(no subject)
After four days he must have passed out, coming to blearily with his face against crisp white hospital sheets, blinking and remembering and for a sudden quick moment hoping until he realized the fingers wrapped in his were cold and limp and god fucking dammit. Turning on his chin without bothering to sit up, Andy blinked over and then glanced sharply away, unable to fucking deal with it for more than two fucking seconds without wanting to throw up everywhere (again) when even the plastic tubing and starched sheets invading his perfect fucking half-view of everything from behind Merrick’s arm made him want to shriek and kick and bite.
He closed his eyes against it, rubbing a thumb in slow circles over cool skin as if it was going to do jack shit, and opened them to spy somebody who apparently hadn’t fucking learned not to fucking come in here with everyone else when he’d pitched a bedpan at their fucking heads. Andy shifted, not really bothering to sit up as he tried to peer around the useless-fuck robot bitch nurse. And then sucked in a sharp breath.
“The fuck?! You get bored and want to fucking revisit your goddamn fucking handiwork?” He spat, loud and harsher than he’d thought it’d be, though all the trying not to fucking cry like a lameass had given him a sore throat so what the fuck ever. Across the room Zeke jerked, some fuckingass bitch puppet on society’s lameass fucking strings, and widened his eyes. “Or did you just want to fucking finish the job?”
“I…” And that fucker couldn’t really look either, motherfuckingasshole, eyes sliding up and then right back down to where Andy had sat up and leaned over prone limbs to glare. “How’s he doing?”
“HOW DO YOU FUCKING THINK?!?!” He shrieked back, on his feet, voice echoing against the pounding in his ears. His fingers twitched angrily against the sheets, and why the fuck had he wasted the goddamn bedpan, tray, everything heavy and metal when all he wanted to do was imbed all of them right into Zeke’s fucking skull, right where he’d cracked Merrick’s and then laughed at the little stream of blood from his mouth. Wasn’t fucking laughing now, though, now that he was one fucking heart-monitoring-beep from getting thrown in jail like the fucking sociopath he was, and Andy half-vaulted over the bed to try and get at his stupidfuck almost-murdering self. Ran until he had to let go of the bed, losing the texture of sheets and handrails as he stepped away, jerking to a sudden stop like it was a fucking leash.
Fuck fuck fuck he couldn’t fucking leave, even for a minute, even for ten fucking feet to where he could probably beat the shit out of the asshole for once, sheer misery and pain channeled through a fist into the motherfucker’s uglyshit face. His left hand grasped desperately for the bed, for something, warm and sturdy and solid when Merrick might just float away, and he spat at Zeke and threw some flower vase somebody had left at his fucking head instead. Fucking hit the bastard, too, though it did jack fucking shit because he had fucking superpowers and abused them like a goddamn whore. “Get the fuck out of here, you ever fucking come in here again and I will fucking murder you in your fucking sleep, you fucking sociopath don’t you -- don’t you fucking come near--!”
Zeke’d taken three steps forward, mistaking the lack of Andy’s hands around his goddamn neck as some kind of fucking welcome mat, and paused, just just out of range. He eyed Andy, growling and willing him to drop dead through sheer fucking force of will, and then looked right at Merrick, at all the fucking tubes and wires burying him, and with some kind of stupidshit frown tried to fucking touch him.
So Andy tried to strangle him with a stethoscope.