And I'm that little bit of hope when my backs against the ropes
((OOC: Luke is officially dead. If you need your character to have a goodbye with him, I can probably manage that. Either way, he's dead. The italics in the death section are Becky's words in one of Luke's first posts. And Romeo is going to become non-local. This post was made in celebration of Robin's original journal creation. Two years ago as of
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Comments 57
He's not fond of death, and he's had more of an acquaintance than most with it. Sometimes he can see it coming - orders which can't be rescinded, circumstances which can't be surmounted. It's never made it any easier. The only thing that ever did was convincing himself he didn't care, and he can't remember how to do that now.
The first thing that hits him is the illness - he can smell it in the air. He's always had a keen nose. Sound follows just after, if only because he takes a moment to avoid sight. But there it is, after that moment. He can taste it at the back of his throat, and after all that, there's really just the one sense left to encounter it, and J walks to the bed, bundles Luke up in his arms, and closes his eyes.
This century's not kind, is it?
It's not enough. It's never been enough, and it's never going to be.
At the very least, it can be something.
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She's sitting in a chair she dragged near the bed, curled in a little ball and holding Luke's hand. She looks up with only half-focused, tear-streaked eyes when J comes into the room, managing a very tiny and completely unconvincing smile. She's not okay. He's not okay. Luke is never going to be okay again. It doesn't feel like anything is going to be okay again.
So when J bundles Luke into his arms, she uncurls and moves to the bed, slipping her arms around Luke as best she can. She presses her face against his back, leaning against J, crying softly still.
No matter how many times it happens, it never gets easier.
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He shudders.
"J." It's all he can manage. A hoarse whisper against him.
Babel is here, too.
She's been here all this time.
"Thank you," he says. He has no idea when he might pass out again or when the pain will become too much to talk. He wants to get it out. He wants them to know how much it means to him that he's not dying alone.
His head rests against J. He summons the energy to move his arms and hold on to them both.
His voice chokes on a sob. "Thank you."
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He's not crying. Later, maybe, but he's getting good at this - being someone strong to die on.
"It's okay," he says. It... doesn't have to be a lie. over can be good, sometimes; at least, relieving. Isn't that what he was running for, at the start of this year? In any case there's no better option here, because there's no other option here. Unless you're Jack Harkness, the person Rose decided to save ages ago, there's no cheating death forever ( ... )
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Luckily, Hermione Granger does not fall onto the cement. She falls directly onto Harry Potter.
After screaming just a bit, she rolls off of him. He's given a quick look over, then she sighs in relief. "Oh, Harry." There is another long, drawn-out sigh, though this one is decidedly shakier. She rolls back, wincing all the while, and gives him a careful hug. Then, she is pushing herself up.
She is almost calm for one-third of a second and then she is decidedly not. "You're bleeding, Harry, and we're not where we should be." Within moments, she's standing up and whirling around, looking for any signals of a potential attack.
Her concentration is knocked about only but the fact that Harry is bleeding, naturally. "Are you all right? You are all right, aren't you?"
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"Hermione?"
It doesn't make any sense. He didn't think he'd see her again, but here she is landing on top of him, screaming and saying Oh, Harry in such a familiar way that it hurts. There's a stinging in his eyes to go along with the stinging of his hands. Is he dreaming? But that makes as little sense as anything else.
He twists around, pushing himself up to a sitting position on the pavement. Harry hugs her back with more intensity than he can control. She's warm. She's real. He didn't think he'd see her again. The world is blurry. It has been since he landed. The shock of her being here made him forget that he's rather blind at the moment.
"Hermione, my glasses..." There are many more issues that he has to concern himself with, but he needs to see straight first ( ... )
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In Hermione's shock, she'd not noticed his glasses gone, but now she's looking around frantically before her mind clears. She finds them several feet away, cracked and twisted. As she bends down to pick them up, she feels her heart twist. They're always getting cracked and injured...just like Harry.
Her wand is out immediately and she's whispering a quick Reparo. At least I can fix them.
Then, gently and carefully, she places them on his face. "It's okay. They're right here, Harry." She takes notice of everything about him. The way his hands are shaking is scaring her much more than the fact that they're somewhere she's never seen before.
Her eyes dart around, from him to their surroundings and back to him. She reaches out to him. She's really not sure that he's 'fine'. And, wherever they are or aren't, he's hurt. "Let me help your hands?"
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"Thanks," he says when he can see again, and he can see her, and there's another ache. "Thank you."
There's some comfort when the glasses are returned to him, even if it reveals more reason to be confused. They're in a city, but it's on he's never seen before. How did they get here?
Harry gets to a stand. His legs feel wobbly like noodles, and he can't fall over. His whole body had been tense on that walk. There had been no emotion. He'd been remarkably detached after what he saw, but every part of him was tense, and he's feeling the effects of it now.
"It's alright, Hermione," Harry says, but he holds his hands out to her anyway. He can see how worried she is. "I'm-- It doesn't hurt."
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Like a tiny crazy girl covered in blood.
She's been homeless for Lord only knows how long, and has somehow made it back to the Conrad, dirty, ragged and bloody.
And sense in madness is kind of her thing.
She comes up behind Robin and squats next to him, reaching out to move a few jars of things that he probably had already organized. She doesn't speak. She doesn't have to.
Hello, Robin.
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Robin looks at her, looks at the jars, looks at her.
"First of all, don't touch my things. They're there for a reason. Second of all, you're covered in blood. Is any of it yours?" Not that he cares. "Either way, you might want to clean up before someone that cares sees you and decides you to stop from getting covered in anyone else's blood."
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"Touch, touch, don't touch." She's not good at answering questions, never has been, not even back in the day. "Blood blood all blood not mine mine?" Some of it is indeed hers--human put up more of a fight than she thought. There's sticky black blood dribbling from a cut in her forehead.
"Here. Clean." She pats the floor--this is the place she cleans up. She doesn't like showers, and besides, she's lost her key to her room. "Stuff." She waves a hand vaguely at Robin's piles. "No. Sticky." She holds up a hand, fingers all together, and slowly pulls each finger away from the clump, each digit resisting as the drying blood tries to hold them all together. "Sticky," Scout repeats almost gloomily, sinking her head between her knees to stare at Robin's jars.
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He winces when she says that it's not hers. Whose is it? is what he wonders. At some point, she'll be taken to trial for killing people. If Rachel knew about her, she would insist that something be done.
Robin can't bring himself to do anything. Scout saved his life before. He cares.
"I've no idea what you're saying, and I've no idea how you're going to get clean on the floor." He winces, looking at the cut on her head. "It's- You're bleeding. You're hurt. You should get that... looked at."
By who? Anyone else would turn her over to the archangels for killing. He sighs heavily.
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