ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-
BANG!
ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh
CLANG!
ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh
"GOOD MORNING. I BROUGHT BREAKFAST!"
ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh
Giriko opened a blurry eye to a room too brightly lit, and repressed the urge to burrow his head under the pillow.
He sighed instead, and shot a baleful look towards the disgustingly energetic Death Scythe, who was apparently still around to make his life miserable. Despite the early hour – the bedside clock said 7AM -, Justin moved through the room like a whirlwind, throwing windows open and closet doors shut, banging a food tray on Giriko's bedside table, and moving things around without discernable purpose. In his wake, distorted, erratic fragments of melody filled the space, like cancer turned noise, each electronic tune another aggression towards Giriko's sleep-addled mind. The chainsaw managed an unhappy groan. Too much stimuli. Too loud. Well hello, headache, I hadn't missed you, he thought as the back of his skull throbbed with renewed ardor.
Not even real morning yet and the priest was already such a pain in the ass. Just Giriko's luck: his ass was possibly the only part of his body that wasn't hurting right now.
"HAVE YOU SLEPT WELL?", the priest asked.
Giriko recoiled from the noise, teeth bared. Justin raised a sceptic eyebrow, as if the amount of decibels his mouth had just released was no reason for such fuss.
"Shit, quiet down, you're like a walking megaphone," Giriko muttered, rubbing his eyes with his sound hand. His eyelids still felt heavy with sleep.
The priest had the nerve to look confused. "WHAT?", he said, at a volume that could shatter glass and maybe even rocks.
"YOU'RE FUCKING LOUD, DUMBASS!", Giriko yelled, and hissed as white-hot pain flashed through his torso. Owwww. Broken ribs and fresh scars didn't mix well with shouting, he thought too late, taking careful breaths until the pain receded to something bearable. He slumped back in the cushions, feeling tired and weak. Fuck, how he hated it.
Out of the corner of an eye he saw Justin fumbling with a device, until the earphones' ugly beats became barely audible. "How thoughtless of me," the priest said and stuffed his music device back in his pocket. "There, is this better?" His face was earnest and apologetic, as if he meant what he just said.
Giriko frowned. If yesterday's taunts hadn't taught him better, he would be inclined to think the Death Scythe was being considerate. Now he knew this had to be Justin's bizarre brand of psychological warfare – and no, the hand-on-his-knee-event didn't change a damn thing. "What twisted game are you playing?", he murmured to himself.
Justin shot him an enigmatic smile in response, damn his lip-reading-skills. That asshole probably thought he was being clever, the way his blue eyes twinkled. They had a light, cat-like slant, Giriko noticed. A perfect wannabe-sphynx.
The chainsaw gave a demonstrative eye roll, and focused on the food tray, which held a bowl of the same weird gruel he hadn't touched the previous evening, pills, water and some tea. He didn't feel hungry, but there were delicate vapor tendrils curling over the tea cup, igniting a sudden longing for the hot beverage. He could already feel it warm his stomach, nowhere as good as the comforting burn of alcohol, but with the big benefit of being available. He clumsily propped himself up on his left elbow and reached for the cup, ignoring the various areas of his body that loudly protested against the movement.
A pale hand snatched the tea cup away.
Giriko stared at where his own extended hand grasped at thin air, and slowly looked up. He knew death glares weren't actually lethal, but that didn't mean he couldn't try.
"Uh-uh", the priest said with a stern look, and shook the plastic pill container with a rattle-like noise. "Medication first. Your hand, please."
After a few seconds of inner fight between pride and lassitude, Giriko held out his right hand, still trying very hard to promise a thousand deaths with his eyes alone. Justin emptied the container in it. A dozen of pills of different sizes, forms and colors gathered in the chainsaw's large palm like the world's least appealing candy. He eyed them suspiciously.
"What do I need all that shit for?"
