Title: Chapter 2: Skinner Drinks Himself into a Stupor

Fandom: LXG

Rating: R, I can't be bothered to individually rate the chapters so I'm just rating the fic as a whole.

Summary: Skinner drinks himself unconscious and has a very odd dream.

Warnings: icky descriptions of injuries.

Disclaimer: I own few things. League of Extraordinary Gentlemen ISN'T one of them

AN: This chapter has a LOT of fuzzy science. Most things medical are wrong and wouldn't be known in the time that this fic is set but… ah, what can you do. Also, I'm not good at continuity when it comes to injuries. I should work on it but usually my fics are a lot shorter and self-contained, this is my first attempt at writing a story that has so many chapters. Sorry about the lack of continuity, I try my best but I suck at it.

Chapter 2: Skinner Drinks Himself into a Stupor

'It wasn't fair! It wasn't right!' Skinner thought whilst lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He fumbled around for the nearest liquor bottle and drank from it without even looking at the label. Skinner didn't even care what it was and he was so preoccupied that he couldn't identify the taste. It was strong but his emotions were stronger.

He refused to believe Henry was dead, but what upset him the most was that the others didn't even seem to care! They seemed perfectly happy with the evil monster controlling Jekyll's body. They treated him as part of the League, but considered the death of the good Doctor as 'no great loss'!

But they didn't know Henry like Rodney had done. Rodney felt as though he couldn't survive in a world without the kindness and compassion the Doctor had; or in a world that didn't mourn the loss of such a man.

Skinner took another swig from the now half-empty bottle. He was downing it as if it was water.

What made it even more painful for Skinner, really excruciatingly painful, was that it was Henry's body but not Henry's brain. The brain of a monster inside the body of the most beautiful man Skinner had ever seen. Not the most handsome; yet definitely the most beautiful. An evil mind such as Hyde's polluted and corrupted Henry's body. It wasn't right!

How was it even possible? Hyde's mind had Hyde's body: an overgrown ape. Jekyll's genius had a body to fit that genius. That's the way it was. That's the way it should always be! So why wasn't it?

Perhaps… perhaps the others were right. Henry had died; his mind; his soul; his essence, all gone. Only the broken body lived on and Hyde took control of that, no opposition to challenge him. Hyde didn't feel the pain because it wasn't his body.

No!

Skinner drank his bitter thoughts away. He refused to accept that Henry was dead because it wasn't true! He needed it not to be true but was reluctant to examine that need too closely. All he knew was that it was messed up.

The empty bottle slipped through Skinner's fingers and rolled gently on the floor. The room was spinning and nothing made sense. Skinner thought back to the apparition he saw in the Great Hall. Maybe he was going crazy? But Skinner didn't have time to dwell on it. He wasn't sober enough to think about it and soon fell into an alcohol-induced sleep.

He dreamt of Henry.

Skinner was in the empty medical bay. Nobody was in there except for Skinner. And an unconscious Henry lying in a broken and bloody mess on the floor, just as Skinner had found the real Henry, after the battle. Skinner automatically did as he had done before: he ran over, then dropped to his knees next to the body and felt for a pulse.

This time… there was one.

It very weak, very faint, but it WAS there. Henry was alive, but not breathing. So Skinner gave him his breath, he'd seen Henry do it before. He tilted Henry's head back slightly and opened the mouth before pressing his mouth against it and passed his breath on. Skinner closed his eyes, trying to think about anything except for how Henry's lips felt against his own. He pumped Henry's chest, pumping the blood around Henry's body, pumping the limited oxygen. He repeated this procedure for what seemed like hours, refusing to give up. In the end it worked and Henry started breathing on his own.

Henry was breathing, but he still wasn't conscious.

Perhaps it was better that way. Henry wouldn't feel the pain as Skinner fixed up the injuries as best he could. It would take quite a while; there were a lot of injuries.

Henry's body was full of holes, only held together by bruised flesh. Bones were broken and blood was everywhere. Skinner stripped the body of its outer garments so he could have access and, somehow, moved the limp body to the operating table. The dry sawdust on the floor didn't stay dry for long but it did serve its purpose and prevented Skinner from slipping.

Having mopped up the blood on Henry's body, Skinner could clearly see what needed to be sewn up. The main priority was to sew up the hole in the Doctor's stomach and back, where the sword had skewered him. Skinner did this swiftly and well as he had seen the good Doctor do so many times before. Thankfully, no internal organs were pierced and Skinner was fairly certain all internal bleeds Henry might have had were gone.

Happy with his work on sewing up the hole in Henry's middle, Skinner fixed the tear in his cheek that was so deep you could see into Henry's mouth even when that mouth was closed. He also patched up the gash on Henry's forehead, which had refused to stop bleeding otherwise.

Skinner stepped back to reflect on his handiwork. But there was still more to be done.

"This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, buddy." Skinner whispered to the still unconscious Doctor Henry Jekyll. He wouldn't stay that way for long.

Doctor Jekyll screamed loudly in agony as Skinner twisted his foot almost 45 degrees to where it should be, tears running down the faces of both men as the Doctor soon passed out from pain and blood-loss.

Skinner worked in peace as he reset bones in the Doctor's legs and arms, before plastering a cast over them so if Henry did wake he couldn't move, or break them again. He also had put both of Henry's hands in a solid cast so the bones would heal straight. As well as that, he had removed several bone fragments and a part of a broken rib that threatened to puncture Henry's heart or lungs. To top it off, Skinner smothered Henry in ointment to reduce the swelling and pain. Skinner had fixed him up as best as he could.

Now all he could do was wait.

Skinner waited patiently, a stalwart vigil. He waited for hours, watching for any sign that Henry might gain consciousness anytime soon. He refused to sleep until he knew that Henry would recover. But he couldn't help daydreaming, trying not to think about Henry and failing. He was so lost in his daydream that he jumped when he actually heard Henry's voice, as soft and as weak as it was.

"Mister… Skinner?" Henry faintly asked. And the world melted away.

Rodney Skinner woke to find that he was in his own room, not the infirmary. An empty bottle of whiskey on the floor with a throbbing pain in his head to accompany it. He didn't want to remember. He couldn't forget. It was getting harder and harder to separate dreams from reality, what he wanted to be true with what actually was.

Skinner made as if to drag his hands over his face but stopped short. There was blood on his hands.