entrancelogs | i am the king of the sparrows

Entry tags:

i am the king of the sparrows

Who: Gansey and you!
Where: the library, the forest, the beach
When: 8/25
Rating: probably E for Everyone! Some light swearing, description of cleaning an infected wound.
Summary: Gansey is learning his way around Wonderland
The Story:

the library

[anyone who knew gansey (which is, of course, at this point, basically nobody) would be unsurprised to find him in the library. books are a safe haven, reading and research always a source of comfort, and this library has enough books to keep anyone entertained for an eternity.

at the moment, he's amassing a pile of them at the bottom of a ladder. they're on a variety of subjects, from ley lines and welsh history to the first three novels about a certain wizard with a scar on his forehead. he seems comfortable enough up on the library ladder, or at least he does until he adds one too many books to the collection he's holding on one forearm, and it goes tumbling to the floor.

apologies to anyone nearby for either the sudden falling object or the very loud noise it makes when it hits the ground.]

the forest

[the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, and gansey is homesick as all hell, at sea without his friends, without his quest, without much to anchor him besides the strange man who lives in the next room over. unmoored and left to his own devices, he seeks solace in a place that's maybe just a little like another forest he knows. it's nothing like cabeswater, really, lacking in all the magic and wonder, but the odd sense of not-quite-reality that pervades all of wonderland is something, at least.

if nothing else, it's quite a sight to see a well-groomed teenaged boy in khaki cargo shorts, a brightly colored polo, and boat shoes climbing a tree. or maybe you spot him when he's up there, wedged more-or-less comfortably in. the polo really is rather unsubtle.]

the beach

[gansey's wanderings have brought him to the shoreline. he has his shoes hooked on two fingers and a library book held with the others, but instead of helping himself to one of the chairs, he just stands and stares, watching the waves, his free hand in his pocket, rocking gently back and forth, digging his feet into the sand. once he's in up to his ankles, he goes completely still, watching the waves break and crest on shore.

he probably stands there for fifteen minutes, at least, before pulling his feet free, setting his shoes and book on a vacant chair, and walking toward the water, both hands in his pockets now. there's something about the set of his shoulders, a bone-deep loneliness, or at least aloneness. when he gets down to the water's edge, he turns and begins to walk along it. where's he going? he has no idea. it doesn't really matter.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[gansey listens to max collapse onto the couch as he heads into the bathroom. between the innate helpfulness of the place and the little shops that, for whatever reason, are happy to take his credit card as though it means anything, he's procured himself basic necessities, including a fairly complete first aid kit. he pauses to wash his hands before bringing it out and settling himself on the couch beside max.]

Ramsey?

[he takes max's injured hand carefully, waiting to be acknowledged somehow before he touches the wrapping.]

(It takes him a moment or two before he regards Gansey carefully, as though figuring out him all over again and then he's blinking away whatever funk he'd slipped into momentarily. He wasn't still all back but at least he was enough to acknowledge Gansey properly.)

Hm? Hmm. Go ahead.

(That's right, they were focusing on his hand. His eyes slide down to where Gansey's hand was and he sighs, just barely.)

[gansey doesn't do a thing until max refouses enough to speak to him, and even then he still hesitates before beginning to unwrap the bandage. he's not being mincing about it, he's just naturally gentle, treating max's had as though it must hurt, regardless of what max has said about it.]

Is there a problem?

...No.

(There wasn't really. Nothing he could think of mentioning anyway. He wasn't about to bring up his guilt over how much Gansey has done for him. His dedication to keeping the boy safe was a private thing for now. He wasn't so sure how Gansey would take that kind of thing.

As for the entire thing where Gansey was helping him...He owed Gansey at least that much of an answer. So Max merely shrugs, like it's not as big of a deal as it kind of was.)

Most people just don't help people back when.

I'm not most people. If you stop thinking I am, it might be easier.

