miraclewhip | (for cryptsleeper)

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(for cryptsleeper)

[ He remembers- maybe about half of what happened last night. A little more, perhaps. He remembers the comments that initiated the fight. Vaguely remembers being dragged back to the inn. Remembers throwing cold water on his face to wake himself up to do the terrible fucking job of stitching himself back up that he found himself with this morning (if there was ever a chance to keep that fucking cut from scarring, well, he's gone and botched it).

And he remembers telling the fucking vampire things that he probably should not have told the fucking vampire. He doesn't remember the specifics but he knows that he said too much. More than he's told anyone in a decade maybe. All for the sake of a petty victory that he doesn't even remember if he achieved.

He's uncharacteristically quiet today, even for being as hungover as he is. He forces the almost-solid porridge down his throat when it's pushed in front of him. He drinks half the water that he was using to wash himself last night and pours the other half over his head to wake himself up after maybe an hour of sleep. He only interrupts Sypha's long, long 'discussion' when she stares at him for an indication that he's still awake. It's after that that he's dismissed to the back of the wagon, either because Sypha can't stand his presence right now or because she doesn't trust him not to fall off and end up tangled under its wheels.

(Can't blame her, being tangled up under the wheels of a wagon sounds better than being in his own head right now, even without the throbbing pain.)

He doesn't sleep, mostly because he's been told not to and he is, even more uncharacteristically, on his best behavior right now. The day is mostly uneventful until sometime in the afternoon, when a particularly foolish highwayman sees a wagon driven by a single speaker woman and tries to take advantage of the situation. He's driven off within moments, of course, harmlessly to both them and himself, and the worst that happens is that the horses are startled by Sypha's display and the wagon lurches to one side, knocking Trevor onto his side against the wooden floor. It's only after everything has been confirmed okay, once the horses are calm and they're moving again, that he places a hand to his lower chest. ]

Fuck.

[ It's warm. And damp. He's gone and opened his shitty stitches, hasn't he? ]

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[ Just by looking, it's probably hard to tell. Mostly because there's not yet been a good chance for him to wash and repair his shirt and so any new bloodstains are hidden by the old ones. But his hand comes away red. ]

Shit. Yes.

[ He breathes in deeply and slowly through his teeth, staring up at the top of the wagon in what appears to be an attempt to control himself. And also says something that, while barely intelligible, is definitely another curse under his breath, bringing the total amount of words he's said in a row to three. Which is the most he's said all day. ]

[Good. Fantastic. Brilliant. Alucard's just relieved that Trevor's decided to be forthright about the wound opening again. Immediately Alucard tugs out the bag that he has been using as lumbar support up until now, only one question on his mind.]

Where did you put the needle from last night? Thread?

[As bad as last night's drunken conversation was, there's one clear takeaway in this moment: Trevor is not allowed to stitch himself up again. Full stop.]

[ Rude. He usually does a better job of it. It's hardly his fault if his hands shake when he's angry. ]

Sewing kit. Mine's in my pack. [ A pause, and then- ] Bring it here, I'll get the thread. Don't go snooping around in there.

[Alucard gives the one second finger, and digs around to find where Trevor's bag is. The smell is the giveaway, and within moments, it's been placed next to him.]

I have zero desire to encounter what's in there, I assure you.

[But Alucard's eyes aren't moving from Trevor either. He's all too ready to snatch the supplies if need be.]

Trust me, you truly don't.

[ There's the rather damning sound of bottles clinking against each other as the bag moves, but Trevor does simply remove a leather pouch of needles - some for clothing, some for skin. He takes a curved bone needle and a bobbin wound with thin twine and sets about trying to thread the damn thing.

...Alucard will, indeed, need to snatch them. ]

[At all of the clanking, Alucard can only exhale. Of course. Why is he surprised.

But the second the bone needle is out, Alucard's happy to use every ounce of vampire speed to snatch it away before Trevor can even consider where on the wound to even start.]

Absolutely not.

You don't trust me.

[ Of course he fucking doesn't. Ugh. But he's behaving himself right now, so he just goes about taking off his shirt to let Alucard work. With a considerable amount of effort - he can't move the arm on his injured side too high and risk pulling the cut open further - he finally manages it. ]

It's already opened once. I'd rather not have it happen a second time.

[So no. Not at all, not after last night's stunning display of self loathing and stupidity. In the time that it takes for Trevor to expose the wound and deal with the still moving wagon (they probably should get Sypha to stop the carriage but...), Alucard's managed to thread the needle and get it ready for this next step.

There's a real cringe when the extent of the blown stitches are shown off in their full glory. It feels like a blessing that the damage isn't way worse, if Alucard is to be perfectly honest, and he takes a moment to figure out where he actually does need to begin. The first few, the ones Trevor got started on before everything went off the rails, those are fine but...

...this just feels like looking at a replay of last night's conversation. It's a thought Alucard refuses to dwell on, and with his gloves still on, he gets the needle through Trevor's skin, picking up where the best stitches have left off. There's no apology for any pain caused either.]