Justin frowned. "Uhm, I know that, just give me a second ... " He designated each pill in turn. "Those are pain meds, that's anti-inflammatories, this one's an antibiotic, that's an anti-, uhm, anti-something, too. Here's ... wait, uh, Pepcid, I think, and this one – uhm, no idea what that one is. Nothing bad, I guess."
"What a great nurse you are," Giriko snarled, not reassured. He preferred his medicine liquid and high-proof, thank you very much.
"I'm more of a babysitter, technically," Justin replied in a light voice.
Giriko merely huffed at the jibe, and muttered, feeling childish: "You tryin' to poison me?"
The priest laughed at that, the sound clear and ringing like a bell. "That's not my style. When I liquidate someone, it's always upfront!" he said with a broad smile, and he had never born less resemblance to the cold killing machine Giriko had once faced. "Also, you've agreed to Lord Death's deal, haven't you? If you build things for us, that means you're part of the DWMA. And I don't kill my colleagues, as a matter of principle."
News travelled fast around here. Giriko felt his guts clench and bitter bile rise in his throat, so he hurriedly tossed the handful of pills in his mouth and washed them down with the water before he could lose his countenance. If only shame could be swallowed down that easily, he thought. Colleague. Urgh. That implication he hadn't gathered from his late-night chat.
Justin made a little approving noise, as if the chainsaw was a rather dumb dog that finally learned a new trick, and Giriko really wanted to punch him, but then what was new under the sun. He took hold of the tea cup instead, and burned his tongue on the first sip. Of course. Somewhere in the universe, a sadistic god was making sure no part of him was left unharmed. He hissed a long string of his dirtiest curse words and felt viciously satisfied when the priest backed away a step, looking slightly startled, the little prude.
A sharp tug at his ankles when he tried to move reminded Giriko of another implication of his new status. He called out to Justin, kicking to make the short chains binding his ankles clink.
"Is it usual to keep your colleagues," he spit out the word like it tasted of rubbish, "In chains?". Hopefully it wasn't? Who knew with those Death suckers.
"Oh, right, hold on."
To his great relief, the locks soon clicked open under the priest's fingers and Giriko was free to go wherever his mess of a body would take him. Or maybe he could kick in those perfect teeth to ruin the Death Scythe's sly grin. He managed to sit up without spilling the tea or tearing the IV tube out of his arm, and dreamily contemplated the possibilities. How would Justin look with a tooth gap?
"How sad. It suited you," the priest sighed, dangling the handcuffs from one finger. Still smug, Giriko answered his own question with faint annoyance. He indulged in letting his chains run freely on his legs for a few seconds, a friendly reminder it was unwise to push him. The shrieking roar felt as soothing as a cat's purr to his ears, but for the first time he could remember he barely managed the transformation, too exhausted to focus. White tufts of shredded blanket drifted through the air like tiny butterflies.
"Wow, I'm scared," Justin drawled, voice dripping condescension like some exotic venom, and sat down at his desk to start working; his blond head started bobbing up and down to the rhythm of his music. For a few moments the anger Giriko felt at that pale, arrogant pieceofshit of a priest obscured even the headache. He very seriously thought about leaping right into attack, to make a terrible, bloody mess and give the priest every reason to be scared. But there was the fatigue that radiated from deep within his bones, and slaughter didn't seem quite worth the effort in the end. He took a few sips of tea, gobbled three spoonful of the disgustingly bland gruel, wrapped himself more snuggly into the torn blanket and was asleep the second his head hit the pillow.
Nygus really couldn't stand him, Giriko decided, registering the nurse's pinched expression as she removed the IV tube from his arm. Her face wasn't bandaged today for some reason, and bore no trace of the hideous scars Giriko had been half-expecting the wraps to cover. She'd be very pretty, with her full lips and high cheekbones, if it wasn't for the way her mouth curled in distaste every time she looked in the chainsaw's general direction. It was soothing, in a weird kind of way. No ambiguity here, he knew exactly what to expect from her: no pity, no mercy, and a whole lot of distrust. Fine by him. The feelings were reciprocated.
