(no subject)
Clearly, Mystique was right. I should have been watching more closely.
Summoned, she comes: the long-legged Valkyrie tears across the Brotherhood Valkyrie, leaving the concerned if laconic messenger in her dust. The wind of her passage leaves her breathless, rumpled and unruly; she stops short in a halt as she stands framed in the doorway, scanning the warehouse for her target.
Near the side of the helicopter, there is an awkward arrangement of black sprawled prone across the ground that, upon closer inspection, proves to be a person. Specifically, Magneto - clearly unconscious, and leaking a vibrant red substance from one nostril. The ribbed black of his sweater rises and falls with rapid regularity, trying to pull air into his lungs despite the uncomfortable twist of his torso into cold concrete.
Ellen does not allow herself time for frozen panic; she bolts across the warehouse, pell-mell. "Sir--!" gasps past her lips as she drops to her knees at his side. Uselessly, since he is unconscious, and cannot respond. She swallows and dives in her work, pressing a hand to his cheek. She must assess damage first, marking urgency before seeking out causes.
Magneto is warm, at least, and lax - his jaw unclenched beneath her hand, and his head even going so far as to loll slightly away from light contact. Glucose levels are low. Very low. And bruises are beginning to fill in with color where loss of control did the worst damage.
Ellen hisses sharply through her teeth as she kneels at his side, leaning over him. She moistens her lips, gone dry, and swallows. She touches lightly here and there, beginning repair processes but not completing them; the levels of glucose in his system are troubling, and suspicious; drawing in a deep breath, she sidles through the pathways of his brain, looking for neural damage and signs of strain. Having established an absence of life-threatening spinal damage, she nudges him gently with her leg and other hand, shifting him onto his side.
Muscles are pulled, particularly around his neck and back, where there was already a high tendency for rigidity. The evidence, however, is contained within his skull. Strain. Compensation. Unusual electrical activity. At Ellen's urging, he turns over onto the side without any more resistence than gravity is willing to offer, and the patter of blood drizzling out of his nose and onto the concrete is audible.
Running her tongue along her teeth behind closed lips, Ellen closes her eyes. The brain, a less terrifying place than it once was, is still not her strength, and she tends to easier problems first: easing the strain of muscle and fixing the nosebleed. Until she can get him to the infirmary and the chemical correctives there, stopgap measures are required. She does no more than she feels confident to do; when she is through assisting his brain in compensating for the strain, post-seizure, there is more required to stabilize him, but she deems the immediate danger past enough to release a held breath and open her eyes. "Sir, if you can hear me and understand, please make some sign," she says aloud.
Nothing. Not for another good five or six minutes, anyway, when his brows twitch towards each other, and a breath deeper than those before it is pulled in through the blood still gumming up his sinuses. Slowly, and with some deliberance, he begins to curl in upon himself. Eeggh.
"Sir," Ellen repeats. It is a great effort of self-control that keeps her voice within the bounds of serenity. "Can you hear me?" She leans a little further over him, her hair falling forward to feather around her face as she bows her head. "I am fairly certain we have drugs in the infirmary that can help stabilize your condition."
Drugs. Eyes rolled blearily open, Erik coughs, left hand lifted already to rub over the side of his face. He is on the ground. It is cold and hard. Ellen is leaning over him and talking about the infirmary. Par for the course. "What...?"
"I believe you are suffering the aftereffects of some sort of seizure," Ellen informs him, as gently as one can with, well, facts both bland and unpleasant. "I am not familiar enough with neurology to hazard a guess as to what kind."
"...Ah." There are only so many things one can say to that, really. Erik stares blankly out at the oddly angled set of the warehouse around him, and does not yet speak again. Wonderful.
"Can you move your legs? I will help you to the infirmary," Ellen says. She bites her lip. "I think I have an article somewhere on epilepsy and neurochemistry that has suggestions about treatment." Her nerves are thrumming rapidly, her eyes flicking here and there and everywhere as she attempts to maintain self-control. "I do not think it is advisable to eat anything yet, but you will need electrolytes. I will get you something once we get there."
