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WHO: Ivan Vorpatril
WHERE: Outside, near house #33
WHEN: Feb. 10th, afternoon
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Unfun discussions of being struck by lightning, will edit if anything else comes up
STATUS: Open

I. FEB 10TH. THE STRIKE.

One of these days Ivan will get used to his temporary home being out to kill him. That day isn't today, however. He's only outside reluctantly, in an attempt to make sure that Byerly shows up for lunch instead of skipping it. How, and why, he became reluctantly concerned for the other man's health Ivan doesn't know, but here he is. He doesn't want to be responsible for Byerly’s survival, dammit, he doesn’t want to have to deal with anyone but himself. Except he takes notes at every meeting, is kept abreast of the news and it’s never anything good.

Ivan hates it.

And he hates the way the weather is turning, too — the storms aren't completely predictable, but he thought he'd timed the interval right. Shit. He switches from walking to jogging, cursing Byerly for living so goddamned far away. It's only out of the corner of his eye that he sees the ball of lightning and moves to avoid it, only to blink and then—

Well Ivan isn't sure what happens then, only that he’s in so much pain he can't see. And then nothing. And then he's on his back, no boots, and he's relatively sure the fact his throat hurts along with the rest of him is because he's been screaming. And is something burning—

Fuck.

II. FEB 10TH-17TH. RECOVERY.

If the strike was bad enough, the recovery has the potential to be worse. Ravi demanded bedrest, and Byerly's place was nearest and had a spare room, so Ivan finds himself at the mercy of the other man. Which, alright, wouldn't be as bad if he was back home, on Barrayar. There were girlfriends to come and visit him and holovids. Here? Here there’s nothing.

He'd had Byerly find a way to tell Kate what happened, and hoped that at least she'd come and visit him. Preferably with food. Or someone else to break the train that's just Byerly’s face in his life. At least, Ivan begrudgingly admits, the other man isn't unattractive. But he's hoping for at least a little more than unfairly attractive eyes from his guests. Some nice curves? Softness. Hell, he'd settle for Benedict at this point in time. So long as he has guests.

Good God, he hopes he does, or he’s going to go insane.

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Benedict and Ivan have been carefully skirting around each other since the confrontation on gift day, when Benedict discovered a pair of scandalously skimpy, sheer floral undergarments tucked away in his drawer with a label declaring they were for his sweetheart from a man they only just met. He's loath to start fights he doesn't want to finish, and so far the habble has been managing just fine without any sort of major dust-up between anyone, and he hadn't wanted to go down as the man so unreasonable he'd be the first to pick a real fight in the middle of the Inn common room.

So he mostly just ignored Ivan after that, leaving rooms when he'd enter or conveniently finding something with which to keep himself busy so he wouldn't have to make conversation or think about the fact that Ivan had gifted his sweetheart a set of lingerie.

When he'd heard that Ivan was injured, there was a small part of him that was amused. He quickly squashed that, though, because even if he does still sort of want to hit the man square in his stupid smirking face, Benedict wouldn't wish actual injury on someone like that. A broken nose, maybe. Being hit by lightning, no. So, when Kate all but ordered him to go visit the injured man, he hadn't even put up a token resistance and just sighed in resignation, letting her hand him a basket of things to help Ivan recover and then shove him out the door. Even dragging his feet didn't prolong the journey very much, and soon enough he's standing on Byerly's front porch, a resigned scowl firmly in place as he knocks on the door.

"Kate insisted I come see how you were healing," he declares flatly once he's allowed in to see Ivan, his expression not clearing very much. "She sent this."

The sign of a visitor has Ivan perking up, struggling to sit up in bed. He's had enough lying around under Byerly's care thank you very much. Only he sees who it is, and nearly sinks back into the pillows again. Oh no, just kick him while he's down, why doesn't Benedict?

Still, knowing his boss was looking out for him was, well. Nice. "She did?" He asks, still sunken slightly into the pillows. "What's all in it?"

He is happy to see someone that isn't Byerly, really, but even as the promise of hearing about how the rest of the world is doing and see what she's brought him is distracting, he's still not sure that Benedict isn't going to punch him in the face.

Byerly had been curled up most of the morning, having one of his slower days. Without his usual work and social arrangements, he's felt the stagnation weigh heavily on him. Hell, even his usual dubious activities that came after hours weren't available to him here. The result? More days than usual unfocused and unconcerned with taking care of himself insofar as food is concerned. However, today was going to be a day where he at least grabbed something from the inn to bring back for dinner, maybe even breakfast the next day depending. About to leave the house, he noticed that a storm seemed to have crept in on them, unsure if he realized one was moving in (he hadn't been focusing too much). Perhaps he wouldn't go for lunch after all.