Edited 2018-11-24 01:46 (UTC)

It'll open again, I'll sew it shut again. Eventually it'll stay that way. They always do, sooner or later.

[ It's different, having someone else do the sewing. Worse in some ways - he can't control the pain, can't take a moment to steady himself and then hold his breath and grit his teeth and do three stitches at a time. Better in others - there's no concern that his hands will shake, no need to spend the entire experience calculating how much he actually wants to not bleed out against how much he wants to not poke himself a lot of times with a needle. No willpower needed at all, really, the stitches just happen.

And he can hear himself now, over and over again. But. She. Isn't. Here. Each time the needle goes through flesh. Alucard works steadily, and so the words are like a drum beat insider his aching skull.

Fuck. He really did say too much.

He hisses out his breath when the needle next goes in, in part because it fucking hurts, but mostly to make some sort of noise over the sound of those words. ]

Fuck.

[Taking a lesson from last night, Alucard doesn't respond to the point. Because he wants to. Badly. To point out that the reasons those wounds probably keep opening is because Trevor's moving too much and might be drunkenly doing the stitchwork too.

And while Alucard's pace is steady, it also isn't terribly fast. He isn't his mother, he hasn't had much practice with this kind of thing, he simply understands the concept. The stitches are close together as well, making it more likely that things will hold together, but forcing Trevor to prolong everything churning in his mind. Thoughts Alucard isn't privy to, and probably the better off for not hearing.

The carriage keeps swaying. Alucard doesn't look up when Trevor expresses what is a very good summary of the whole situation.]

I'm halfway through.

Halfway through? Are you doing fucking embroidery?

[ Because even sober, Trevor's own stitches are sloppy and uneven, done as quickly as possible while still being effective. It's tempting to think that Alucard's working slowly just to fuck with him.

(He knows he isn't, not really. He's an asshole, not a torturer. It's still a tempting conclusion to come to, though.)

But. She. Isn't. Here. Just him. Just him and this asshole and Sypha, the only person in Wallachia who deserves someone better than him. And they aren't going to be enough. And this is a suicide mission. And he doesn't give that much of a fuck if this asshole dies (he does, but it's easy to convince himself otherwise) but Sypha- Sypha deserves better than to get sent to her grave because everyone overestimated some drunk. He tries to focus on the needle instead, on it going in and out and in and out. ]

You're wasting your time. It's only going to happen again.

With a different wound gained from a different fight, yes

[That's as far as Alucard's willing to engage. They're all going to get hurt by the end of this, if not outright killed. If any of them survive his father, it will be a miracle. If none of them do and his father also perishes, at least some good will come of it. If the unspeakable option happens well...someone will have tried.

His eyes are still on the wound, the wagon suddenly hitting road rockier than before. It means a slower pace for the stitching, and worse, the threat of something uneven. So he has to slow down or else do a poor job of it. Somewhere in all of that thought process, Alucard can't help but think of what his mother might say in response to this handiwork. Critique it, probably, but with the warmth of encouragement to improve. He really ought to have taken a greater interest in medicine, it seems.]

Almost.

[One stitch. Two. Five. And the knot is tied as neatly as possible before Alucard hands the needle back to Trevor.]

There.

[ Five stitches. Enough for one more round of 'But. She. Isn't. Here.'. With one extra word at the end to spare. One word isn't enough to make it a complete phrase.

But she isn't here and I am, much to everyone's disappointment. But she isn't here because Wallachia didn't want her. But she isn't here and so all three of us are going to fucking die. All of those are too long, no matter how slowly Alucard is finishing the stitches.

'But she isn't here, vampire' is what he settles on in the end, even if he leaves it unspoken. The right amount of words, the right amount of hate behind them. ]

Good. Last time someone put needles into me that slowly, they wanted me to fucking confess.

[ He snatches the needle back from Alucard, putting it and the twine back into their pouch and shoving it into his bag before pushing it away, glass clicking against glass as he does. ]

You're welcome.

[There's about five other responses to that statement, the one linger on Alucard's tongue an all too snappish I only watched my mother do this once, and she wasn't in the back of a moving wagon. But he remembers how much that tone seemed to be what Trevor wanted last night, and again, the man isn't getting satisfaction today.

The clanking bottles, however, is worth addressing.]

Are those all empty?

The fuck would I be carrying empty bottles around for?

[ Which is a no. He probably ought to be more forthcoming, for safety's sake - there are going to be more questions after this, and it would probably be a very bad idea to give Alucard any reason to investigate bottles of communion wine. But on the other hand, he doesn't owe any explanations for his own belongings to any fucking vampire. ]

Just checking.

[The detail that it's communion wine would actually get a laugh, but rather than play twenty questions, Alucard drifts into silence instead. Part of it is because Trevor's set the tone for the day with his own muted presence, the rest is out of concern of just continuing from last night.

Hn. Idiot still has shirt shirt off though, so Alucard reaches towards a small pile of definitely not stolen blankets that have been placed towards the front of the wagon, and plops one of them on Trevor wordlessly.]

