Paul hears the emphasis and understands Wyatt's meaning. He grunts with a nod-- it's the best that can be offered, it's the best they can do. Paul rubs briefly at the bridge of his nose before getting to his feet and standing there, hand out, in case Wyatt needs a hand getting into the tub.
Time to change the subject, far as he's concerned.
Taking the offered hand with an incremental softening around the eyes, Wyatt gets in, almost immediately hissing as his foot hits the water. Nothing left to do but grit his teeth and tell himself it'll get better. Next foot in, and he eases himself down with a bit of help. As if on cue, his stomach makes a rather pitiful sound.
"Not much." He shakes his head, sinking lower for a soak. "I should have something in the kitchen that isn't stale or moldy." Go ahead, in so many words, do that thing you do that keeps me from starving.
"Toast," Paul mutters darkly. It feels pretty insufficient to him, but he's grudgingly aware that's because he'll feel like he's helping only if he makes a nice big meal. But this is for Wyatt's health, not what will make Paul feel like he's done enough, and Paul's brain points out that toast is probably the best thing for Wyatt's stomach right now. Bland and easy to digest.
"Alright. Toast," he sighs, and does a cursory glance around to make sure there's towels and washcloths and everything else in Wyatt's immediate reach.
"Don't try and get your back on your own, wait for me on that, genius," he mutters before heading for the kitchen.
"Don't look at me like that," Cain retorts with half a smirk. "It's not like it's store bought or anything."
Baking his own bread, like cooking his own food (unless someone steps in to make it something a bit more special than mere fuel), is one of the things Cain does to try regain some token control over his life. It may not be much, or seem like it, but it's a big step up from spending his days staring out the window or walking the streets for hours.
Shaking his head as Paul leaves, he grabs one of the bottles leaning against the wall on the tub's edge. Some bath oil can't be bad at this stage. It just can't be.
"You made your own bread? Oh my god, someone put you on a Christmas card already," Paul grouses over his shoulder as he disappears into Wyatt's kitchen.
The bread is found, put in to toast; Paul gets out butter and starts a pot of water boiling for the rice. Once things are merrily started he slips back for the bathroom to check on Wyatt's progress so far.
The jibe does nothing to diminish Wyatt's high spirits, and while Paul's busy getting things under control in the kitchen, he starts a more thorough cleanup of his feet. The last thing he wants or needs is an infection.
Damage control is easy enough: he can feel a steady, hammering pulse wherever damage has been done, and the warmer, more insistently tangible that pule is, the worse. His hands and feet, his legs, neck and up. His torso isn't quite so bad, all things considered, nor his legs, but he has a feeling he won't want to crouch or kneel for a good few days.
He lifts his head at the sound of footsteps, waiting for his friend to come into view. "Find everything?"
He can't help but smile at both assessments, then gesturing for the other man to come closer.
"Not sure how that would've worked out. I couldn't feel pain. Not the physical kind, not the emotional or psychological variety either. And do you know what I figured out thanks to all of that?"
Paul stalks closer, sits down on the toilet commode.
"Wouldn't have mattered," he says with a sigh. "Knocking someone out via blunt force trauma to the head has nothing to do with pain. It's the force of the impact jarring your brain sufficiently within its cradle of cerebrospinal fluid that your body shuts down in order to get you horizontal and return your brain to its normal stabilized position."
Ah, it's gems like these so casually dispensed that made Paul Smecker such a charming conversationalist with the various agents and cops he has served with over the years.
Paul picks at imaginary lint on his sleeve. "Here, let me get your back. What did you learn, the True Power of Love?"
"Don't get cute with me," is his few-worded response to both the lecture on cerebrospinal fluid (is that what the witch's henchmen kept Ambrose's half a brain in? Not something he wants to dwell on) and the cheeky remark.
"It's a cliché, but something I think I needed to experience for myself. I used to think it would be so much easier if you couldn't feel pain. But having lived through it, I've changed my opinion."
Pain completely and utterly sucks, as any Othersider might put it, but it's part of being human...and for a good reason, too.
"I don't do cute," Paul retorts. He leans back against the tank of the toilet and crosses his arms, listening to Cain's life revelation, as it were.
"Should I withhold my remark about oh, and this has led you to embrace the other extreme and I should now bring a whip to bed with us?" Paul asks, not withholding his remark.
