(no subject)

[amongthewreck]

[backdated to May 7th]

Room 205, Northwestern Memorial Hospital
4:26 PM

Richard, should he care to wake up any time soon, will find that he has company in the hospital bed next to his: Fletcher. He will also notice an IV drip in his arm and a cast on his foot.

At some point in the day, Fletch managed to acquire a rather large gash down the right side of his abdomen. The doctors don't know this, so the bed isn't technically Fletcher's, but he doesn't need it. He can heal. So for now, he's resting, watching news coverage on the shitty little TV attached to the wall.

He's relatively quiet for the most part, careful to let Richard sleep, but then his cellphone rings and a quiet shouting match ensues. "Don't you tell me I'm out of my fuckin' mind! It's calm back there. We have control. This place is... it's like a war zone, Hannah. I know I don't belong here, but I can't just leave it like this in good conscience. And y'know I still haven't done what I came here to do in the first place..."

And so the conversation goes.

Comments

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Quiet though it may be, the argument still wakes Richard. It'll take him a while to process that it's Fletch arguing with his cell phone, though: Richard's a little too preoccupied with the pounding headache and the fact that he's someplace else entirely.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"I'll call you later, aye? I'm in a hospital, I really shouldn't be on my ph— no, I'm okay. I brought someone here from the hotel. Right. Love you."

Fletch hangs up, glances over at Richard, and blinks.

"Oh. You're awake."

Pause.

"How're you feelin'?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

"How do you think I feel?" he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. What just happened--?

Right: the entire hotel just crashed on him. For no reason. Almost killed him. Again for no reason. And he had...

He sinks his head deeper into the pillow, eyes still closed: this time, not because of the physical pain.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"Like a kitten bathing in a rainbow," Fletch answers.

He's not sure what it means, but it sounded like a sarcastic enough comment in his head. It's also adorable.

"I know you're upset and probably hate me for knockin' y'out like that, but you are alive. And mostly in one piece, save for the bones in your ankle. So..."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Sarcasm's not what Richard wants to deal with right now, thanks. And he doesn't give a damn that Fletch pinched his nerves enough to make him pass out. And he sure as hell doesn't give a damn that he's alive right now. He's not thankful for it, at least.

He says nothing, eyes still squeezed shut. He could try to stop himself from crying. Is stopping himself from crying. But what's the point? What does he have to be strong for? Everything is pointless. Everything is gone. Isabella's cross...

A sob escapes, despite his efforts. He presses his hands to his head as if that'll stop all the sobs from coming, as if that'll stop the pain, as if that'll do anything to change the fact that he lost the one thing he had from someone he loved in a world without purpose or reason, where all he had as a consolation was a broken foot and a useless life.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Oh, hell.

Fletcher doesn't know what to do. What comfort can he offer a man he knows next to nothing about? This is Richard Somethingorother from Manhattan. He is a Wanderer. He had a cross, now he doesn't.

"When I was wee," Fletch says, moving to prop himself on the side of Richard's bed, "My mum would read me this poem whenever I was upset. I dunno why because it's not particularly comforting in any special way, but... anyway, it's called 'The Dormouse and the Doctor' by that fellow who wrote all those stories about Winnie-the-Pooh."

He clears his throat and begins: There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)... (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/a__a__milne/poems/15373)

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

If he looks at Richard at all during his recital of the poem, he may find that Richard's face has gone from 0 to ಠ_ಠ in record time. He lets Fletcher finish, however. And once he's done:

"...was there a point to that?"

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Well. This is only slightly embarrassing.

"It distracted you, didn't it?"

MISSION FAILED

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Richard lets out a sigh, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes again. He probably won't cry this time. Probably.

But he does look awfully sad.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

At least he stopped crying.

Here, Richard. Have some awkward hair-petting, since Fletch thinks it would be even more awkward to attempt hugging you right now.

(The petting lasts about five seconds before Fletcher wtf?'s at himself and stops.)

(Ridiculous.)

"Whose cross was that?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

...if Fletch is trying to make Richard ಠ_ಠ more than cry he's doing a very good job at it.

"That's none of your business," he says, staring at Fletcher apprehensively.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"Except it is," Fletcher points out, looking back to the TV. "Because I dragged your ass outta that and you put up one hell of a fight to stop me just so you could find that cross. I think you owe me some information. That's all I'm askin' for."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

He looks away. "It's personal."

A bit of a no duh statement, but he hopes it's apparent enough to Fletch that it's a question too personal for him to answer.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Fletch holds his hands up. "Alright, fine. Backing off."