He's about to turn back inside when something that sounds like an explosion occurs near the side of his house--somewhere extremely and uncomfortably close. The ground shakes with the force of whatever just happened as he clamors to steady himself by holding onto the door jamb leading out to his front porch.

When his ears start ringing after being nearly deaf for a few seconds, another sound reaches his ears. Screaming. Moving automatically to locate the sound before he even realizes what he's doing, Byerly is around the side of the house where a great pit seems to have formed that wasn't there a few seconds ago. There, laying on the ground in the middle of it, appeared to be a body.

His legs are moving on their own as he approaches, slowly at first, not quite believing what he's seeing. That head of hair, that facial profile, they're so familiar but they're wrong right now. His legs move a bit faster and his worst fears are confirmed. It's Ivan laying so oddly on the ground, not his tall, proud, unassuming self.

Byerly is shaking when he falls to his knees, trying to wrap his head around what just happened. His heart feels the burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins, hard thump against the inside of his chest as he leans down to squeeze Ivan's shoulder, perhaps harder than he intended, Please no please no please no--

Ivan's name tumbles out of his mouth in a panic but he can't even hear his own voice above the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

It hurts. All at once and then the lingering remainder, even as Ivan's mouth snaps shut out of reflex or surprise the moment he feels someone gripping his shoulder. Where... how... the voice calling him is familiar, he knows who that is, dammit, why can't he--

He blinks once, and then twice, and then, weakly, in a roughed out voice that's more hoarse than Ivan's ever heard himself except for that once-- "Byerly?" Is he on the ground? When did that happen, what happened -- he was standing and then there was a sound, and then pain--

"Happened?" he manages, before letting his head fall back onto the ground from the moment he tried to raise it. He feels like hell.

"Easy, take it easy," he hears himself choke out, both in relief and horror, hand gripping Ivan's shoulder far tighter than necessary. At least Ivan was alive. Byerly saw how still Ivan had been seconds before. It was difficult not to fear the worst.

Bare basics of first aid that he's learned from his abbreviated training for civilian domestic affairs: Ivan is conscious, a good thing. He's clearly breathing. The fact that he's conscious means his heart is beating...how well though is something he's not sure of.

"I think you were struck by lightning," disbelief lacing his words. There's no trace of his usual demeanor--he's utterly stunned by what's happened and what's happening. Saying the words aloud makes Byerly realize just how out of their element they are. As far as Byerly knows, there are no medical facilities anywhere around here and no way to reach one.

Shit.

Ivan is uncharacteristically silent for a long moment after that, not moving -- partly because he hurts, and partly because he's taken aback by how different By is right now. He'll think about it later, come up with some answer. But at the moment the only thing he can think of is to say one very, simple, all consuming thing.

"Well fuck."

At least he's not dead. He's not dead, is he? He'd know if he were dead.

Probably, having never been dead before.

A shaking hand comes up to hold Ivan's wrist, feeling for a pulse and staying there once he found it. He needs to make sure it's regular. Lightning could really screw with the electricity of the heart.

Byerly is torn. He really should grab help, but he's paralyzed by the fear that something might happen to Ivan if he leaves. Someone must have heard that and must be investigating. Right?

"Someone should come," he says aloud, and whether it's more for himself or for Ivan's sake, even he's not sure.

Byerly leads the last guest out of Ivan's bedroom--or the bedroom of his that Ivan is currently using, however one wants to define it--and shuts and locks his door. It was more for ceremony than for actually doing anything. The lock is rusted after all. It's been like this all day since he's been stabilized the evening before.

He saunters back into the room. "I'm going to start charging admission for people to come into my house to see you. A glass of wine per person per day. That way I can deal with this many people coming through." Byerly is usually quite the private person about his personal quarters. Perhaps it was because of his old lifestyle and he'd gotten used to it due to the nature of his job, but no one had ever really known where he lived, save for his direct superiors. Having people visit was starting to wear on him, though he did have his own bedroom to hide out in to give Ivan and his visitors privacy.

He sits down in the chair that had been placed beside the bed Ivan currently occupied (and that he had occupied the entire night before to ensure that Ivan was, in fact, still breathing) and crosses his legs and then arms, silently appraising Ivan, trying to get a feel for where he is in terms of exhaustion.

He is terribly exhausted, but it doesn't show anywhere but in the paleness of his normally darker skin, and the dimness of his eyes. Which were never terribly bright either, but only Byerly would be able to notice -- having met and dealt with him in Vorbarr Sultana. Running a hand through his hair, he lets out a sigh while giving the other man a sharp look.

"Surely I deserve at least half a bottle. I'm the one who got injured, By."

