catchacold | ICy Inbox for Entranceway

[The bright tinkling of shattering glass is a horrible, familiar sound. At least it means there's no one watching. Not their mirror, not Sans's, not Chara's, not anyone's. Good.

Good.

Their right hand looks to be gloved in scarlet, slivers of glass still stuck into their knuckles and the palm of their hand. They didn't have any time to fix it. It's already drying. They surge forward, accepting his offer and entering his room with a jerky nod.]

I - y-yeah. I just didn't, um...I didn't know where else to go.

Then don't go anywhere else.

[He simply holds the door until they are inside, then lets it fall shut to approach the closet instead. He'll need supply for this, he knows that at first glance.]

Just sit down. Sofa, bed, floor, anywhere.

[The room is simple. Barren even. The walls are white, but not clean. Scorch marks, since apparently that is what makes Leonard feel at home. The bed is big enough for two, there's only one pillow. The couch looks old, used, the table is filled with the Wonderland brochures and what looks like schematics for some kind of weapon, only half drawn out. It's not homely in the classical sense in here.

But it will do. Len gets out what looks like a med kit and a small brown bottle, then turns to see where Frisk has settled down.]

I'll need to get the glass out first and disinfect it. But I get the feeling you can deal with pain.

[It's not an especially elaborately-furnished room, but they don't care. Asriel's room was just as bare. The thought sends another pang stabbing into their chest, so they hastily dismiss it, elect to sit on the sofa. It looks old and shabby, like Sans and Papyrus's.

Sans. That's another dangerous thought they have to shuttle away. Gulp, hold their injured hand close to their chest and try to level their breathing. Nod again in response.]

I'll be okay. I -

[They've lived through worse. And died after suffering worse. Ha-ha. Yeah.]

Just do what you...need. To do. I'll be okay.

I'm sure you will.

[He doesn't ask what happened. Those shards are reflective, their question about mirrors? Len's not an idiot. And he's seen how volatile they'd been before. Not surprising that it'd escalate. Surprising that they'd reach out to him, sure, but he doesn't spend much time pondering that.

Instead he kneels down by their side, unscrewing the bottle after setting down the kit.]

Hold your hand out, kid. I'll have to pour some of this on to get rid of the blood and spot the shards.

Edited 2016-08-11 15:39 (UTC)

[Frisk breathes in, tight and uneven, and holds out their hand. He's going to have to touch them, probably. They steel themselves. It's going to happen, and they chose to come here, and they can't back out, and they're not sure if they're in the best position to - so they don't.

They look at their hand. It looks awful.

They consider looking away. But they've seen worse things.

Their voice is shaky and small but they don't hesitate when they say it:]

Go ahead.

[Len carefully pours some of the liquid, smelling strongly of alcohol. He sets the bottle down and gets the pair of tweezers out of the kit, starting to pick up the shards and collect them on top of a piece of gauze.]

You can steady your arm with the other hand.

[His own hands are steady as a surgeon's. Or a skilled pickpocket's. He's not touching them, at least not directly, at least not just yet.]

Not that long ago, I was handcuffed somewhere. Had to shatter my hand to get out.

Okay.

[They do, left hand gripping their right arm at the forearm. He hasn't asked them what or why or how just yet. Maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe he figured it out based on the question of mirrors and the glass stuck in their hand, or maybe he just took an educated guess.

It doesn't matter. He's telling a story. Sounds like a distraction measure, but it's a good out for the pain they know they're going to have to weather so they take it.]

That sounds painful. [Voice shakes, so they make an effort to steady it.] Did it work?

The shattering wasn't the painful part. But I had to shock-freeze it first, so I could shatter it. I'd not like a repeat of that.

[He shudders, which isn't something he does a lot. Maybe it's an exaggerated gesture for the sake of the story, in his own way he can be a showman and the distraction seems to work.]

But yeah, it worked.

Shock-freeze?

[They wince reflexively, because it sounds painful. Shattering. Like the bone, solidity yielding for the purpose of a higher goal.

Chara would've done it. They know they would have.]

M-hm. I like the cold.

[He says that with a straight face, but it is followed up with a smirk and a quick glance up at their face.]

Don't like it that much. Hurt like hell.

[He finally puts the tweezers aside, instead reaching for the bottle and pouring out some liquid again, looking carefully.]

Try flexing your hand, carefully. Tell me if you feel any bits left. I can't see anything.

[Hurt like...now. They breathe in through their nose, their expression taut, but they don't make a sound. They slowly flex their fingers open and shut. The whole thing aches, but it doesn't feel like there's any slivers of anything stuck inside it anymore.

They shake their head slowly.]

It feels like they're all out.

