, low enough to be just between them, joking. Trying to joke. “Heavier than you look,” he says, and Byron laughs again, and it sounds strange but also like it always has, with that sharp edge aimed inward. His hair is still a filthy mess, hanging between them in blood-stickied hanks, and Bill combs it back once with his fingers, steadies him back in the chair.
Moment passed, the scene unfreezes; Ursula goes back to poking and prodding at Byron’s bandages, not ungently but not with a healer’s touch either. Hollis is unreadable--he’s smiling like he’s happy but also like he’s overwhelmed, expression a little glazed.
“This hasn’t healed at all,” Ursula says, peeling back the dressing on Byron’s forearm, peering under it. They’ve thrown a bathrobe over the worst of it, a mess of badly-fitting maroon terrycloth. “How are you even moving your hand?”
“Same way he was when he was tied to the table,” Hollis says, pulling from the bottle.
Bill frowns, pulls up an empty chair of his own, turns it to sit in it reversed, leaning on the back.
“Why was I tied down? Someone getting a little--” Byron asks, and then flinches, because Ursula’s peeling away the bandage on his neck now and Bill has to think happy thoughts, happy thoughts, because it’s been flayed right down to the jugular and he didn’t really need to see that on anyone, much less a friend.
“What?” she asks, “Did that hurt?”
He bats at her hands, and one of his fingers is gone. “No, just, if I need a physical,” he says, grinning halfway again, “Can’t we get Dawn in here instead? You’re good at a lot of things, Urs, but bedside manner’s not one of ‘em.”
It’s like the temperature in the room drops ten degrees; Bill can feel his stomach drop out. No one says a word, though Ursula turns away, expression brittle and determined.
“...what?” Byron eventually asks, though it should be obvious, is obvious.
Hollis considers the label on the bottle he’s holding; has been peeling it away in little strips. “Dawn’s missing,” he answers without looking up. “Last heard from... what, two da--”
“Three days,” Ursula says, with the steadiness of careful, necessary control. “Not since all of this started.”
“...oh,” Byron says.
“And you were tied up because if you hadn’t been,” Hollis continues, “you would have killed all of us.”
“......oh.”
Hollis pushes up from the table, goes to the fridge for another beer; they can hear glass clinking too loudly, too carelessly.
“Edward’s going to be upset,” Ursula says, “if you take more than your ration.”
“‘Edward’ is hiding so he doesn’t have to deal with anything. Cowards don’t get beer.” Hollis’s voice sounds hollow, echoing out of the coldbox’s bare interior. “What do you say, Byron? Feel up to a Schlitz?”
“I’m... not sure I should. Thinking about eating or drinking anything feels... weird.”
“Let’s give it a try and find out, then,” Hollis says, a little strained, and two bottles drop onto the table. Ursula’s gone quietly back to her investigations, probing at his neck again; this time he tolerates it silently, picking up the open bottle in his free hand.
The normality of it hits Bill suddenly: they are back at HQ after a hard fight, after near-misses and near-losses, having a few drinks to celebrate pulling victory once more from the jaws of defeat. Maybe that’s what Hollis needed, but Ursula’s cold professionalism is a front and Byron grimaces at the taste of the beer, mutilated face scrunching up, and this is no Saturday Evening Post cover.
“...doesn’t taste like it used to,” Byron mutters, “but the fizzy’s good at least.”
We thought we were going to lose you, Bill wants to say; he rubs one hand over his face instead.
“Kinda clears the gunk out,” Byron says, looking down the bottle’s mouth like it’s the barrel of a gun.
*