"And I'm the one that found you nearly dead outside of my house. I don't think there's enough wine in the entire village to erase that particular memory." Though his tone is flippant and dismissive, it is the entire truth while skirting around the emotional aspects of it. Byerly was a wreck when he first found Ivan and while he was being stabilized--He's since recovered his usual mask.

"Not to mention I'm sure that Ravi fellow'd recommend you stayed away from alcohol while your body is recovering from being struck by lightning, mm?"

"He's not Vor," Ivan protests, falling back on the one thing that he and Byerly share in his defense. "He doesn't understand." God dammit why did By have to grow a sense of human compassion now? And show it like this? He'd much rather have the alcohol.

Still, the flippancy strikes a cord, and Ivan sighs. "Trust me, I'm trying to forget about it as much as you are. That's where the wine comes in handy."

He rolls his eyes at that. He sees what you're up to, Ivan. Don't try to manipulate a manipulator. He leans forward, elbow on his thigh, chin in his hand.

"Give yourself a couple of days first," he replies, not unkindly with the lift of an eyebrow.

It's the screaming that lights a fire under Ravi's feet, sending him running because he might not know everyone in town, but he sort of knows their rough sounds and that sounds a lot like Ivan screaming like someone is dying. He doubles back and sprints to pick up his med-kit before starting to run again towards the noise, skidding to a slide and grateful that his black scrubs will hide the dirt.

"Ivan," Ravi says, "Ivan, it's Ravi. I need you to take deep breaths for me," he advises, glancing skywards with the worry that they might get hit again. "I need to take your heart rate," he warns, "and then we're going to move your head down, just so it's tipped below your knees. Okay?"

He knows that voice, Ivan thinks, before doing what he's told and swallowing a large gulp of air. Ravi-- Ravi--- right. Ivan gasps again, trying to listen to the other man. The pain still lingers, bitting through his limbs in the ghost of the shock. Or whatever the hell it was, he's still not sure.

"Yeah--" He manages, voice rough. "What the hell--" happened to him? He does as he's told, however; no one has ever said that he's a bad patient.

"Easy, now," Ravi soothes, keeping his worry hidden. The biggest concern he bears right now involves a cardiac incident from the heart being supercharged with a sudden electric overload, so he goes calm and presses his fingers to Ivan's pulse point at his wrist, counting off hand as he takes a value at ten seconds. Fast, obviously, given the stress of the situation, but not erratic. That's good, that's very good. "I think you may have been struck by lightning," he says, which might be odd and strange at any other point in time.

Yet, here, it's becoming scarily commonplace. Ravi's not sure what to do with that. "I want to get your head below your heart," he says, "do you feel like you can move?"

"Shit." It seems like a good, all consuming word for how he feels right now and his general response to being told he'd been struck by lightning. Fantastic. Exactly what he wanted to with his life today -- nearly lose it. Ivan groans, nods, and attempts to move only to think twice about it.

"No. Not-- no." Maybe if he curled up on his side? But that would require moving too.

"Okay, we'll take this nice and easy," Ravi advises with a slow exhalation, trying to show Ivan how to mimic him. "Let's lie down, then, and I'm just going to do a few tests," he says, easing down to his feet. He doubts that anything has happened that's going to impact sensitivity, but best to check. "I'm just going to rap your knee a little, try not to boot me in the face," he suggests, gently giving a little knock to see if the reflexes are still working, eyeing Ivan the rest of the time to monitor his vitals and behaviour.

Thor saw it the moment it happened and, unfortunately, was struck dumb by it. He had controlled the lightning for his entire life but here, in this place, he could not even summon it to strike a little to the left of the man. Seeing it light up the sky, hearing the crack of it and smelling the sick scent of burning flesh - all of it froze him into place.

After a few moments, though, he ran to the man's side and knelt, checking him for a pulse quickly.

"Can you stand? Will I have to carry you?"

After he manages to stop himself from screaming, Ivan has to fight through the confusion and haze -- focusing on the man's face. It's not one he knows by name, but one by association. There's only a very small pool of people here, after all. Groaning again, Ivan attempts to move and decides that no, his pride can take the hit. "Carry, I think."

And then, because his feet are damned cold. "Could you-- bring my boots?" How the hell had that happened?

Thor got the man's boots before extending his arms to him, wanting to help him up. He could carry him easily enough from here to the Inn but it would be easier if he helped to pull himself up.

"Arms around my neck? I should be able to carry you to the Inn where you can get medical attention."

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i had to do it you basically asked for it

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The Strike

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Recovery, evening of Feb 11

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Strike! Strike! oh god, burning flesh why

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the strike

sorry this is so late!

Re: sorry this is so late!