Title: A Large Armchair
Summary: A sort of ordinary morning in the life of a Legionnaire. But, then, what kind of morning would that be? One-shot, TWxPG, hints of B5xSV.
Disclaimer: I do not own Legion and make no money from it.
Warnings: Could be seen as a sequel to Technicolor Feelings, but not exactly. Hints and suggestions of mild torture.
Dedication: Well, bits of this go to sexyshewolf for putting an initiative in me to finish this; some goes to Philosophizes for talking with me; some to XxWAlways-a-DreamerXxX for more of a reason in general to pay more attention to this pair and other of course. Unfortunately, it's three in the morning, and I can't possibly get to you all.
-:-
The most ordinary morning. Imagine, trying to do that. What foolishness.
-The Hours.
The color of the beach saturated in morning hues. One arm brilliantly stark against a plain white cover. A feeling of being empty and hard on soft springs and cushion.
Opening his eyelids like they are the curtains to the windows in the hospital room he finds he is inside—perhaps has been inside for a good long while—Timber Wolf finds that both of his eyes are so out of use that not even the small peak of sunlight coming in through the glass panes cause them to adjust like a telescope lens as they often do. They just pulse for a little; twin hearts in hollows on either side of his nose. It's as though he's the way he was before his father transformed him and just sort of a normal teenager in bed, kept home with the flu.
Three broken fingernails cracked into the sensitive skin of the nail beds. Veins inside thick skin pulsing with the ferocity of being in a race. Obscene red scabs and stitching along grooves of flesh and muscle not occupied there before.
Taking a breath, Brin looked down at the one arm out from under the covers that all hospital rooms come with—pure white until covered in sweat or red tide—and takes note that there is a needle neatly inserted into the biggest vein along the inside of his wrist (hidden among the frayed and broken bones that lead up to the joints in his fingers) and it is secured there with a little piece of tape that is cottony in color and has three little smiley faces on it. It's quite the contrast to his dark coloring and the long tube that is keeping him medicated for whatever purposes. It's not wholly unwelcome, but it is strange.
Chirrups like a bird broken in mid-flight when shot ring every two seconds. Wires crossing and winding into themselves. The scent of cleaning to keep sickness and death at bay.
He can't bring himself to move around just yet, but he does rove his eyes to the other side of the bed where there is a very large machine with long, snake-like wires going out of it and down to the floor, to finally creep under the blanket where he can guess—though not feel, quite yet—there are those little circular dots sticking to his skin to monitor his heartbeat. When he focuses, he can also make out the feeling of something soft and tight wrapped around his right arm, his ankles, a calf muscle and his neck.
'Ah,'he jolts inside his head, not surprised really at not remembering why he would be in a hospital when there was most likely a sedative painkiller flowing from the needle in his wrist all the way through his blood system. He recalls, a little, with black spots here and there (as though this was a bad hangover) that he had been on a mission. Something to do with his father, maybe? And he had been hurt. From there it got really fuzzy and then turned into a blank slate that would be easy to remember if only he weren't being medicated.
At such a thought, he found himself trying to growl but stopped immediately as searing, white-hot pain laced up through his neck and into those other spots where he knew there was gauze.
A motion that does not move but for the eye. The lift and fall of a tender breast under thin cloth and flesh. Bent knees and arms folded into a being with the feeling of being a small child again under unconsciousness.
Deciding that calling out for a doctor would be terribly painful—and most likely a waste of time as he was hooked to a monitor and the front desk would be alerted to his increased heart-rate eventually—Brin made a small effort and braced himself into an almost upward position so he was almost level with the pillow he had been sliding off of when he woke up.
In doing so, he could see the door and—to the amazement of the part of him not hazed out by the meds in his system—the chair meant for over-night guests. The door is closed, and that is no surprise; the surprise is that, sitting in the chair that looks like it could fit three people comfortable—the whole thing looking like an over-sized sheep pelt with really cushy arms and back—is the person that had been inside the memory he had last in black forgetfulness.
Pale skin that can only be gotten by removing sunlight entirely from a life or exhaustion. A thin blanket with the weavings of silk and wool quite aged but still more than able to support growth in warm. A small outline undersized by a larger image.
Phantom Girl was curled into the fetal position, lying on her side and facing him; a blanket Brin had seen occupy her bed back in her Legion bedroom (the one with black, white and brown inverting onto each other that looked out of place on her Queen sized bed) draped over her obviously by someone else. She looked as bad as he felt, even if she was sleeping; her hair looked unwashed, skin pale and unhealthy and there were bags under her eyes that looked like thick clods of makeup. More than that, she wasn't in her costume, but in civilian wear. Albeit, wrinkled and worn for multiple days civilian wear, but nonetheless—just a pair of grey black pants and a white turtle-neck. The blue socks she had on (tiny white stars around the ankles he had never ever seen because of her boots) caused him to blink owlishly.
'Where are her shoes?'Was the first thought that popped into his head.