"Untie your shirt", Nygus ordered, putting on latex gloves. "I have to check on your wound." The underlying annoyance in her voice was probably related to Giriko's new-found lack of restraints; he had heard her argue about it with Justin while he was slowly waking up. She'd have preferred to lock him up, it seemed. But that ain't gonna happen, you paranoid cunt, Giriko thought with some defiance.
He began to work open the knots holding the front of his hospital gown together, casting a leery glance at Justin, whose face was hidden behind an ancient-looking manuscript. It was difficult one-handed, but he managed to open the garment enough for access to his abdomen. He looked down at himself in order to locate the wound amidst the diffuse zone of pain, and gulped. The scar, a thick, angry red bulge, had the length of his hand. A thread held it together, its black zigzag a stark contrast to the swollen flesh. Giriko reached out to touch, but Nygus swatted his hand away and carefully prodded the wound with a gloved finger herself. It hurt, but not as much as his earlier screaming fit had. The pain meds had probably kicked in.
The nurse angrily sighed.
"Of course, after your idiotic behavior yesterday, some of the stitches just had to tear open." She shot a reproachful look at Justin over her shoulder, who had been watching the scene with curious eyes, and the young man quickly ducked away behind his document. "Should have thought to check. I'll have to renew it."
Giriko harrumphed and chose a random spot on the ceiling to focus on while Nygus disinfected the wound with something achingly cold. He steadfastly began to list things he'd like to drink in his head. Maybe he'd manage to keep the stabbing and pulling sensation at bay. Whiskey. Brandy. A cool craft beer - a tug like a fiery caterpillar worming through his flesh -. Cognac! Port wine!
By the time the nurse was done, Giriko was trembling and would have given a kidney for something alcoholic. Probably a lung, too.
"See, wasn't that bad," the woman said while rinsing her needle. What a bitch.
"I'll cut you up, then you can share the fun," the chainsaw snapped. To his relief his voice did not quaver. "How long 'til I can walk again?"
Nygus rolled her eyes at the threat and shrugged, unconcerned. "Hard to tell. Depends on how fast a healer you are. From the swelling I guess it will be three to five weeks until the sprain gets better. And six to eight weeks for the broken bones to mend."
That meant at least three weeks of relying on that blond douchebag for almost everything. He didn't remember being so helpless in any of his lives. Hell, why? Somewhere, the sadistic god was snickering in glee. Giriko nervously ran a hand through his hair, and was surprised to pull it back covered in dark smudges. Soot, he recognized. At once, he felt disgustingly grimy.
"I want to shower," he announced. Scrub myself clean of this whole disaster of a situation, he didn't add.
Nygus looked him over, sniffed once, and nodded. "Wouldn't hurt. I guess a sponge bath won't do?" She chuckled at his indignant expression. "Thought so," she said. "Let's get that scar wrapped."
"And gimme some real clothes afterwards," Giriko added while she plastered a plastic film on his abdomen. "I'm sick of that hospital garbage." That mint-green cloth made him want to puke, honestly.
"So demanding," Justin interjected. He had been keeping track of the conversation. Of course. Giriko cast him a scornful look, and the priest smiled back like he always did.
Nygus looked like she was torn between the impulse to disagree with Giriko on pure principle, and the desire to make her job easier by keeping him halfway docile. The latter won. "Justin, go get some clothes," she ordered.
"Yes, ma'am." The young man stood up and smoothed down his black robe. "I'm thinking pink and frilly?"
Giriko facepalmed. Nygus merely shook her head in resignation and muttered something sounding like "kids".
"Need anything else?," the priest added teasingly on his way out. "Scented soaps, loofah, motor oil?"
"A toothbrush," Giriko grumbled, minding the tea's tart aftertaste.
"A toothbrush let it be. Alas!," the young man exclaimed in a faux-dramatic voice, bringing a hand to his forehead in one sweeping movement like an actor in a tragedy. "I almost envy you. That shower's a marvel. The massage spray is to fall for, and one could fit an army within those tiled walls."
