amongthewreck | (no subject)

[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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

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.

"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."

“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.

"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."

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?”

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.

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

Blinkity blink blink whaaaaaa?

"Come again?"

“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.

"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."

“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.

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?"

“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.

"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...?"

"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.

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."