sixthiterationlogs

Entry tags:

[closed]

WHO: Lucy
WHERE: Along the way to House 51, bridge crossing, and the second thread at House 51
WHEN: Dec 3 (shortly after this) & Dec 9 (shortly after this)
OPEN TO: Closed to Connor
WARNINGS: Blood, swearing, will update if needed

Why had she expected to be the only one here from home? Bleeding out, a number of neatly sewn stitches holding her skin together, Lucy could handle that. Just another day on the job. That was no big deal, really. However... Being told that she was dead and that someone she thought she could trust and had even begun to develop feelings for was the reason behind it, that was entirely something else. A whole new game and arena that she wasn't prepared to enter and deal with.

As it were, she was not aware that Desmond had taken to following her several paces behind. She was completely unaware. Disbelief, a spreading numbness, a tight chest—that was pretty much a bright blip on her rader and the only blip. She was dead. Dead. How was she supposed to deal with that? Thinking back on it made it hard to breathe, to think of anything rational. Lucy had only made it halfway across the bridge when she had to stop, grasping at the rail to keep upright. She was hunched in, the dark stain of blood trailing down to soak into her pants, bleeding from how hard she'd pushed herself to make it the rest of the way home on her own.

A glance to her wristband and she considered finding Connor in the directory to send him a message asking for help. Lord only knew how badly she needed it right now. Her knees began to fold and Lucy didn't stop them from doing so, letting herself sink down until she was sitting there. The tremors in her shoulders came and they didn't stop, not even as she ducked her head and felt the hot tears drip to leave dark, wet droplets over her thighs, her sobs quiet and partly muffled behind her hand. How could this have happened? How could she get so far and only then decide that she'd had enough with the war to end up dead?

What she needed was a moment to grieve over the rest of the life she could no longer properly live back home and then she would push herself to go the rest of the way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Connor was entirely and absolutely certain that he made it very clear that she was not supposed to leave the house which they had currently claimed. Even if she were careful, even if she not made any sudden movements, it was impossible to tell what might happen once she ventured out into the village. Neither of them knew what dangers might be lurking, who might have arrived who would wish ill on whoever was unlucky enough to stumble upon them. When a wild animal may choose to venture into the village proper and she would be in no condition to fight or flee.

Connor was certain, and yet when he arrived back at the house she wasn't there. Which was fair enough, he understood how difficult it was to simply lie around with little to do. Perhaps she had simply gone for a walk around the outcropping of houses.

When there was no sign of her ten, fifteen minuted later he ventured out to find her, traveling first around the nearby houses, before spotting the bridge and realizing she must have attempted to go over it. Had he passed her somewhere in the village during his return?

There was fresh firewood and water, vegetable and a small cut of meat which could be made into a stew. Ginger root and a couple of tea bag to soothe the ache and her stomach. New bandages and a small bottle of homemade moonshine. She had seemed to be looking forward to all of it, how far could she truly have wandered off?

And then he saw her, hobbling back across the bridge, hand pressed against her side and he knew, before she even got close enough for him to see the blood he knew. He had started forward, up the path towards it when she crumbled, knees going out from under her and her entire body shaking.

The sound of his footsteps against the bridge would be enough to warn her of his approach, running across the expanse and slowing just before reaching her. Lowering himself down onto his knees, he reached out, gently placing a hand on her back as he spoke.

"What has happened?" She was sobbing, quiet and muffled as they were, and he looked up quickly as if hoping to find what could have caused this. Only to spot nothing and no one, his entire attention turning back to her.

Would he believe her if she said that she was fine and that everything was going to be okay? Maybe once upon a time she could've easily fed someone that lie. Now? It wasn't going to happen. She'd heard the heavy steps on the wooden bridge, felt them the closer he drew. There was no looking at him. Her head remained lowered and Lucy shook it. "I need to—" The rest broke off.

Her hand reached blindly upward for the railing, intent on pulling herself back up to her feet.

"—home."

That was all she wanted. And yet that alone brought on fresh tears, made the grief and despair all the heavier. Home, what was that? Where was that?

No.

No he wouldn't believe her if she told him that. There may have been a time when he could have been so easily fooled by such a lie, but it had long since passed.

Even as she reached blindly for the railing he knew she wasn't going to manage to haul herself upwards, onto her feet. Knew she wasn't actually going to make the journey back to the house under her own power.

