Author's note ~ Hope you enjoy.
He rolled out of bed, pulling his discarded jeans and shirt on in a blink. Yanking the bar away from the door, he shoved it open and followed the already running Newt in a rapid – if slightly bowlegged – sprint.
Adrian overtook Newt scant steps in front of the med hut, passing the boy and slowing his urgent run to a more dignified and powerful stride as he moved through the small building. It was impossible to ignore the panicky shouting and babbling flowing from the office; two voices raised in anger and hysteria, one of which was so squeaky in pitch it all but hurt his teeth. Two others speaking much lower, their agitated voices weaving through the ruckus. Following the clear path of splotches and spatters on the dirt floor the man focused on projecting a calm, collected authority as he pushed his way into the frenetic atmosphere of the room. Four people were jammed into the small office, only three of which Adrian knew.
"What's going on here, guys?"
Everyone started talking at once.
"It's not the first shucking time I've cut myself, and it won't be the last! I just need a damn bandage! I need to get back to the kitchen, what, you think food makes itself?! No way he's sewing me up like some klunk bag of flour!" Frypan snarled, his right hand wrapped in a formerly white chunk of cloth and steadily dripping on the floor, his smooth dark skin a patchwork of angry red burns and blisters.
The unfamiliar boy, short, stocky, and currently as pale as flour himself, looked to be on the edge of fainting as his voice squeaked over the injured cook.
"It's bad it's bad it's bad it's bad! I saw it, I saw it before he wrapped it! Oh god, it's to the bone, right to the bone, what are we gonna do?! What if he loses his hand? Is he going to lose his hand? Ohgodohgodohgod, what are we gonna do?!"
"He has to let me look at it." Jeff insisted, already sweating bullets, his eyes cutting from Adrian to Frypan desperately. "I can't help if I can't even look at it. This is what I've been training for, I can't just wrap it up without looking at it!"
"You're bleeding all over the shuckin' place and you're worried about finishing breakfast?" Alby demanded, his patience obviously worn thin. "Forget breakfast! Stop being a whiny little slinthead and just let them deal with it! How do you expect to make meals without any fingers left on your stupid hand?!"
"That's enough!" Adrian boomed over the din, instantly drawing attention from all parties. "You're acting like children. Let's just calm the hell down and take this one step at a time. Firstly; you." He pointed at the boy he didn't know. "Name."
"R-Rob. I'm Rob. I work in the kitchen with Frypan and the other guys. What're we gonn–"
"Stop." Adrian ordered firmly. "Go and sit on one of the bunks in the main area for a few minutes. Put your head between your knees if you feel sick, or woozy. Take deep breaths. Maybe Newt can get you a drink of water." The runner nodded, stepping out quickly. "When you feel steady, go back to the kitchen. Tell them to continue prepping breakfast, and that someone will come by shortly to help sort things out."
"But...but, we don't...without Frypan...we can't..."
"Go. Sit, breathe, water, kitchen. We'll sort out the rest later. Go. Now."
Sick and shaking, the boy stumbled out of the office and collapsed on a rough bunk, choosing one as far from the office as he could get. Moving on, Adrian turned to Alby.
"I've got it under control here. Perhaps you could stop off at the cook hut, let them know things are okay, see if you can get the others working on what needs doing there."
"Yeah, I can, it's just...I don't know anything about cooking." Alby confessed, watching the cook with a mixture of frustration and concern on his face. Adrian felt his eye twitch at the statement.
"Keep them calm. Tell them to peel potatoes, chop onions, bring in four dozen eggs, if we have them. Make sure they have flour on hand. Let them know I'll be by to help them in a little while."
"Yeah, okay." Alby nodded as he left, considerably relieved at the simple, specific instructions. "I can do that."
Adrian finally turned to the actual victim, stoically silent, his rich black skin going ashy and clammy while Jeff fluttered around ineffectively.
"You've lost a lot of blood. Hop up on the bed, let's get you cleaned up and on your way."
"Just a bandage, you hear me?" Frypan asserted, wobbling a little as he complied and got up on the bed. "I'm not a freakin' pair of runnies, I don't want no needlepoint on me!"
"Let's see what we can do. Jeff?"