Magneto nods even as he moves stiffly to push himself up into a half-seat, one leg bent while the other stretches long, his hands turned to provide support behind him. He is making a careful effort not to look at her, but observations are made all the same, particularly when he leans forward to start pressing his weight up onto his feet. "Are you all right?"
"Me? I am fine. I was not here." Ellen shakes her head quickly. She moves to her own feet swiftly enough, a hand lifted for balance; when she is sure of herself, she offers arm and shoulder to Magneto, the full support of her lean frame.
Blood-wetted hand shaken distractedly off to the side, Erik reaches up for her shoulder when it becomes clear that he is not going to make it up on his own power. The loss of dignity involved in falling again would be greater than that involved in accepting assistance. "Was someone else present?"
Ellen ducks her head in acknowledgment as she braces to help him stand. "Sergei found me," she says. "He acted quickly. If anyone else saw I do not know about it."
Erik absorbs this information quietly, and leans more of his weight into her when white buzzes in dangerously around the edges of his vision. "When I am settled, I would like for you to inform Sergei that he is not to mention this to anyone."
"Of course, sir." Ellen's arm firm about his waist, she begins to guide his steps toward the door, slow and cautious. "This is not a matter for gossip. Neither of us will breathe a word."
Magneto nods, haggard, and apparently satisfied with her reassurance, because he does not push the matter any further. That said, he does not relax either - the loop of his arm tense around her shoulders.
The doors reached, Ellen kicks one of them open and pads on through. Happily they do not run into anybody immediately outside the warehouse. "Has ... this ever happened before?"
Chin dipped to his chest as if this will conceal his identity, Erik counts his steps, and does not seem to hear the question immediately. Eventually, he does turn his head slightly aside, and he does lift a brow, and he does say, "Yes." He does not, however, elaborate.
Ellen does not respond to that immediately, though her brow knits as they traverse the compound towards the refinery. "All right," she says finally, after several heartbeats of almost perfect quiet, apart from the thump and drag of boots along the ground and the drag of breathing. "I will see if I have anything on recurring patterns."
"If the situation persists, it may be best to undergo whatever guesswork you deem necessary. This is not something I can...afford." That last word chosen carefully, he has to work to keep his pulse from reacting to the first twinge of fear. "For now, rest sounds welcome."
Ellen nods with a shadow of her normal briskness -- with the energy drawn from a sense of direction, this is easier to fake, even through worry's clenching haze. "Then we will begin there, sir. Your body needs replenishing after its ordeal."
Magneto nods his silent and grim agreement, further thoughts on the matter kept obstinately to himself. His eyes remain down and his face shadowed. Hopefully no one is watching, for he does not seem particularly compelled to put on much of an act for their benefit.
Matching his silence with her own worried gravity, Ellen guides him through into the refinary and towards the infirmary. She almost starts to speak at one point, but sucks on her lower lip instead.
The door does not swing open ahead of them, and there is something remotely akin to shame in the air. Erik does not look at the door. He is not looking at much of anything. He will better in the morning.
Ellen opens the door quietly, without appearing to even notice that it has not swung open before them. The lights sputter into life with a flick of Ellen's free hand.
"I can make it from here," Erik informs quietly, already leaning to unloop his arm from around her. He seems steady enough, if a bit stiffer than usual - if such measures are possible.
As obedient as ever, Ellen steps back and away, allowing him room to manuever. Her hands stay at her sides rather than clasping anywhere. She watches him in silence.
A deep breath pulled in to straighten his spine, Erik picks his way over to the nearest cot and hoists himself up into it. A change of clothes might eventually be in order, but for now, the ribbed sweater, tight black trousers, and knee-high boots combination will suffice.
As he climbs into bed, Ellen turns to fuss through her cabinets and the miniature refridgerator, collecting objects: sugar packet, salt packet, small water bottle. The contents of all three are mixed in a clean coffee-mug from another cupboard and trotted to his side. "This should help."
Erik, in the meanwhile, sets himself about the process of examining the blood dried into the front of his sweater, and rubbing the crust of it away from his upper lip with the back of his hand. The mug is taken when it is offered, and Erik looks flatly down into it before providing Ellen with a similar look.
