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Jack of the Frost is back in the bar, with a box. He's trying to tie ribbon around it, like a present, and it's failing utterly.

Ribbon is too damned fiddly.

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After this (http://community.livejournal.com/milliways_bar/16110695.html?view=663824231#t663824231), a narrowly escaping man crawls over to near Jack.

And quietly collapses.

"Jesus, God."

Jack flies out of the chair, practically, and supports Johnny a little,

"This whole fucking week."

"Can't get my breath." Johnny gasps.

"Pissed off a metal thing."

"Shhh," he says, sliding an arm slowly around him.

"Do you think you can stand? We should go to the infirmary."

He coughs, wiping blood from his mouth as he does so.

"I'm up." he gasps, staggering to his feet.

"Up?" says Dworkin, from behind, and suddenly Johnny's a foot off the floor, and being held still.

Jack gasps, and moves back, as Dworkin scuttles closer.

"Please, let me go... can't breathe."

"Then shut up."

He presses a white hot palm to Johnny's ribs, where they're broken, and pushes.

"Don't know why you're bothering. You smoke like a chimney, your lungs are practically shrivelled into nothing."

The push hurts like a mother fucker because that's the way Dworkin does things, but when his hand pulls away...

...well, it still hurts like a motherfucker, but it isn't broken, punctured, bleeding, or even particularly bruised on the inside. Outside, sure. Inside?

"Healthy as a tabacco addicted horse."

"Let him down" says Jack, but only quietly because Dworkin's not the sort of thing he argues with, even he can tell, and he's a lemming.

Little black dots erupt in front of his eyes as soon as the hand pushes the rib.

He takes deep breaths, fighting to keep conscious.

"Stop being so dramatic," Dworkin tells the world at large, and lowers Johnny down rather immediately into Jack, swinging his weight into him and knocking the rather lighter Jack down.

Jack hits the floor, and Dworkin uses the distraction to reknit those blood vessel that have gone and burst in his side, reducing a lot of the swelling and brusing. The 'can't breathe can't breathe' parts of it.

"Twits."

No sound, but his lips move, the ghost of a prayer in Borogravian before he slumps to the floor, unconscious with the pain.

"Over dramatic twits," says Dworkin, and takes advantage of the being still to finish up the rest of the healing, ignoring Jack's sitting up and not so quiet fuming outrage, from a few feet away.

There. All better. Silly little broken toy is back on its feet.

And the Frostbringer looks... livid. This is perhaps a situation best ducked out of. Immediately.

Dworkin hightails it.

Johnny's thank him, but he's still unconscious.

Jack... will forgo comment and see to Johnny.

Still swearing under his breath, he does his best to lift him. On his good side, because he doesn't know how extensive the injuries aren't, he slings Johnny's arm over his shoulder and stands him.

Jack is a lot stronger than makes sense. And Frost helps. Frost helps a whole lot, to get them up and over to the door out to the lake. To the woods, where Jack lies him in the soft (warm) snow. Even with Frost, he wouldn't want to try the stairs.

He stirs, feeling the wetness despite its warmth, and looks up at Jack, shivering more from the shock than environment.

"Shhh," says Jack, eyes wide and frightened.

"We are outside. You are safe. Whatever comes near us here I will kill summarily."

He tries to sit up, but he's exhausted.

"Don't... you're too... good to kill... someone."

"Shhh."

He settles down in the snow next to him, and puts a hand on his chest. The other one tries to get his shirt up at the side, to see the damage.

"I will not, then. You are still safe."

"Can't... lie out here... Jack. I'll... get pneumonia."

His side is still bruised, but much less than it would have been.

"You get pneumonia because you get cold. You are not cold."

He shifts, uncomfortably.

"And... I cannot lift you up the stairs. How do you feel about Italy?"

Beat.

"Italy is closer than upstairs?"

"We are going to Italy."

He gives Johnny his hands.

"Up. You can use our couch."

He takes the hand and drags himself to his feet.

"What's a couch?" he asks, following, more steady now.

"Somewhere to sleep."

He slides an arm around him, just in case. Falling right now won't help him any.

"So we can make sure you are better."

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blueeyedjohnny.livejournal.com - 2007-03-10 19:05 (UTC) - Expand

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http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/ - 2007-03-10 19:08 (UTC) - Expand

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