Already moving, calmer and more confident in the man's presence, the fledgling medic hustled around the med hut gathering disinfectant, ointment, clean cloths and bandages, and started a pot of water boiling for an oral painkiller. Adrian quickly tied a tourniquet mid way up the forearm before easing the blood soaked fabric away, gently uncurling the cold fingers to expose the cut. As it looked like the cook had dipped the whole appendage in crimson paint, he gently cleaned the area around the gaping slash and leaned in to get a closer look.
It wasn't pretty. But, all in all, Adrian decided, it could have been worse.
"Good news, bad news." He told Frypan placidly. "The bad news is yes, you went right down to the bone, and we will need to stitch it. If we don't," He continued, cutting off Frypan's angry refusal, "you're looking at three weeks or longer before you can use this hand for anything – and it'll never be the same. If I just wrap it, try to force it to heal without securing the flesh and muscles in place...even when the skin is healed you'll have to deal with continuing weakness and intermittent shakiness at best, permanent loss of fine control and full tremors, at worst."
"What's the good news?!" Frypan snarled, eyes a little glassy.
"You missed the major tendons and nerves, from the look of it." Adrian answered, cleaning off the last bit of blood from the wide, calloused hand. "Meaning we can disinfect it, sew it up, slap a bandage on it, and you can get back to light duty in five days, probably full duty in three or four after that. In two weeks, should be good as new – if we stitch it now." He said firmly. Frypan swallowed audibly.
"...fine. Fine." Frypan grumbled, caving with ill grace. "If you're so damn sure it's the only way...just do it then. Get it over with."
Adrian refrained from commenting, subtly waving Jeff over from where he stood at the ready, a threaded needle in his hand. He gently poked and prodded the skin around the burns on Frypan's left arm and the left side of his neck while Jeff competently sutured the gaping wound. Satisfied, he stepped back and gave the medjack room to work.
"Mostly second degree burns, easy enough to treat. A few small spots of third degree, here and here," Adrian commented, pointing to a number of thicker, whitish areas on Frypan's arm to show Jeff, "Clean the thirds first, taking off the dead surface skin. Then coat everything in a thick layer of antibiotic ointment. Get a painkiller and an anti-inflammatory in him, hydrate him, and set him loose. And, if you want to heal as quickly as you can," He said, directing a no-nonsense look at the surly cook, "you'll apply the cream he gives you, three times a day, and come in for a check up every day for a week. Got it?"
Frypan muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. Still, Adrian understood the words were more for show than anything, and believed the proud cook would do as he was instructed. Assured that Jeff had things well under control, he clapped a hand gently to Frypan's uninjured shoulder, giving it a brotherly squeeze and addressing the underlying reason for the boy's concern.
"You don't need me here; I'll head over to the kitchen, see to things over there. We'll get breakfast out to the masses, no worries."
He could all but feel the relief rolling off the cook as he headed for the door.
The building that housed the cooking facilities was visibly older than any of the others Adrian had seen in the glade, and was put together in such a manner that the man felt it had probably hadn't been built by teenage hands. Walking into the cook hut was like stepping through a portal to some weird kindergarten cooking class – with the teacher no where to be found. Four boys (including the now slightly steadier Rob) were rushing around ineffectively, no one knowing what they were doing or where they were going, hectically flitting from task to task and accomplishing nothing in the process. Alby stood by the wall at the far side, watching the chaos and looking utterly out of his depth.
Despite all the confusion it was clear that Alby had relayed his instructions. He spied a huge pot of peeled potatoes, a small mountain of chopped onions, a large basket of eggs, a bag of flour hanging drunkenly off a table. The three fireplaces were burning hot; two were covered with large sheets of thick steel and the other with a kind of grate, providing multiple cooking surfaces. He could work with this.
He bound his hair back into a little stub of a tail with a small elastic band that had been among the medical supplies, taking a spare rag he'd stuffed in his pocket and tying it over his scalp to serve as a hair net. He rolled up his sleeves, cracked his neck, and considered himself ready.