Ellen returns his look with a slight uplift of her brows and chin. "I am not championing its flavor."
The look she gets in return falls somewhere short of appreciative, and Erik looks away before lifting the mug to sip from it. His jaw clenches and he scowls, but otherwise there is no outward expression of disgust.
Ellen watches him drink with gravity and silence. She neither mothers nor hovers.
Salt and sugar, mingled with the coppery taste of blood on the back of his tongue. His next swallow does prompt a mild look of distaste, and he leans to set the rest of the mug aside.
"If you do not drink it now, you will have to drink it later and it will not be cold," Ellen observes.
"I was not under the impression that having it cold improved the taste," Erik gruffs back at her, though his fingers remain twined loosely around the mug in question.
"It is more that having it tepid is likely to worsen the experience, all told." Ellen sits down on the edge of a neighboring cot, and tilts her head with her hands clasped neatly over her thighs.
Magneto settles back into his cot. The mug comes with him, rested grudgingly against his chest when he slouches back into his pillow and makes a half-hearted effort to make himself comfortable. "How long before I can return to my own quarters?"
"I would like to keep you here for a little while at least before I give you a concrete answer on that, sir. If you continue to improve," Ellen flicks her gaze over him measuringly, "I will get you to your own bed soon enough."
If Erik is displeased by this speculation, he says nothing, nor does he alter his expression. He does, however, take another bitter swallow from his mug before leaning to set it aside again. This time, it remains there, though there is not much left in the bottom.
Ellen gets up again and trots over to the wall to dim the lights. The sterile glare of flourescents helps no one rest.
"Have someone recover a pair of more comfortable slacks from my quarters," is muttered after he's had time to settle stiffly over onto his side, and Erik frowns distantly at the other cots lined up next to his own.
"As soon as possible, sir," Ellen agrees. She pulls her cell phone from the pocket of her labcoat, which is on the back of the chair in front of the computer, and sets about tapping in a text message. She squints at the screen in the dimmed light as she sits down.
Magneto expells a long, slow breath, and then he is still. And silent, eyes open but unfocused. If it isn't one thing, it's something else. Always.
Summoned, she comes: the long-legged Valkyrie tears across the Brotherhood Valkyrie, leaving the concerned if laconic messenger in her dust. The wind of her passage leaves her breathless, rumpled and unruly; she stops short in a halt as she stands framed in the doorway, scanning the warehouse for her target.
Near the side of the helicopter, there is an awkward arrangement of black sprawled prone across the ground that, upon closer inspection, proves to be a person. Specifically, Magneto - clearly unconscious, and leaking a vibrant red substance from one nostril. The ribbed black of his sweater rises and falls with rapid regularity, trying to pull air into his lungs despite the uncomfortable twist of his torso into cold concrete.
Ellen does not allow herself time for frozen panic; she bolts across the warehouse, pell-mell. "Sir--!" gasps past her lips as she drops to her knees at his side. Uselessly, since he is unconscious, and cannot respond. She swallows and dives in her work, pressing a hand to his cheek. She must assess damage first, marking urgency before seeking out causes.
Magneto is warm, at least, and lax - his jaw unclenched beneath her hand, and his head even going so far as to loll slightly away from light contact. Glucose levels are low. Very low. And bruises are beginning to fill in with color where loss of control did the worst damage.
Ellen hisses sharply through her teeth as she kneels at his side, leaning over him. She moistens her lips, gone dry, and swallows. She touches lightly here and there, beginning repair processes but not completing them; the levels of glucose in his system are troubling, and suspicious; drawing in a deep breath, she sidles through the pathways of his brain, looking for neural damage and signs of strain. Having established an absence of life-threatening spinal damage, she nudges him gently with her leg and other hand, shifting him onto his side.
Muscles are pulled, particularly around his neck and back, where there was already a high tendency for rigidity. The evidence, however, is contained within his skull. Strain. Compensation. Unusual electrical activity. At Ellen's urging, he turns over onto the side without any more resistence than gravity is willing to offer, and the patter of blood drizzling out of his nose and onto the concrete is audible.