"What, wanna join me?" Giriko said dryly, and took a mouthful of water to rinse away the sourness.
Justin stopped in his tracks, one hand on the doorframe, and shot him a smoldering look over his shoulder, back curving like a cat's. "My, I might just take you up on that," he purred.
The only way the Death Scythe could have been more suggestive was if he had winked and waggled with his eyebrows. Giriko spurted out his drink, eliciting a curse from Nygus who'd been in the way and got soaked, and began coughing madly. The priest disappeared in the corridor, a bout of laughter in his wake.
Had he just been hit on? Parts of Giriko were busy fending off the cough-induced pain in his ribs, but his mind was franticly doing the math: subtract the heavy priest garments, add glistening droplets to wet the skin just so, and the end result was riveting. The priest's hair would turn a deep honey blond under the shower spray, lips shimmering with moisture, and rivulets of water would pool in the hollow of his back when he'd bend down to ... – holy shit.
Mind out of the gutter, man. That was a bad, bad trail of thought if Giriko ever had one, and he really should nip it in the bud before the image of Justin as some kind of shower naiad rooted itself too firmly in his head. Neither the right place, nor the right time to fantasize about banging his pretty little keeper into oblivion. Nygus was giving him a suspicious look, so the chainsaw put some effort in erasing the bewildered expression from his face and hoped he didn't look as turned on as he felt. The priest should be proud of himself, he inwardly fumed: he had successfully put Giriko on edge, which seemed to be the Death Scythe's end goal at all times. No respite to be had in this godforsaken place, Giriko thought dolefully. Now even his libido was used against him.
He cleared his throat and looked up to the nurse. "Is he always that ?...," he made a vague motion with his hand.
"You bring out the worst in him," she simply stated.
On the plus side, the shower really was a true marvel. There was a plastic stool to sit on, enough room to stretch his long legs, and the massage spray was as good as advertised. On the down side, his ribs were hurting with every movement and it made the whole cleaning up part a tad difficult. So Giriko just sat there, letting himself be boiled alive in the hot steam with delight, and assessed his body. He had discovered while stripping that his entire left side looked like it had served as a canvas for a painter of debatable taste; the bruises his usually tan skin bore ranged from a greenish yellow to the deepest of purple. A few crimson scratches scattered here and there were a certain indicator that tree bark wasn't the gentlest exfoliator. But hey, he had all of his limbs left. That was more than lots of his former opponents could say, he thought with a smile, fond memories of his blades plowing through flesh and bones replaying on his mind.
Man, he really loved being a chainsaw. There was nothing comparable to the mechanical maelstrom he could unleash at will. Weapon blood had been in his veins for a few lifetimes now – Arachne's lifework finally mingled with his very substance – and he hadn't stopped reveling in the ability to transform ever since. He was quite proud of some of the tricks he had learned as one of the few autonomous weapons out there, and totally in love with the furious roar and the pungent smell of gasoline of his weapon form. If this had to be his final body, than fine. He had had worse, and was glad he hadn't fucked up that one too much yet.
He sluggishly lathered himself up, trying not to get foam inside his waterproof cast cover, and watched as greyish water poured down his shoulders and into the drain.
He had survived worse shit. Time to move on now. Forward was the only direction he knew, anyway. He'd be all right. Right?
Later when he was clean, dry and screaming himself hoarse at Justin for daring to hand him a T-shirt prominently featuring the DWMA skull logo, like they could brand him like fucking cattle, and frenzied, impotent fury was coursing through him like wildfire, he thought he probably wasn't all right at all.
But the priest's gaze, for all his face was impavid and his eyebrow cocked mockingly, was flickering to the nipple piercings adorning Giriko's bare chest on a regular basis, and there was something unsteady in those cold blue eyes. The chainsaw felt his anger recede somewhat, lips curling into a predatory smirk.
The tips of Justin's ears were beet-red.
Maybe there was some fun to be had.