"Oi! Slim it, now!" He belted out, the volume and familiar phrase cutting off the noise and movement. "Frypan's out for a couple of days – which means this is my kitchen now." One of the boy looked a little dubious at the strange announcement, but the others looked pitifully grateful to have some form of direction. "We've got three dozen hungry mouths to feed, hop to it! You, crack those eggs into the second biggest bowl we got, then beat 'em smooth. You," Adrian pointed to assign tasks, not bothering to ask for names at the moment, "Show me where the dry goods are, then hit the bloodhouse. Tell Winston I want a bucket of milk – and I don't want to wait all morning for it! You, Rob, get those potatoes chopped, little cubes. You, biggest bowl, two thirds full with flour, then bring over a big bucket of water and ten of those eggs, unbroken. When you've done that, help Rob with the potatoes. Get on it, move your asses!"
The boys scrambled off, still moving frantically but this time doing so with actual purpose now that they had been given their orders. Left alone in the pantry for a moment, Adrian methodically took stock of the available supplies.
Jars of spices, bags of salt, yes, good. Baking powder, baking soda, okay, thanks for that. What's this? Yeast? He sniffed the container. Yeast. That'll come in handy. Oatmeal, perfect, that's tomorrow's breakfast then. Rice, dry beans, lentils, various grains. Oil, lots of oil, good, good. No pasta, there's a pity, but I can work around it. I know there's fresh vegetables from the gardens, so that's a plus. Sugar, that's nice to have. Curing salt? Really? Who the hell would have sent this up, thinking these kids would just know how to use it?
Backing away from the rough wooden shelves with an assortment of jars and bottles in his arms, he spied a largish rusted metal cube stuffed in one corner of the room. Setting his supplies on top of it, he ran a hand over it curiously before tugging on the incised handle on the side.
"You've got to be kidding me."
It was a refrigeration unit; old and beat up, the interior giving off a musty smell, but very operational from the crisp cold that pumped out of the empty space inside. It appeared far too heavy and awkward for the boys to have moved by hand, so he was forced to assume that it had been put in place before the first group was sent up. He couldn't see any power supply, so he guessed that it was most likely hard wired in place, receiving electricity from an outside source. Curious, he didn't hesitate to ask.
"You've always had a cold box in here?"
"What? Oh, that. Yeah." Rob answered absently, glancing up from his growing mound of chopped potatoes. "Dunno why, we never use it. It's just always been there, taking up space, and it's too shuckin' heavy to move out, so we ignore it and work around it."
Inwardly rolling his eyes at the careless dismissal of such an important asset, he started doctoring up the bowl of flour as the boy he'd sent for milk puffed his way over, setting down the heavy pail with a grunt.
"You, milkmaid, your name?" Adrian asked, briskly breaking eggs into his dry mixture.
"Lee. Meetcha. What next?"
"You ever make pancakes before, Lee?"
Adrian systematically worked his way through creating the meal, ordering the boys around without a second thought – it was painfully clear that none of them were particularly good at thinking on their feet, or taking initiative to move from task to task without instruction. It was only slightly after the normal breakfast time when Adrian took the bins of fresh, steaming food and set them up on Frypan's usual serving table. Already a line of hungry boys was waiting for him, most with eyes still crusted from sleep, looking cranky and impatient at the short wait. Leaving the four kitchen helpers sitting in the cook hut with their own portions, Adrian took charge of serving.
Though he hadn't done any appreciable work with food in a long time, Adrian very quickly formed a rhythm that had the line moving briskly – take the offered plate, add two pancakes, a decent scoop of scrambled eggs, a bigger scoop of seasoned pan-fried potatoes and onions, take the next plate. He swiped a forearm across his sweaty forehead, falling into a kind of trance as he worked, dishing up plates without breaking stride. Surly expressions and questioning looks at the absence of Frypan quickly changed to hunger and greed as boys got a good look at (and smell of) the meal set before them. By the time the rest of the gladers had trickled in and lined up, others were already cuing up at the back, hoping for seconds. Adrian was brought back to the moment when a familiar snicker accompanied the plate thrust into his hands.
"Smells pretty bloody good." Newt conceded, watching the man with laughing eyes. "And I must say, you look absolutely precious in an apron. Mary. Thanks for breakfast."
"Keep it up, brat," Adrian replied dryly. "and you'll be eating mush while the others dine on steak."
Scoffing at the idea, Newt moved out of the line and leaned on the wall of the cook hut behind Adrian, shoveling in the unexpected treat as he watched the man.