Running her tongue along her teeth behind closed lips, Ellen closes her eyes. The brain, a less terrifying place than it once was, is still not her strength, and she tends to easier problems first: easing the strain of muscle and fixing the nosebleed. Until she can get him to the infirmary and the chemical correctives there, stopgap measures are required. She does no more than she feels confident to do; when she is through assisting his brain in compensating for the strain, post-seizure, there is more required to stabilize him, but she deems the immediate danger past enough to release a held breath and open her eyes. "Sir, if you can hear me and understand, please make some sign," she says aloud.
Nothing. Not for another good five or six minutes, anyway, when his brows twitch towards each other, and a breath deeper than those before it is pulled in through the blood still gumming up his sinuses. Slowly, and with some deliberance, he begins to curl in upon himself. Eeggh.
"Sir," Ellen repeats. It is a great effort of self-control that keeps her voice within the bounds of serenity. "Can you hear me?" She leans a little further over him, her hair falling forward to feather around her face as she bows her head. "I am fairly certain we have drugs in the infirmary that can help stabilize your condition."
Drugs. Eyes rolled blearily open, Erik coughs, left hand lifted already to rub over the side of his face. He is on the ground. It is cold and hard. Ellen is leaning over him and talking about the infirmary. Par for the course. "What...?"
"I believe you are suffering the aftereffects of some sort of seizure," Ellen informs him, as gently as one can with, well, facts both bland and unpleasant. "I am not familiar enough with neurology to hazard a guess as to what kind."
"...Ah." There are only so many things one can say to that, really. Erik stares blankly out at the oddly angled set of the warehouse around him, and does not yet speak again. Wonderful.
"Can you move your legs? I will help you to the infirmary," Ellen says. She bites her lip. "I think I have an article somewhere on epilepsy and neurochemistry that has suggestions about treatment." Her nerves are thrumming rapidly, her eyes flicking here and there and everywhere as she attempts to maintain self-control. "I do not think it is advisable to eat anything yet, but you will need electrolytes. I will get you something once we get there."
Magneto nods even as he moves stiffly to push himself up into a half-seat, one leg bent while the other stretches long, his hands turned to provide support behind him. He is making a careful effort not to look at her, but observations are made all the same, particularly when he leans forward to start pressing his weight up onto his feet. "Are you all right?"
"Me? I am fine. I was not here." Ellen shakes her head quickly. She moves to her own feet swiftly enough, a hand lifted for balance; when she is sure of herself, she offers arm and shoulder to Magneto, the full support of her lean frame.
Blood-wetted hand shaken distractedly off to the side, Erik reaches up for her shoulder when it becomes clear that he is not going to make it up on his own power. The loss of dignity involved in falling again would be greater than that involved in accepting assistance. "Was someone else present?"
Ellen ducks her head in acknowledgment as she braces to help him stand. "Sergei found me," she says. "He acted quickly. If anyone else saw I do not know about it."
Erik absorbs this information quietly, and leans more of his weight into her when white buzzes in dangerously around the edges of his vision. "When I am settled, I would like for you to inform Sergei that he is not to mention this to anyone."
"Of course, sir." Ellen's arm firm about his waist, she begins to guide his steps toward the door, slow and cautious. "This is not a matter for gossip. Neither of us will breathe a word."
Magneto nods, haggard, and apparently satisfied with her reassurance, because he does not push the matter any further. That said, he does not relax either - the loop of his arm tense around her shoulders.
The doors reached, Ellen kicks one of them open and pads on through. Happily they do not run into anybody immediately outside the warehouse. "Has ... this ever happened before?"
Chin dipped to his chest as if this will conceal his identity, Erik counts his steps, and does not seem to hear the question immediately. Eventually, he does turn his head slightly aside, and he does lift a brow, and he does say, "Yes." He does not, however, elaborate.
Ellen does not respond to that immediately, though her brow knits as they traverse the compound towards the refinery. "All right," she says finally, after several heartbeats of almost perfect quiet, apart from the thump and drag of boots along the ground and the drag of breathing. "I will see if I have anything on recurring patterns."