"Only you would twist that into a dominance-masochistic whateverthewordis," he grouses fondly, sitting up straighter with a tiny bit of effort (or, okay, a fair deal, but he isn't going to let anyone in on how sore he is - not even Paul. Especially not him).
"So, yes. Please do withhold it, or my fragile sensibilities will be irreparably damaged."
"Waiting," Paul exhales, not meaning it to sound quite so short. He's inadvertently reminded of another bathroom, twenty odd years ago, how his words turn sharp as a default sometimes.
He takes a breath, lets it out, calm yogic thoughts. "Yes?" he asks, voice much more neutral.
He reaches for the button to transmit, offers a scowl over it which is an expression of worry in Paul-world at any rate.
"Get the fuck back to bed. I'll be over in a bit."
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Time to change the subject, far as he's concerned.
"Do you know if you ate during that mess?"
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"Not much." He shakes his head, sinking lower for a soak. "I should have something in the kitchen that isn't stale or moldy." Go ahead, in so many words, do that thing you do that keeps me from starving.
"Some toast would be nice."
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"Alright. Toast," he sighs, and does a cursory glance around to make sure there's towels and washcloths and everything else in Wyatt's immediate reach.
"Don't try and get your back on your own, wait for me on that, genius," he mutters before heading for the kitchen.
Toast and rice. He'll compromise.
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Baking his own bread, like cooking his own food (unless someone steps in to make it something a bit more special than mere fuel), is one of the things Cain does to try regain some token control over his life. It may not be much, or seem like it, but it's a big step up from spending his days staring out the window or walking the streets for hours.
Shaking his head as Paul leaves, he grabs one of the bottles leaning against the wall on the tub's edge. Some bath oil can't be bad at this stage. It just can't be.
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The bread is found, put in to toast; Paul gets out butter and starts a pot of water boiling for the rice. Once things are merrily started he slips back for the bathroom to check on Wyatt's progress so far.
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Damage control is easy enough: he can feel a steady, hammering pulse wherever damage has been done, and the warmer, more insistently tangible that pule is, the worse. His hands and feet, his legs, neck and up. His torso isn't quite so bad, all things considered, nor his legs, but he has a feeling he won't want to crouch or kneel for a good few days.
He lifts his head at the sound of footsteps, waiting for his friend to come into view. "Find everything?"
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He rakes Wyatt's body with a critical gaze, inspecting the damage with a fairly practiced eye, looking none-too-pleased at Wyatt's state.
"I ought to have just pistol-whipped you unconscious and dragged you in to somewhere with heating," he mutters darkly.
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"Not sure how that would've worked out. I couldn't feel pain. Not the physical kind, not the emotional or psychological variety either. And do you know what I figured out thanks to all of that?"
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"Wouldn't have mattered," he says with a sigh. "Knocking someone out via blunt force trauma to the head has nothing to do with pain. It's the force of the impact jarring your brain sufficiently within its cradle of cerebrospinal fluid that your body shuts down in order to get you horizontal and return your brain to its normal stabilized position."
Ah, it's gems like these so casually dispensed that made Paul Smecker such a charming conversationalist with the various agents and cops he has served with over the years.
Paul picks at imaginary lint on his sleeve. "Here, let me get your back. What did you learn, the True Power of Love?"
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"It's a cliché, but something I think I needed to experience for myself. I used to think it would be so much easier if you couldn't feel pain. But having lived through it, I've changed my opinion."
Pain completely and utterly sucks, as any Othersider might put it, but it's part of being human...and for a good reason, too.
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"Should I withhold my remark about oh, and this has led you to embrace the other extreme and I should now bring a whip to bed with us?" Paul asks, not withholding his remark.
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"So, yes. Please do withhold it, or my fragile sensibilities will be irreparably damaged."
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His tone's light though-- "Consider it withheld. You're safe. For now."
He hears the toast pop in the other room and gets to his feet.
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"Paul, wait." A beat, then slightly softer. "The toast can wait. Please?"
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"Waiting," Paul exhales, not meaning it to sound quite so short. He's inadvertently reminded of another bathroom, twenty odd years ago, how his words turn sharp as a default sometimes.
He takes a breath, lets it out, calm yogic thoughts. "Yes?" he asks, voice much more neutral.
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