"Wuu 'n Gff ghee Fliiipahn swart'd ooet?" He tried to ask.
"Yeah, he'll be alright. Don't talk with your mouth full."
Newt swallowed, snorting at the uselessness of the comment.
"Yes Mother, sorry Mother." Newt teased before taking another huge bite.
"Speak of the devils." Adrian commented, ignoring the bad joke as he spotted the cook and the medjack straggling into the dining area. He waved them to the front of the line, to the disappointed grumbling of the boys waiting for a second helping. He filled both of their plates generously, thinking of energy spent and blood lost just that morning. Noting that they were the last to get their meal, he called one of the others to serve the leftovers.
"Dave! Front and center!"
A whip skinny boy with a spatter of freckles across his pale face scooted out of the building.
"Yeah! I'm here, what's...oh, hey, it's Frypan!"
"Good eyes." Adrian said teasingly, unable to bring himself to really rip on the kid. "It's Frypan, indeed. I'm sure he'll poke his head in once he's eaten and before we're done with breakfast, but until then...finish serving these gluttons, would you? Everyone's been through once, now it's free for all."
"Got it." Dave chirped happily, thrilled to see his keeper up and about with his own eyes.
Adrian swooped back into the kitchen, nodding to the three boys relaxing with their empty plates. Newt ducked in behind him, catching the tail end of his address.
"...and once the dishes from breakfast are done, I want two of you to haul in another bag of flour, one of grain, a dozen clean jars with lids, and another couple buckets of fresh water. Peel and chop enough carrots to fill that pot, same again of potatoes, peel and chop nine big onions. Kill the fire in the second flat top, boost the one on the grill. I've got to go see the slicers; I'll be back in a while."
When Adrian turned to go, he almost bumped right into the silently observing boy behind him.
"Sorry kid, didn't know you were in here."
"No worries." He answered, watching Adrian with a speculative look in his eyes. "Bloody good breakfast, as I said. Did you get any of it?"
"I'll eat later." Adrian replied, brushing off the thinly veiled concern. "First, I've got to talk to a man about a pig – and get prep for lunch and dinner going."
Newt was speechless.
"Lunch and dinner? We're still finishing breakfast!"
"And you think I can just whip out a meal for forty people in ten minutes flat, do you?" Adrian spoke over his shoulder, already on the move. "Food takes time; time to prep, make, serve. Time to plan, to clean up after. I start now, or come lunch time you'll be making do with apples and leftover pancakes."
Newt watched him go, baffled.
By the time mid afternoon rolled around Adrian was ready for a break. Haggling over cuts of meat with Winston, chasing Frypan out of the kitchen, throwing together a down and dirty batch of wood stove quick biscuits, slapping them together with pork skewers and crunchy carrot sticks and calling it lunch, chasing Frypan out of the kitchen again, and setting the preps up to work on dinner, he had no qualms about stealing an hour for himself before the dinner rush hit. After an interruption, an adrenaline rush, and several hours of sweaty work, his already long day wasn't even close to finished yet.
Carrying a banged up metal bucket, a small metal tube he'd unearthed in the bowels of the kitchen and a long thick nail he'd coerced out of one of the supply crates, he headed into the cover of the trees.
It didn't take him long to spot what he was looking for; twenty five or thirty feet tall, the distinctive rippled bark and unmistakable five lobed leaves identifying it quicker than if someone had pinned a sign to its bark. Pulling his knife from the sheath on his belt, he used the razor sharp tip to carve a small hole through the bark and into the wood, whittling until he felt it was large enough. Grabbing a rock from the ground at his feet, he carefully wiggled the small tube into the hole, gingerly tapping it with the stone to make sure it was firmly set in the wood. He hammered the spike into the tree with the same rock, a hand's breadth above the tube, angling the nail downward and driving it deep. He hung the bucket on the nail, centered the opening under the tube and nodded approval, dropping the rock and dusting his hands off as he headed down toward the water.
Down at the bend of the creek where it formed a pool, Adrian stripped off his sweaty, spattered clothes, easing his jeans past the stubborn half erection he'd been sporting since dawn.