"If the situation persists, it may be best to undergo whatever guesswork you deem necessary. This is not something I can...afford." That last word chosen carefully, he has to work to keep his pulse from reacting to the first twinge of fear. "For now, rest sounds welcome."
Ellen nods with a shadow of her normal briskness -- with the energy drawn from a sense of direction, this is easier to fake, even through worry's clenching haze. "Then we will begin there, sir. Your body needs replenishing after its ordeal."
Magneto nods his silent and grim agreement, further thoughts on the matter kept obstinately to himself. His eyes remain down and his face shadowed. Hopefully no one is watching, for he does not seem particularly compelled to put on much of an act for their benefit.
Matching his silence with her own worried gravity, Ellen guides him through into the refinary and towards the infirmary. She almost starts to speak at one point, but sucks on her lower lip instead.
The door does not swing open ahead of them, and there is something remotely akin to shame in the air. Erik does not look at the door. He is not looking at much of anything. He will better in the morning.
Ellen opens the door quietly, without appearing to even notice that it has not swung open before them. The lights sputter into life with a flick of Ellen's free hand.
"I can make it from here," Erik informs quietly, already leaning to unloop his arm from around her. He seems steady enough, if a bit stiffer than usual - if such measures are possible.
As obedient as ever, Ellen steps back and away, allowing him room to manuever. Her hands stay at her sides rather than clasping anywhere. She watches him in silence.
A deep breath pulled in to straighten his spine, Erik picks his way over to the nearest cot and hoists himself up into it. A change of clothes might eventually be in order, but for now, the ribbed sweater, tight black trousers, and knee-high boots combination will suffice.
As he climbs into bed, Ellen turns to fuss through her cabinets and the miniature refridgerator, collecting objects: sugar packet, salt packet, small water bottle. The contents of all three are mixed in a clean coffee-mug from another cupboard and trotted to his side. "This should help."
Erik, in the meanwhile, sets himself about the process of examining the blood dried into the front of his sweater, and rubbing the crust of it away from his upper lip with the back of his hand. The mug is taken when it is offered, and Erik looks flatly down into it before providing Ellen with a similar look.
Ellen returns his look with a slight uplift of her brows and chin. "I am not championing its flavor."
The look she gets in return falls somewhere short of appreciative, and Erik looks away before lifting the mug to sip from it. His jaw clenches and he scowls, but otherwise there is no outward expression of disgust.
Ellen watches him drink with gravity and silence. She neither mothers nor hovers.
Salt and sugar, mingled with the coppery taste of blood on the back of his tongue. His next swallow does prompt a mild look of distaste, and he leans to set the rest of the mug aside.
"If you do not drink it now, you will have to drink it later and it will not be cold," Ellen observes.
"I was not under the impression that having it cold improved the taste," Erik gruffs back at her, though his fingers remain twined loosely around the mug in question.
"It is more that having it tepid is likely to worsen the experience, all told." Ellen sits down on the edge of a neighboring cot, and tilts her head with her hands clasped neatly over her thighs.
Magneto settles back into his cot. The mug comes with him, rested grudgingly against his chest when he slouches back into his pillow and makes a half-hearted effort to make himself comfortable. "How long before I can return to my own quarters?"
"I would like to keep you here for a little while at least before I give you a concrete answer on that, sir. If you continue to improve," Ellen flicks her gaze over him measuringly, "I will get you to your own bed soon enough."
If Erik is displeased by this speculation, he says nothing, nor does he alter his expression. He does, however, take another bitter swallow from his mug before leaning to set it aside again. This time, it remains there, though there is not much left in the bottom.
Ellen gets up again and trots over to the wall to dim the lights. The sterile glare of flourescents helps no one rest.
"Have someone recover a pair of more comfortable slacks from my quarters," is muttered after he's had time to settle stiffly over onto his side, and Erik frowns distantly at the other cots lined up next to his own.
"As soon as possible, sir," Ellen agrees. She pulls her cell phone from the pocket of her labcoat, which is on the back of the chair in front of the computer, and sets about tapping in a text message. She squints at the screen in the dimmed light as she sits down.
Magneto expells a long, slow breath, and then he is still. And silent, eyes open but unfocused. If it isn't one thing, it's something else. Always.