It occurs to him that Richard, who doesn't seem to want to share any information, is lucky the hospital is in such chaos today. He wonders if the file on the door says "Richard Doe." Probably.

...he should check.

Fletch hops off the bed and heads to the door, snatching Richard's file up and flipping through the few pages. Yep; Richard Doe. Age: Unknown. Pff. "Ah! Here. D'you know your blood type, Richard?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Richard squints at Fletch's hands. "Are you reading my medical file?"

He may have lived decades on the Island but homeslice knows about HIPPA.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"I am."

HIPPA can kiss Fletch's ass. He needs some info, damn it!

"Not that there's anything really on it because I couldn't give the doctors any information." HINT HINT. "Y'know, because I don't know anything about you."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

"I can give that information to the doctors."

That Fletch has done a superb job distracting Richard from his grief isn't lost on Richard. He wishes Fletch would stop.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"So what is it you're tryin' to hide, then?"

Fletcher is good at paranoia and suspicion.

Very good.

"Or are you one of those vulnerable types who don't like gettin' close to others for fear of abandonment and heartbreak?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

"Why do you want to know?!"

He's not quite yelling at Fletch. But his voice is elevated, yes. It's clear he's irritated. Angry, even.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"Relax."

If Richard sets off the alarm on his heart monitor and a nurse comes running in wondering what the hell is going on, that... won't be good. Fletcher doesn't want to be thrown out of a hospital. (Again. But that was years ago.)

As for Richard's question, Fletcher doesn't have a real answer aside from, "I just do."

So this is his response.

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

"I'm not gonna tell you anything just because you want to know."

And by the way? Fletch's grand scheme to distract Richard from how upset he is is starting to fail.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Fletcher turns his head away from Richard just so he can eyeroll without Richard noticing.

"Right. Fine. Anyway," topic change to distract Richard from his oncoming jears, "I'm gonna get an apartment. You're welcome to come stay with me if you'd like. Or until your ankle heals up and you can... go off and do whatever like a wee baby bird." Fletch looks down, absently picks at a nail. "But I think it's probably a good idea for you to be with someone until you get your footing here. Pun not intended, but convenient."

Much as this archangel hates to admit it, he's not himself if he's not watching out for someone. It's kind of weird, going from taking care of an entire country to a handful of people who he doesn't even know very well.

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Richard doesn't take his eyes off Fletch. Not initially, not during his proposition. Afterward, Richard turns his head away, staring at the ceiling. What could Fletch offer short of Isabella's cross and a way back home that would make him give a damn about anything?

God, he was being so maudlin, so pathetic. Why couldn't he do anything? He had to do something. The alternative was total despair. He would be immobile, useless, pointless, and yet... and yet...

What else could he do? And what other emotion was more worthy of his situation than complete despair? He closes his eyes again, taking deep breaths, trying to guard himself against the emotional tumble he knows is inevitable.

If only he could distract himself...

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

It is at this point that Fletcher resorts to grinding his molars. He hates it when he can't fix things. This is how he landed in Chicago in the first place; Hannah was inconsolable over their parents' death, nothing Fletcher did helped, so now he's here. He is going to fix that situation by getting revenge.

This, though? Is entirely different. Fletch replaces Richard's file, moves back to the bed, sits, and gives Richard a hug. It's an awkward hug, he thinks, but it's still a hug.

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Richard's not a person who recognizes when he needs a hug. He's not a person who thinks he ever needs a hug; thus Fletch's awkward embrace causes him to freeze first, flail second.

“What are you doing?!”

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"I AM HUGGING YOU, OKAY? SHUT UP."

Don't make this weirder than it is, Richard. Fletcher will punch you again.


Actually, he's going to pull away now.

And help himself to that Jell-O.

Mmm. Green.

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

The bewildered question Richard's look shoots at Fletcher is Why do you care? Fletch barely knows him. Richard's been awful to him. They annoy each other. He hasn't bothered putting on that facade of chumminess he does with everyone. There's been no point. Not on the island, and especially not here. Why does he have to be friends with people here? Why can't he go back home? Why is he here?

“Why don't you leave me alone?” is what he actually asks Fletcher, his voice cracking and angry and desperate. “Just go away! Go bother somebody else!”

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

What may bewilder Richard even more is the fact that his yelling doesn't have any effect on Fletcher, who goes on eating the Jell-O for a few seconds, then puts the cup down and turns to him with a completely serene expression.