Keeping himself busy, focusing on helping Jeff, directing the cooks and planning meals, it had all kept his mind occupied. Unfortunately his body stubbornly refused to let the issue go, leaving him increasingly tense and uncomfortable as the hours trudged on. He slid into the water, but even the sharp drop in temperature couldn't completely erase the fire in his belly. After swimming back and forth for a few minutes he pulled himself up on a rock in a little dip by the shore, conveniently sheltered by some low hanging branches and a large fallen log. Leaning against the wood, he prepared to alleviate the problem himself.
Going for speed rather than grace he gripped himself and started pumping quickly, hoping to finish quickly and get on with his day. Hunching over, his hand moving rapidly, he breathed through his teeth as he felt the pressure build.
A voice shouted out from where he'd left his clothes.
"Hey Addy?"
Mouthing a curse that would make a hardened sailor blush, Adrian brought both knees up to hide his arousal from sight.
"What?"
"I thought this was your gear! Having a bit of a swim?" Newt asked, oblivious to the stress in the man's voice.
"...yeah."
"Sounds good. I think I'll join you. Here I come!"
Not me, Adrian thought sourly, hearing the shuffling of Newt pulling off his clothes. Bitterly disappointed, he slid off the rock and back into the water, ducking under and swimming hard for the centre of the pool where the water was colder – and less transparent, a scathing voice in the back of his head.
A swing and a miss. Strike two.
Dinner that night went by in a blur. Despite being considerably disgruntled, Adrian tried his hardest not to take out his irritation on the guys in the kitchen, working feverishly to try and dispel some of his frustrated energy. If he wasn't in an especially chatty mood, no one noticed or bothered to comment, competently following his directives and preparing the evening meal without incident. He kept track of the chatter absently, noting in the back of his brain that the cooks usually took turns instead of all working the same days; Lee and Dave worked with Frypan one day, Rob and a short dark skinned boy named Peter coming in the next. Lee and Dave should have had the day off today, but with Frypan's accident that morning it was all hands on deck. When asked Adrian was quick to assure them that the rotation would stand; he was confident that actually knowing he would be on kp for a while would give him the forewarning to plan out meals ahead of time, and two extra pairs of hands to help should be ample.
Once again working the front line, Adrian nodded in acceptance of the compliments and praise for the rich beef stew with dumplings he'd put together, acknowledging the pleasantries but not really hearing the words. He mentally flicked through ideas and possible recipes as he served, trying to keep his mind occupied so he couldn't focus on his own physical discomfort. Struggling to not rush, he methodically served every glader their dinner, again calling out one of the others to finish serving once everyone had received their first portion.
Tear down and clean up was relatively quick, and blessedly painless. Feeling his duties were done for the day and determined to duck out, Adrian attempted to slide out of the area unnoticed. Alby sidled up and snagged him before he could take his leave. Agitated but in control, he wanted an update as to Frypan's projected healing time, brought up the idea of the development of a back up plan should something like this happen again, and fervently requested the man continue to take the wheel in the kitchen until the boy was able to return to duty. Placating the leader took some time and plenty of assurances, and Adrian was just easing away when his 'girls' ambushed him, asking for a chunk of his time.
All said and done, when he eventually managed to slink out of the dining area the stars had begun to wink on and twilight had fallen over the glade. Done, so utterly done with the day, he wearily made his way towards the comfort – and solitude – of his little house.
Finally alone in the growing shadows of the forest, his jeans painfully tight, he waddled towards his cabin taking the longer but less physically strenuous route. His nether region throbbed like a bad tooth as though it had a mind of its own, demanding immediate attention.
Can you not? Can you just wait for ten damn minutes, until I can get home and bar the door? He thought tersely.
Absolutely not, it seemed to say, the persistent pressure making every step painful.
Gritting his teeth in a grimace, Adrian made it to a copse of slender young trees hardly a stone's throw north-west his front door, leaning his head against one of the trees and breathing raggedly.
If someone knocked on his door and disturbed him again, he wasn't sure he'd survive it.
Knowing most would approach his home from the north and figuring it was extremely unlikely for someone to stumble across him in his current location, especially in the next twenty minutes or so, he succumbed to his body's demands. Hissing as he delicately guided the zipper down, he couldn't completely stop a whimper from escaping his lips as he exposed his overly sensitive flesh.
This was going to be quick.
Author's Note ~
Poor Addy. XD
See you next chapter.
~Ruby