paradisalogs | (no subject)

Who: Vicious, Gren
What: Event Horizon plot fall-out.
When: Early evening.
Where: Vicious' room in the castle.
Rating: R for violence, drug use, etc.

The third time the small glass vile slipped from between his bandaged fingers, the metal atomizer it was meant to be attached to was unceremoniously thrown at the wall with a growl of frustration. A week. That was the limits of his patients. A week of frustration at not being able to perform even the simplest of tasks on his own without pain and far more effort than it should ever have taken.

There was no one to take the frustration out on, and even his one surefire means of escape was being thwarted. He picked a tumbler of scotch up off the end table, and then kicked the table over for good measure. He might have tried to smash it, were there not already fresh blood seeping into the bandages on his hands. He glared at it instead, and then walked back to the bed. He'd already spilled the bottle of painkillers from the clinic across the nightstand, so sweeping a few into one hand was, at least, mercifully easy. He swallowed them with the alcohol and turned his gaze back to the empty room, wishing there were anything else to vent his rage on.

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Funny that, unbeknownst to Gren, they had taken similar ways out, both burning bridges before they went down themselves, though in Gren's case it had been a last resort. That, in his mind, Vicious was out there somewhere continuing his life was a nice thought.

But the reality was they were both dead men trapped together in an unfriendly place, and that, at least, was not so different from Titan at all.

"I could do it, but it won't be a professional job," he said, not insisting on it. If Vicious wanted to hide that was fine, and the clinic staff was probably safer for it. But it still had to be done.

"You're the one insisting." Vicious clearly didn't care if it was a 'professional' job or not. He didn't even care if it happened at all, at the moment.

He'd care later, especially if it didn't heal well and compromised his dexterity, but thinking that much about the future was something currently beyond him. It would require seeing beyond his current situation, and he was far too focused on his current unhappiness for that.

"Yeah, you're right. I am. I'm always going to be the one, whether you like it or not."

He placed the vial of red eye on the table next to him and stood up with a sigh. "Take it or don't, I'm going to get some things," he said, turn towards the bathroom. A washcloth at least. Bandages, definitely, though Vicious probably didn't have any. He'd have to make an exception and wish them up, but this was a rare instance where he could give in.

He turned to look at the table after Gren walked away, but didn't move to pick up the drug. He wanted it, of course, but Gren's reaction made him want to defy expectation more, and so stayed his hand. Later. It could wait. He was the one in control, after all. He wasn't about to let a chemical cocktail get the better of him.

He'd had bandages, at one point, a nice neat collection of everything you could need to treat the sort of wounds he was prone to collecting, but he hadn't bothered to restock after his last violent scuffle with Spike. There really wasn't much of anything in the bathroom now, besides the basic necessities.

Trust Vicious to have the absolute minimum of requirements for human existence. Gren wasn't surprised, though it pained him in a small way, at the same time that there was tiny thrill at realizing that the evidence of his own habitation here was some of the most obvious pieces of warmth.

He wished for the proper supplies, making a note to pilfer some extra supplies from the clinic at a later date, and returned a few minutes later. He wasn't going to risk taking the time while the other man was as close as he passed for docile at this particular moment.

He couldn't help but glance at the vial still on the table, managing not to smile as he knelt in front of the chair and started on removing the bloodied wrappings.

Anything docile about his mood currently could likely be blamed on the pharmacological cocktail he already had circulating in his veins. Now that he was sitting in the chair, he couldn't find the motivation to do anything else.

However well-medicated he was, though, it could not completely blunt the pain in his hands as Gren stripped away the old bandages. His hands stayed still, for the most part, and he made no sound, but the tight clench of his jaw was a give-away he couldn't quite manage to disguise.

He noted the pain but didn't remark on it directly.

"This will sting a bit," he warned, before he brushed the warm, wet washcloth over the wounds, slow and as light as he could manage. Seeing the cuts up close wasn't any easier the second time, and made that peculiar protective feeling knot itself somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He frowned, mostly to himself, and at the futility of being mad at the castle for doing this to him. He only hoped these hands would be returned to their former glory, and the versatility and ease they could dole out both pain and pleasure.

It hurt enough already that the warning, while not unwarranted, meant very little. It was better than it had been earlier in the week, at least, though he could hardly proclaim himself healed. He had managed to avoid any major damage to bone or ligaments, and while the cuts were far from pretty, so long as they healed properly, this setback would be temporary.

It was just very hard to be that patient, especially when the injuries impinged on his daily routine. He did not, as a general rule, deal particularly well with things that upset his plans, as utterly mundane as they might be.

Normally he would talk to fill the silence, but Gren was uncommonly and rapt with concentration as he finished cleaning the wounds - half-measure though it assuredly was - and carefully wrapped them again. He bent for a moment as the last piece of tape fell into place and brushed his lips on the inside of a wrist - not quite a kiss and therefore plausible to deny.

He want to sprawl right here across the other man's lap and stay for awhile, but he had the notion that was comforting more to himself than to Vicious.

"I'll take care of everything," Gren said, not nothing to specify what that encompassed, because he more or less meant it. He would bring him food and do his laundry. Change his bandages and clean up his room. Or simply be a distraction from the mundane and an outlet for all his desires. At least for a little while he could try to be everything Vicious needed. There was no higher purpose for someone like him.

He wasn't prepared for that strange little display of devotion. He enjoyed control, enjoyed bending people to his will, but Gren seemed to place himself there of his own will, and without a struggle. It was the willingness he couldn't understand, when Gren knew full well the sort of person he was. The times he fought and pushed back never seemed to be for his own sake.

It was foolish, but nothing seemed to dissuade him.

"You should know better." The admonishment lacked force, however. He hadn't chased him off earlier, after all, and he felt too drained now to really try again. If Gren wanted to be foolish, so be it.

It was as foolish as it was selfish, in his point of view, and he figured he could afford either, no matter what it was that Vicious was referring to. He was far less adept at avoiding his drug - this thing between them - than Vicious was his.

"I know," he said, soft and even faintly amused at himself.

He rose to his feet and started cleaning up. First the bandages and maybe the rest of the room that Vicious had wrecked.

There was nothing Vicious could say to that; Gren was choosing his own fate, fully aware of what it might entail. Instead, he sat silently in the chair for awhile as Gren cleaned, before finally getting up to move to the bed. Normally, he wouldn't have allowed himself what seemed like a show of weakness, but all he could feel was the insistent throbbing in his hands, and Gren was hardly likely to judge him for it.