Short strides that leave almost no sound but to those that have good hearing. Medium pace that only echo softly with the padding of good shoes. In unison, they bring together a thought and memory of rain against the sands of black and darker coloring near large bodies of water that are not at all the ocean, but create resonance.
Brin blinked, quietly and almost with a loathsome cringe when the door to his room opened and in walked—not bickering, for once, but holding what Brin assumed to be coffee and chatting amicably—Brainy and Shrinking Violet. Brin noted that both were holding datapads and cups of steaming liquid that, to his now slightly better working nose, smelled like dark roast coffee and something like, if he wasn't mistaken and the drugs weren't screwing too badly with him, some fresh English Toffee and Mint. It was both wonderful and over powering to his at once both frail and strong senses.
He coughed when the smell entered into his nostrils again and had to suck in breath to keep from letting out an undignified cry at the feeling it caused his whole body. Brainy and Violet stopped talking at this noise and met his deep amber stared. Brainy met with reluctant goodwill at knowing he was conscious, while Violet met with glee and then worry for him.
"Hey, Timber Wolf," Violet greeted, setting down her datapad atop the machine monitoring his vitals and giving her drink to Brainy so he wouldn't harp about ruining delicate equipment with spilled coffee in rings, "We were wondering when you were going to wake up. You feeling okay?"
Reluctance in the face of pain and sharp reaches of injury. Want for the telling of truth and asking of what had come about. A decision that pain can be managed.
"…I…hurt…what…happened…?"
Dark purple eyes narrowed at Shrinking Violet and Brainy went over to the other side of the bed, depositing the drinks on the sill of the window and bringing his hands up to check over the much taller Legionnaire, "Shrinking Violet, Timber Wolf sustained damage to his throat along the juncture of the vocal chords. You shouldn't be asking him if he is alright when answering you would only hinder his recovery."
Violet did cringe at the Coluan and, finding him correct, chose to rectify the discomfort she had caused Brin in such a small amount of time. Talking was something she could do, if it answered some of his questions while Brainy looked over him with his fingers shifting about, bringing up the covers to check over his wounds and his rate of recovery.
"Yeah, uh, sorry about that. Um, well, you remember that we were on Rawl and fighting your dad? You kinda got caught in a really nasty trap and Tinya found you half-dead. Poor thing was hysteric when we found the both of you and you were already unconscious from loss of blood. Don't worry too much about your injuries, though. With the great treatment provided by the people here of Winath, Brainy's medicine and help from yours truly," she paused in this explanation to raise her arms outwards to motion to the room, the exasperated green young man and herself, "You should be back on active duty in a couple of weeks."
"Ten days," Brainy corrected, making an adjustment to Brin's IV to lower the dosage of medication and earning a death glare from the woman he had been spending more time with as of late.
Concern where it was not unfounded. A hand that feels heavy and moves in slow motions. A croaked voice kept under by a wish not to further an injury.
Gritting his teeth like he was trying to lift a hundred pounds of dead weight, Brin's right hand twitched and he pointed at Tinya, still sleeping and apparently heavily into REM sleep, "How…long…has…she…been…here…?"
Violet stopped glaring at Brainy and looked down at Brin's hand with the broken fingernails and then over to Tinya. When she looked back at Brin, she had a smile on her face most often found on the mothers of children who do things only amazing to the mother.
"Oh, Phantom Girl has been here the whole time you were out. She said that she didn't want you to wake up by yourself and she wasn't moving out until you opened those blazing yellows."
"Three days," Brainy added, now moving over to the ebony haired young woman to adjust the blanket one of them had apparently slipped on her when she had lost the battle of awakeness to a few hours sleep, "She's been here and ignoring us every time we told her to allow herself the basic need to eat and sleep. She finally couldn't stay awake and lost consciousness three hours ago. Completely illogical, if you ask me."
An emotion that lingers in the brightest spectrum of reality. Warmth in the belly that settles into the torso and then one particular cavity of the chest. A smile that is given in silence and gratitude.
Brin felt the medication wearing down and thinning out so he could maintain awareness for a while, Brainy have set the IV to half the dosage now that Brin was awake and his animal side could take care of the damage much more affectively now. When both of the extremely intelligent Legionnaires left to give Brin some peace and quiet, they pretended not to notice how alert he made himself and how he was completely focused on Tinya as her breathing caused a quiet rise and fall of her chest.
Was this what it was like when she was watching him? He was taking a note at how tiny she was, curled up into the side of one arm of the chair, blanket covering her like a Grizzly Bear's pelt over a baby deer; how peaceful she looked when she didn't have to prove herself; the emotion of worry rising up within him at remembering how Brainy said she'd been so worried; and then the emotion of warmth at knowing that worry was for him.
She rescued him and watched over him. He would watch over her now and, if she let him, would return the other half of what was given in turn….If it ever came.
The fabled colors of Snow White in the books of the Brothers Grimm. A pair of tiny feet in socks that keep the eye for a moment. Comfort in being around the person you love without words, even when held within the veil of sleep.