Shifting, he moved to support her, one hand spreading against her lower back as the other went to her front, an attempt to try and stabilize her.

Only to have his hand slide into the slickness of blood and know instantly that she was bleeding, her stitches torn.

Pushing himself upwards onto his feet, he wasted no more time with allowing her to do as she pleased, bending over to place one arm beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her knees and lifting her into his arms.

"I will not ask again; what has happened?"

Her teeth bared with the movement, grit together. Here they were again, him pulling her up into his arms while she was bleeding. The physical pain wasn't nearly as agonizing as when she'd first arrived, thankfully, but it was still bad. Coupled with what Desmond had told her. Lucy dropped her head to Connor's shoulder, rested there. How did she even begin to explain Desmond Miles, her connection to him?

"Someone from my time." Ugh, she'd been crying so hard that catching her breath before Conor had arrived had been difficult. There were small pauses on and off, hitches, hiccups almost. "I'm no longer alone."

Here they were again. The first time had been quick, over nearly as soon as it began. The second she had been little more than dead weight in his arms. And this time -

- This time she sounded as broken as she looked, head coming to rest on his shoulder, voice broken occasionally by small hitches. How did she explain her connection to Desmond, especially when she wasn't aware of Connor's own?

"I take it that is not a good thing." Moving as he spoke, twisting his body around and heading off in the direction of the house they now called their own, movements slow and steady, no longer in such a rush that he was willing to cause her undue pain.

"Right now?" She snorted, reaching up to wipe at her face. Had it ever been a good thing? "No." More wiping. Some sniffling. "It used...to be. A good thing."

While they made their way back to House 51 she glanced at herself, checked to see how much more blood she was losing. It'd begun seeping between her fingers the more she pressed to her stomach. It didn't bother her so much, this time. She'd found herself trusting Connor to take care of it, in these few short days that she'd come to know him.

"I'm sorry," she then mumbled.

Something in him wanted to snark at her when she apologized, to tell her how foolish of a thing she had done, how serious ripped stitches could be. How it could impede healing, reverse whatever may have started.

But looking down at her, at the tears that marked her cheeks and the red rimming her eyes and he couldn't, because he was certain she already knew.

"It can be fixed." They would need to be removed, the other's carefully checked, the wound cleaned and reclosed, rebandaged. But it was nothing beyond what he could manage.

Reaching the front porch, he took the steps quickly, reaching out and opening the door as wide as it would go, slipping through it before allowing it to slam shut behind him.

“Not everything can be fixed.” It came out before she could even think of stopping the words. By then they were getting out of the cold and into the house, the interior carrying some lingering warmth from the fire they’d had going earlier that morning.

Lucy was quiet. She didn’t feel the need right now to fill the silence with useless words; she had a lot to digest and think about, the confirmation of her death, that Desmond knew what she was, that he’d been the one to end her life.

“Let’s get a cloth first before you put me down on the bed. I don’t want to get the sheets bloodied again.”

Not everything could be fixed. Those words struck a painful chord within him, one that made him grateful for the resulting silence. Not everything could be fixed, and yet he continued to try. Continued to try and fix what relationship there might be between himself and his father. Continued to try to fix the fledgling country he was helping to bring into existence.

Continued to try and fix everything fruitlessly.

"Alright." The kitchen was, thankfully, on the way into the bedroom, and so stopping into it was rather easy. There were some loose cloths sat upon the table which had not yet been torn into strips for bandages, and he lowered her enough to allow her to grab one before taking her into the bedroom. Spreading it out upon the bed was rather difficult, trying to keep a hold on her with one hand and move the fabric with the other. It was messy, but he finally managed it, depositing her onto the bed carefully.

She used what edge she could feel, pulling it up to her right side to dab around the dressing. "Too bad I'm not unconscious for this." Like last time. That would be a wonderful bliss. Lucy didn't think he was up for knocking her out.

The edge of her shirt was pulled up to better assess what was going on, the bloodied dressing slowly plucked at, peeled away to reveal some skin torn at the stitches, some even ripped, hanging loose. A glance down and Lucy was making a face. "Shit. Now isn't that a sight."

No. No it wasn't.

No. No he most definitely was not up for knocking her out. Despite the fact that he fully and completely agreed that it might very well be better for them both if she were unconscious.