[Never had to deal with injuries this...small before. Usually it's spears or bones or electricity or something. Something big and powerful enough to kill. Pain is secondary, and death is a temporary setback, and monster food is the immediate relief. Not used to doing things this way. The slow way.]

Good.

[There's not really any way to make this easy for them, not with what he knows. Leonard has never gotten familiar with the easy way.]

Think you need some stitches. Trouble with hands, you keep having to use them, so if they're not treated properly, they won't heal.

[He looks up at them from where he's crouching on the floor, recognising that look, the determination. He knows that look.]

Up for it, kid?

Yeah.

[They nod shortly, firmly, decisive. However painful it might get, they've handled worse, they think. Even if it's on a smaller scale now. Death hurts, and they remember every moment of it.

Every moment of slowly expiring in the Deep Roads from some kind of fantasy illness.

Frisk sets their jaw, locks their expression.]

Don't worry. I'll be fine.

Yeah. You will be.

[He picks up the needle, threading it with sure hands. When he makes the first stitch, he looks up at them, just so he'll know whether they're going to pass out.]

I only need to make two more.

[They wince a few times, unused to the minute twinges - death is always so much bigger, so much more all-encompassing. Spears slam through them or bones pierce them or electricity disintegrates their body with a searing blaze of ozone and burning flesh. It's abrupt, complete, and vicious, and it hurts every time but they always get the peace of death and the Continue following it.

They wince as the needle pulls at the bits of apposed skin, closing the open wound, but they lock their jaw and nod.]

Okay. It's okay.

You're doing good, kid.

[He makes another stitch, putting his hand down on the sofa next to them, just in case they do faint. Doesn't look like it, but better safe than sorry. One, then two more stitches and he ties the thread off, looking up at their face again.]

Gonna bandage it, then we're done.

[He picks up the bottle and tilts it over one more time, making sure it's all disinfected. Then he holds the bandage out to them.]

Want to do it yourself?

[He's noted - and can relate - that they don't care for being touched.]

[It's an offer they don't quite expect, and it earns him a slightly startled glance upwards in his direction followed by the faint furrowing of a brow. And then - a nod.]

Yeah. I know how.

[Had to do it many times. Many, many times. Old bandage clinging to dried blood on their wrist and arm when they fell Underground. What happens when you've got spare time and scissors, ha-ha.

Accept the bandage, start to wind it around their hand in careful, precise movements. They're not left handed, but they know how to bandage their right hand. Done it enough times.

Don't quite look up to meet his eyes, focus on wrapping their hand tight, but not too tight, not tight enough to cut off the circulation and make it numb.]

...thank you.

[He sits back on his heels and watches, just to make sure they can really do it. Since it seems like they have practice, he finally gets up and walks over to the mirror, picking up a handy hammer he keeps next to it and smashing it, as he does periodically.]

Don't mention it, kid.

[No, he's not fond of the mirrors either and he only turns back to them again after he puts the hammer down.]

Does the pain help you any?

[Almost flinch at the loud noise, the crash of things breaking other things. But it's okay. Didn't do anything wrong (is that a joke?!) so it's fine. Just making sure no one looks in on them.

Flinch at the question, trying to frown, look appropriately scandalized. But they can't.]

I don't know what you mean.

[It's too obvious a lie, too stammered out, too hesitant. Of course the pain helps. It's the only thing that helps.]

Right.

[He leans back against the wall, folding his hands loosely in front of himself as he looks at them.]

I used to get hurt for showing weakness. Helped condition me, I guess.

["Get hurt." Not...hurt myself? Frisk swallows hard and finds it difficult to stay focused on the task. Breathing through their nose. Trying to balance themselves.]

"Get" hurt?

M-hm.

[He keeps his eyes on them, just in case they lose balance, to make sure they'd fall on the couch and not drop to the floor.]

My father thought it was a good way to teach a lesson.

[A flinch, barely perceptible, maybe, and a sharp intake of breath.]

He -

[Chara knows what it's like. They know they know what it's like. They know how hard it is to survive like that, keep going even though things break and people break things and you're just a greedy little smear on their lives, all taking and no giving.

Who else?

Who else got hurt because humans are hateful, loathsome things that hurt children who dare to act like children?]

[And then their expression closes into something cold and tautly contained, subtly angry.]

Humans, [they grind out between clenched teeth,] really suck.

[He nods, because he's not about to disagree with that. Why would he?

But on the other hand.]

Yeah. But somehow there's still some people that are good. That try helping others. Risking their lives. Never got that.

[Then he went and did it. Again and again.]

I always wondered how that happens. Do these people not know that the world sucks? But life ain't really easier for them. They just do it anyway. Hell if I know why. Good people. Why do they exist? What's in it for them?

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sorry for the amazing slowness, I was on unofficial hiatus, back to normal now!

it's totally cool!

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