"I was brought up to believe that everything happens for a reason and everyone has a purpose. So I don't think you're just here because space-time or whatever the hell decided to fuck with you, and I am not going to let you flounce off and die in this shithole of a city because you either haven't realized that or don't believe it."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

“That's very nice of you to say,” he replies, his voice low and rough, “but you want to talk about beliefs. I want to talk about facts. I know my life doesn't have purpose. It never did! Why would it if it just lead to here?”

His voice, it should be noted, is no longer low.

“I'm sick of people telling me I have a purpose! That I have a mission! And don't tell me what it is! If I have a purpose then tell me right now or leave me alone! I'm done! I'm tired of it! I'm...”

And without warning, without hesitation, he closes his eyes, covers them with his fists—and finally lets out the cries he's been holding back ever since he woke up. And in between his gasps, in between his sobs, he mutters something. Something in Spanish.

Something that means “I just want to die.”

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Spanish is very far from Scottish Gaelic, so whatever Richard says at the end of all that goes right over Fletcher's head (the emotion isn't lost; that he feels right in his gut). The rest of it, however, doesn't.

"You don't know that," he says, voice steady. "You can't know that, and I don't believe it for one second. And I can't tell you what your purpose is because I'm not God but I know you have one because you exist."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Richard takes a few deep breaths. Drops his fists from his eyes. Still lets out a sob or two, still can't open his eyes all the way. He could try to defend his position, could try to explain why he felt the way he did. Would Fletcher understand?

“You don't know...how long I've lived thinking I had a purpose. You don't know...”

And he's tired of people forcing him to live longer based on their own hopes, not on his own.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"Then tell me." Fletcher is not the type to beg for anything ever, but this is very, very close to imploring.

"I can't help you if you won't let me. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong. And I want to help you, so tell me."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

“Why do you want to help me?”

It could be—it looks—as if that's the one thing that's preventing Richard from telling Fletch what he wants to hear. He just wants to know why he needs to hear it.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"Because—" He flails his arms about, then settles on grabbing his own head. Yes. This is what he should do to occupy his hands: try to CRUSH HIS OWN SKULL.

Not really, but he does look frustrated. "I just do. Whatever's going on in your head is wrong. You don't deserve—I need to know why you don't think you're important."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

He stares at Fletcher silently for a few moments trying to think of the best way to respond.

Finally, he asks, “How old do you think I am?”

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Admittedly, this is not what Fletcher was expecting.

"I dunno, late 30s? I'd say early 40s, but that might be a bit of a stretch, what with your... face and all."

A very weird way of complimenting someone, that.

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

Richard states very plainly, “I'm 175 years old.”

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Blinkity blink blink whaaaaaa?

"Come again?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

“I'm 175 years old,” he repeats. “Never told anyone that before. Just you. There was one man who knew exactly how old I was without me having to tell him. He's dead. He's...”

Richard shakes his head. He's gone over this before, said, succinctly, why Jacob had disappointed him. What was the purpose retreating old ground? Jacob had told him nothing, and in the end, he wasn't important at all to Jacob.

“I just want to rest,” he says quietly.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"You're older than me," Fletch says, a little awed and mostly confused. "How's... you're human, aren't you? Or are y'from one of those crazy space worlds and you lied about the Manhattan thing?"

If Richard's an alien, this is officially the coolest friendship Fletch has ever had.

"Anyway, you can rest. You're safe. No one's askin' you to do anything right now."

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

“I did lie about being from Manhattan,” he replies. That he's older than Fletch...well, he doesn't give a damn at the moment. He just wants to rest. And by “rest,” he means stop living.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Fletcher knows that last part, but there will be no talk of death anymore if he can avoid it. Death is what brought him here, death is the only thing that will let him leave, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

He moves back to the bed that isn't his and sits, watching Richard. "So where're you really from, then?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

“The Canary Islands. Tenerife. It's...been a while since I lived there.”

Obviously.

Richard leans back in the bed, his head resting against the wall. That pain is still there, always has been there. He guess he's gotten used to it.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

"Ah."

Well, then. That explains... nothing at all, really, but it's a step in the right direction.

He scratches the back of his head, looking around. "And... there's more to this story, or...?"

[averylongtime.livejournal.com]

"I haven't lived there since I was thirty-five," he replies, the implication being of course there's more to the story. "It's...a long story."

And he looks a little too tired to tell it right now.

[knowmycall.livejournal.com]

Fletch sees that, so he finally backs off for good.

Well, for good for now. When Richard gets out of the hospital, that'll change.

"Thanks for tellin' me."