Without her added weight he's free to move about the room, locating the suture and first aid kits, along with a clean towel, piling them onto the bed beside her before disappearing into the kitchen, returning a short time later with fresh, boiling water.

"What caused this?" Looking at her wound now was almost more ghastly than it had been the first time.

It was going to be the partial truth: “I did.” And there was no shame in it. “I got upset. It’s nothing.”

Lucy shot a glance off to where the kitchen was. Did they have any moonshine left? They couldn’t have used it all.

“Let’s just... Let’s just get this over with. There only seems to be four ripped stitches. This shouldn’t take long.” Not unless he dragged it out, threading each stitch slowly. She hoped not.

He's here to help, not torture her.

The first step, after getting onto his knees before her, is to dip one corner of the towel into the still hot water, barely waiting for it to cool before resting it atop her wound, leaving it for only a moment before gently beginning to wipe away the blood.

The second step was to dip his hands into that same water, removing them quickly before drying them, trying his best to clean and sanitize them so as to not introduce bacteria.

The Third step was to open the suture kit, to take out the tweezers and to attempt to set about removing the torn open stitches as carefully and as quickly as possible. It would likely pang a little, especially giving how fresh the wound had been and now with the new, added trauma.

The Fourth step was to find the spool of suture thread, to unwind a length of it and snip, to thread the curved needle.

The Fifth was to slip the needle through one side of the wound, followed quickly by the other, tugging gently in order to close it properly, before tying it off and snipping.

One down, three more to go.

As he worked he finally spoke, responded to her answer in kind. "It is not nothing. But if you not wish to tell me, I will understand."

It had been puzzling and interesting to watch the faces she made as she had spoken to Desmond.

It had been even more puzzling and interesting when Desmond had asked him to look after her, something he was already completely intent on doing.

More than once he had glanced from his device over at her, and he was certain at some point she had noticed. Just the way he had noticed her glancing at him as she typed away on the tiny device upon her wrist.

Both of them seemed finished with their conversations - and while his had taken an unexpected turn - there was still something lingering in the air, like a thick tension that needed to be cut.

"I was not aware you knew Desmond." The other had warned him not to let her know of their relation, that it might make her distrustful or pull away from him, but there was little harm in testing the waters.

Lucy would've been more content to excuse herself and go lay in bed, needing the privacy. She would've laid in bed until falling asleep. Everything was so fucked up. She wished she could've wiped the conversation she'd had with Desmond from her memory. She almost wished she could've wiped it all away, started fresh, not been born into the Brotherhood and used by William Miles. She could've lived.

Hearing Connor speak up right as she was on the verge of pushing up to leave the room, Lucy paused and looked over his way. "I could say the same for you."

Edited (I can date things I swear) 2018-12-13 23:21 (UTC)

Desmond had warned him that it might be best not to tell Lucy of their connection, or it might cause the trust that had already been established between them to erode away.

But Connor didn't want to lie, didn't quite understand why his connection to Desmond might affect his budding friendship with Lucy.

"I asked you first."

"Seriously? You bring up Desmond and then sass me?" The nerve of this man, the very same one who was going out of his way to keep her safe and helping her to the best of his ability in this place.

Lucy had to wonder now what exactly Desmond had said to him.

"Also, you didn't ask me anything. You just made an observation."

The absolute gall of this man.

"Is that not what you are doing now?" Are you sure you want to enter this sass battle, Lucy? Are you sure?

"You mean sassing you? Sure, we can say that, but you started it. I'm finishing it—why are you asking about Desmond?"

Desmond was a bit of a serious topic, one she was clearly cautious about getting into. Or more like she was hedging.

"I started nothing. I made an observation, remember?"

This probably was not what Desmond had meant when he had told him to avoid mentioning their connection.

"You're still not answering the question, Connor."

You're not scary.

"Make me, Lucy."

"I'm going to bed." She began then to push out of the chair, hiding her wince. "Since we're just running around in circles here."

Heavy sigh.

"Desmond is my descendant."

Well, that lasted a long time.

Lucy had her hand on the arm, halfway through easing out of the chair. It slipped and she plopped back down, sucking in sharply through her grit teeth. “Fuck.” Her right side was jolted and she grimaced. Ow ow ow— “What did you just say?”

Welp. There went the idea of sleeping with him.

“That doesn’t make sense. We never saw...you...” Oh. Shit.

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dec 9 shenanigans

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