[gansey hasn't even considered the imbalance max sees in their relationship thus far, mostly because he doesn't see it. for him, having someone there, just not being alone, is something he's so unspeakably grateful for that he hasn't considered reciprocation.

when he finishes unwrapping max's hand, he stares down at it in horror.]

What in the fresh hell--there's a hole in your hand, Ramsey! Why didn't...

[why didn't you say anything is the question he begins to ask, but then he doesn't bother to finish it.]

Ramsey. This...this isn't all right.

(Max doesn't answer, staring instead down at his hand as it's unwrapped. Gansey already had put himself aside from most people. Actually, he had put himself aside from everyone. That and he is quickly distracted by Gansey's reaction to the hole in his hand.

He looks up at Gansey with an incredibly deep frown set on his face.)

....I forgot.

(Which is an honest enough answer in some way. The hole had grown numb by now. The showering had helped clean out most of the infection that had taken place but he certainly hadn't bothered looking at it since.)

Mmm. Happens. C'mon.

(He reaches his good hand up and lightly knocks his knuckles against the side of Gansey's head. He found that he didn't really like upsetting the boy.)

Don't look like that. Not a big deal. Really.

It's a hole. Through your hand. That's kind of a big deal, Ramsey.

[but the knuckles to the side of his head do divert him from the beginning of a mini freakout and into just inspecting the wound, turning max's hand over at the wrist.]

At least it doesn't look infected. This is probably going to burn like hell.

[which doesn't mean that he isn't very careful when he goes about cleaning it out. the wound itself doesn't scare him, almost like he's used to caring for injuries on some level, and he isn't so wincingly gentle as to be ineffective, but he isn't any rougher than he needs to be, either. certainly kinder than max would be to himself if he was cleaning it out on his own. he rinses and disinfects and applies ointment, then wraps just that part of max's hand in gauze separately from his broken fingers.]

You're awfully damned lucky it's healing so cleanly. And that you didn't sever any of the important tendons or ligaments.

No, pet, it isn't.

(His words are not argumentative though. They're softer set because he didn't actually want Gansey to worry that much about him.

At the caution, he merely shrugs. He was well used to pain by now enough to not anticipate it horribly. The initial stuff was always the worst. Getting his hand crushed had hurt like a royal bitch but afterward the pain was quite tolerable. Surprisingly, the arrow to the hand barely hurt. It was too clean a wound to hurt.

It does sting like a bitch as Gansey works at the hand and cleans it out. Max doesn't show any signs of pain though. There isn't a grunt or even a grimace as Gansey works into it with more diligence than Max had anticipated. Someone who knew what they were doing, then.)

Mmm. I heal like that. Quick too.

(It's a bit abnormal and he doesn't know how to explain it better than that but his wounds closed up fast. Even the hole in his hand was making its way there. He wiggles his good fingers, trying to get Gansey to not worry as much.)

Ah? That so? Good to know, doctor.

Pet? Was that a nickname, Ramsey?

[it's asked absently as he works, glancing momentarily up at max with raised eyebrows before he goes back to his disinfecting. but by the time max wiggles his working fingers, gansey gives a wry smile. something about the nickname, its oddness and the way he's not sure max meant to call him that, somehow settles the uncomfortable roll of his stomach.]

And yes, that's so, assuming you want to be able to use your fingers, which I would bet you do.

[there's less he can do for the broken fingers, of course, since max has already set them, but he can at least wrap them so they stay more or less splinted.]

(Max snorts at that question, even rolling his eyes partly.)

No, Gansey. It was a pet name.

(What kind of nickname would 'pet' be anyway? Either way, Gansey is smiling a little bit and Max feels the slightest bit more at ease. He settles into the couch as much as a man getting his wounds cleaned up could.

He hums noncommittally at Gansey and watches as his fingers are properly wrapped. Before he had kind of just worked them together with what materials were laying around but by the time Gansey is finished, Max holds his hand out to look over the work.)

Mm. Do you feel better now?

(Max...it kind of went the other way around in these sort of cases, buddy.)