Checking what, that I've not managed to drink myself stupid again since last night? No such fucking luck. Neither of you have taken your eyes off me for long enough.

[ Yes, that is an admission that he probably would have gone and drowned the events of last night in the cause of the events of last night, if he'd only been able to.

He could dress himself. He's not a child. But he doesn't feel like putting any extra strain on the stitches until he has to, even carefully done as they are. And so the blanket- the blanket is appreciated. He pulls it around himself with the arm on his good side, going quiet again. When he does speak, it's muted. Defeated. ]

I don't owe you anything.

[ That's- probably the closest to thanks Alucard is going to get for some time. ]

...

[He has to explain this?! He has to explain this. But before Alucard does that, he reaches over to grab that disgusting shirt, and mutters something about give him the actual sewing kit, he might as well fix this hole while he's at it too.]

You do know that all of the refusal to take an eye off of you is because we're worried about you as a person, correct?

[ He tosses the sewing kit onto the ground. ]

Use the bone needles. Some of the metal ones're silver, and I don't fucking remember which are which.

[ He half considers resisting - he knows how to fucking sew, it's just harder to sew oneself than it is to sew a shirt and he hasn't had a chance yet. He doesn't, though. But the shirt at least communicates that message - he's had it for a long time, and it's taken much more abuse than it did last night. The evidence of repair jobs, well done and terribly done and everything in between, is all over it.

And he just sighs. ]

Believe it or not, I've made it this long without dying. Not to angry mobs, not to any fucking vampire, and certainly not to a couple of drinks. You don't need to worry, I'll stick around long enough for your father to do the honors.

[Sewing fabric is much easier than skin. It's a basic skill, and Alucard goes for the bone needles as instructed. The smaller the better, and he's careful not to even brush against anything metalic.]

Thank you.

[There's enough thread stuffed into the kit to take care of the shirt's repair, and Alucard threads that quickly. He's careful as he makes sure he has the fabric aligned correctly, and while there's some sign of skillful work here, it's easier to note where Trevor was drunk and sewing instead. Somehow the mental image isn't as funny as it sounds at first blush.

At least a tiny, exhausted laugh escapes at Trevor's all too honest assessment of the situation.]

I almost miss the bravado coming out of your mouth. [But it's back to seriousness, eyes down, concentrated on the fabric.] And while all that's true, it isn't going to change either of our minds or our concern for your well being.

[ He almost expected some form of reproach there. For Alucard to have higher expectations for their chances against Dracula than he does. It's refreshing when he doesn't get one, and something about the way he's holding himself softens for the first time since last night.

They both know full well they're going to die. And he appreciates not being lied to about it. Sypha- Sypha still deserves better. Still has people who'll miss her. Still deserves saving from this. But the two of them are going to die and Wallachia isn't going to miss them. ]

Stubborn fucks, the both of you. [ It's fonder than before. A little. Which isn't saying a lot, because there have been knife fights fonder than how he was speaking to Alucard before. ] You'll have to let me know where the two of you find all the joy in your lives sometime, so I can concern it away from you.

Forgot yourself in that sentence.

[There's a dryness in the tone that could be humor if one squinted really, really hard. Otherwise it's just a very true observation, and they both know it.

At the word joy, there's silence, mostly because if they survive, Alucard knows how he'll be spending any time in the world. Full of guilt, because that's the only possible result. Wallachia will survive, and he'll have committed patricide for it and fully orphaned himself because it was the right thing to do. It's a thought he has had before, one that plays in the back of his mind constantly, and so all he can do is shake his head.]

You'll have better luck doing that to Sypha then.

[ He snorts. It's- not quite derisive. And it hurts to do, which is probably less than he deserves for what he's about to say. ]

This entire fucking quest of yours is one long attempt to find something you love and take it away from you out of concern.

[ It's- not materially different from the kind of thing he was saying before, when he was trying to provoke Alucard into a fight. But the tone is softer. A little warmer. Not quite anything approaching sympathetic, but closer than anything else so far. ]

Said as if I haven't considered that very fact since the outset.

[Alucard feels the familiar ground, but it isn't arguing. And it isn't talking past each other either, which after last night is a massive improvement. Maybe Trevor needed that stab wound and Sypha to kick his ass to help move away from all the self loathing. Maybe this is temporary. He won't treat it like a victory but he can try and match it in kind.

His hands keep moving along the fabric, and while the repair work is done, there's one or two smaller holes that catch his eye. So he moves onto those as well.]

Just need to find a reason that books are bad for her. Then we can all be miserable. It'll be great.

[ He watches Alucard work. Truth be told, he couldn't say where the other tears came from. Maybe other, less terrible jabs of the same knife. Maybe it caught on the floorboards when he fell to the ground after the stab. He barely remembers the fight itself, it could be any number of things. ]

You don't have to do this. And I never asked you to, so you don't get to hold it over me later.

(for cryptsleeper)

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