[the answer makes him snort an actual laugh.]

Point taken.

[gansey isn't a professional at binding broken fingers, but he's fastidious enough that winging it still does a pretty good job. at the question, he looks up and sets his chin on his hand.]

That's the question I'm supposed to be asking you, Ramsey. But yes, I feel better knowing you're properly taken care of.

(For just a split second, Max smiles when Gansey laughs but only a split second.

He is very quickly glaring at Gansey once more though there's no real heat behind it. He set his hand down into his lap and itched just under the fresh wraps of his fingers.)

I already felt fine.

(It was a strange kind of irritation that Max felt at Gansey caring so much. Not the irritation he was used to. More something that he didn't know how to deal with. Furiosa and him had had an alliance but she would never of fussed over him like this. Even the wives hadn't.)

You said that about the bath, too, until you had one.

[he's just saying. he looks max over where he's sitting on the couch, ignoring the glare with the ease of long practice.]

Where else are you hurt?

[it's not even a question of if, really.]

(That question is met with an incredibly long blank stare. He doesn't actually know where else he might be injured. He likely had a concussion from being thrown into a tanker but there was nothing Gansey could do for that so it wasn't worth mentioning.

There was the ....situation on his neck to put it lightly but that was. If Gansey had freaked out over a hole in his hand Max really could not imagine what he'd do if he saw that. So Max places his arms over his chest and resolutely stares forward and away from Gansey.

Just not gonna answer that.)

Ramsey.

[gansey reaches out and puts a hand on max's elbow.]

That's not actually an appropriate answer, you know. Knowing there's something and having to wonder is much worse than just taking care of it.

(Max exhales. The problem is he knew he couldn't exactly lie to Gansey. It'd be even more obvious than his silence. He glances at Gansey, frowning deep.)

Gansey. There are some wounds you don't need to see. It's fine.

[there's something about that statement that makes gansey draw in a breath through his nose. it's one of those breaths that's deciding whether to exhale an argument or not.

on one hand, gansey knows there are things he doesn't need to see. at home, there are things he knows his friends keep from him, and he lets it happen. on the other, there's something about the way that max says it that deeply unsettles something in him. what comes out isn't quite an argument and it isn't quite a plea. it ends up just being a statement.]

You don't have to just suffer through things here, Ramsey. They can be taken care of properly.

...Maybe.

(He really looks at Gansey then, eyes skimming over the boy's face, as if he was trying to understand something that wasn't quite at the surface for him to find. He twisted his arms away from himself before he slipped himself around and moved so that he was directly facing Gansey, his good leg tucked up under him.

The selling factor was the most basic of truths. He trusted this boy and he had a feeling that they would both be here for a very long time. Gansey was bound to discover the true cruelty of his world one way or another. Max would rather it come from him than as a surprise.)

There's probably nothing to do.

(Which was true enough or at least he figured. He hooks his fingers into the hem of his shirt and tugs the shirt down until it's pulled over his shoulder and showing the entire - well. Mess that had had him hooked up as a bloodbag.)

...oh my god, Ramsey, what did they do to you?

[he doesn't expect an answer to that question, clearly, because he's already inspecting the area with careful fingers, starting fairly far out from the piercings and cannula to feel how warm max's skin is, whether the very obvious infection is huge or still manageable. as his fingers get closer, the scab of old blood and dirt breaks around the cannula, draining pus.]

This one's infected. You're right, there's no way I can take this out. But we can try to get the infection out, get it to heal up cleaner, at least.

[gansey's voice has gone very calm and soft, almost distant. he's clearly distressed, but just like in the tree, his personality switches like the changing of a channel, cutting off his emotions in favor of dealing with the situation.]

They took my fucking blood.

(Max spits the words out because, reasonably so, he's still pissed off about the whole thing. He doesn't sound sad. Being angry was a lot easier and came far more naturally to Max. He wasn't going to delve into it though too much. Not with Gansey looking the way he was.

He knew it would be a little too much.

Still, Gansey was talking calm and steady. For whatever reason, Max didn't feel comforted by it. His eyes were focused on Gansey's face far more than he was focused on the wound. Even if it felt tender as hell.)

Do what you gotta do.

(Because suddenly it dawned on him that maybe Gansey would feel better if he did take care of it all.)

[gansey doesn't answer, doesn't say anything at all, because he can either take care of this or think about all the implications of it, but he can't do both at once. his eyes flick up to max's and then he gets up, comes back with several washcloths in a bowl of steaming hot water. that's how he ultimately ends up cleaning the whole site, letting the scabs soften beneath hot washcloths and carefully cleaning them away, drawing the pus and fluid beneath them to the surface and cleaning that away as well. it's time-consuming and not comfortable, but there are definitely worse ways to get down to clean skin.

finally, he's got it as clean as he can get it. he dabs it all carefully with disinfectant, puts ointment around all the places that things disappear beneath max's skin, and then lightly tapes wrap gauze over the whole thing.

it has to be sore from being touched so much, but having the pressure of the pus gone might be a relief.]

If it gets cleaned daily and the infection clears up, it might...kind of heal. The gauze is just to keep your shirt from rubbing.

[he's quiet a moment.]

They...stole your blood?

(Just like with his hand, Max doesn't make a single indication that he may be experiencing any level of discomfort save for a quiet huff of breath or two. He remains mostly stoic though, watching Gansey work with a detached fascination. It feels a little dizzying to have the site cleared so thoroughly but by the time Gansey was finished with it, it did feel better. Airier. It certainly was sore but the kind of sore that Max could tolerate well.)

Mmm. I'll try to keep it up.

(He's fairly certain Gansey would be glad to hear that. Honestly, Max was only barely bad at taking care of himself. He covered the basics but never anything more than that. This was something he could manage and so he would manage it. Especially since Gansey had taken the time to take care of it to begin with.

He lets go of his shirt and looks down at his shoulder, not really properly able to see it from this angle.

Then Gansey presses the topic and he looks up at him, frowning yet again.)

Mmm. And my car. Fucking War Boys. Psychotics.

Mm. I can check on it every few days, see how it's doing.

[it's not coddling, gansey reasons, if max really can't see the thing that well himself except in the mirror.

now that he's done cleaning it, the reality of what it means is slowly expanding in his mind. for all that they were dirty and infected, those wounds weren't fresh. even if max healed fast, he'd had them for some time, which meant he'd been captured and imprisoned, kept for his blood, for...well. gansey didn't know. any amount of time was too long, in truth. he doesn't ask, because after their conversation on time, he doubts max knows. If he were max, he wouldn't want to know.

it explains a lot, though. what does one's name matter when a band of psychotics treat you like a walking blood bank? why would he trust anyone?

why does he trust gansey? this changes the light on everything.]

Doing something like this would require some kind of psychosis, yes.

(It's another moment in which Max contemplates the boy sitting in front of him. He was not just a child. No, "child" didn't even come close to describing Gansey. There was nothing childish about him. There wasn't even anything that reminded Max to call him a 'kid' or even a teenager. There was a depth to him, an ageless kind of wonder and Max thought it a little funny that he would wind up with someone like that. He could see thoughts ticking behind Gansey's head and wondered how honest with him he should.

Max was never a man to lie much unless it somehow managed to serve a greater role in achieving something he wanted. This was a little different. He could just stay quiet and it'd make no difference.

It's an easy enough decision for Max to make.)

Back in my world, everyone's a psychotic. Everyone.

(Emphasis on the everyone because he certainly was no better.)

[gansey fixes max with a look. it's not argumentative, because he can't actually argue that max isn't crazy. max's mind is certainly broken, far more broken than gansey's mind, which is riddled with its own cracks and crazes. but there are things and then there are things.]

Would you do that to someone?

[he gestures at the cannula, the metal bands that hold it snug against max's collarbone.]

i am the king of the sparrows

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