weathertop | darling it's better down where it's wetter

Jack actually has a few questions about that himself, but he's in a better position to answer them, at least with hypotheses. All the same, it's something he'll be asking about sooner or later.

Right now, though, he has to admit that he didn't know this wasn't just medicine. He lacks a point of reference, and he never really thought about it.

He doesn't have to admit to that out loud, though.

He just frowns, frustrated again by the limits of the knowledge in his head.

...There is something he can do, though.

"You need to get into the house," he says, definitely not stating the obvious at all.

"I can carry you. I'm strong."

"Oh no," Sinclair says, laughing in earnest now and shaking his head a bit too enthusiastically. "I'll make my way in, you go on inside and make yourself comfortable," he insists.

The medicine cabinet in his bathroom is really not that far away, under normal circumstances it would have been ten, maybe fifteen seconds of walking time from the front door. He just needs to get used to the feeling of putting pressure on that leg and then he'll be hobbling his way over there in no time. Yeah. No time at all. He's not being stubborn or anything okay, he can do this.

Jack smiles a bit helplessly at the laughter, though his eyes are still worried.

But Sinclair must know what he's doing, right? Even if Jack doesn't quite get it, there must be a good reason for declining assistance, otherwise he wouldn't do it. All that matters to you is you, after all.

So he nods compliantly, and starts to head slowly into the apartment, still keeping an eye on Sinclair but no longer trying to tell him what to do.

And that's when the distant mocking laughter starts.

Ah yes, the unmistakeable noise of approaching splicers. Looks like Sinclair's gonna have to double his hobbling speed.

He reaches for the door frame, hooking his fingers in it to try and swing himself around in one movement. And it works...in that it gets him inside the door frame. But his balance is off, he can't stay standing, and rather than fall over entirely, he lets himself slide down onto the carpet.

This isn't working. And that splicer commotion is only getting louder. Sinclair looks at Jack. The options here have become very few. That's the only reason he's even considering this.

"...Kid," he says. And leaves it at that.

Self-explanatory order. Jack unceremoneously hefts Sinclair up in some kind of bastard cross of a fireman's carry (see?? do you believe him now?????) and the way you're supposed to hold a baby.

...The man is heavy, and Jack wobbles for a moment as he finds a new centre of gravity. But the chemical thrower isn't light either, nor the grenade launcher. And bulking up your body does more than let you swing a wrench. He's gotcha, Sinclair; if anything ends up failing it'll be his balance.

Without further ado, Jack strides past the turrets and into the house.

This is without question Sinclair's #1 most humiliating moment since coming to Rapture. Luckily there's no one else around to see it. He reflexively gets an arm around Jack's neck to hold himself up, try and at least relieve some of the weight from Jack's arms, and to keep himself from feeling like he might be dropped at any moment.

"My, uh," he starts, pausing to clear his throat. "My medical kit's in the bathroom over yonder, chief."

The door rumbles shut behind them, blocking out the distant noise of the splicers. The turrets flank it reassuringly. Jack allows himself to relax very slightly, and shifts to get a better grip on Sinclair.

Try not to scream like a debutante while you get juggled around, Mister Sinclair. ♥

An archway to the right leads up into what looks like a bedroom, so Jack heads through an inside door, then through another until he finds an ornate bathroom. It's clean, and there isn't even stuff lying all around, which is almost a culture shock after the rest of the apartments Jack's raided.

He glances around, then settles Sinclair in what he assumes is the most comfortable place:

The tub.

...It'll do.

Sinclair stretches out his legs a bit and flinches, shifting to a more comfortable position only to find that there really isn't one.

"Behind the mirror there, opens up like a door and you'll see what I'm talking about." He's gesturing blindly, not really paying attention to what Jack is doing. There's a lot more blood than he expected, and it doesn't appear to be slowing down at all. It's definitely been a while since the last time he lost this much blood.

Jack presses E to search the mirror, and comes up aces with bandages, padding, a bottle of antiseptic. It's not as quick as a med hypo, but it'll do the job. And he's used them before, when the kits were getting low, so at least this won't be trial and error.

He returns to the tub.

"I can make it better. I need to take your pants off."

...Somebody should give him an award for the least suggestive reading of that line in world history.

"Easy there, son," Sinclair says, laughing exactly as he did in the hallway. "I think I've got this part covered."

Apart from preferring to keep his pants on around his guests (you know, usually), when it comes to dumping antiseptic on a gaping wound...that's not something that's fun to leave to the suspense of waiting for someone else to do it. So for the sake of control, he would rather do it himself. The only thing that worries him at this point is whether or not this is going to need stitches. It looks a lot deeper when it's bleeding profusely, maybe once he cleans it up it won't be as bad. Right? That's how these things work?

Jack spreads the medical supplies on the bath's spacious tiled side, and steps back obediently.

And then stands there. Attentive. Just a few feet away.

Kind of like a human turret, really.

Although it's probably less awkward taking your clothes off in front of a turret.

...

.....

"You're welcome to anything you find lying around in the kitchen," Sinclair says.

Hint.

Hint.

Jack... isn't quite sure why a hint is being made, but he thinks he gets it. Though he's not sure why Sinclair can't just say 'yo fuck off for a bit would you' if that's what he's getting at.

People in Rapture are so... unnecessarily subtle.

He hesitates, trying to figure out if that really was a hint or just an offer. Either way, Sinclair sure seems to think he can handle this, so in the end Jack nods and backtracks into the hopefully well-appointed kitchen.

If Sinclair listens, he'll hear the not so quiet sound of Jack happily going through every drawer and cupboard and garbage can in the place.

Not the most socialized guy Sinclair's ever met, that's for sure. But now that he has the room to himself, he gingerly tugs his pants off and discards them over the edge of the tub. He reaches for the antiseptic first and before he has time to even think about it, pours a good cup of it over the gash.

.....Yeah, that stings. Okay, yep. Just give him a second for his vision to come back into focus, he'll be alright. A few moments more and he's grounded enough to turn on the faucet and wet a wash cloth to get up the excess blood. Looking at it now, it's not so bad. He can get by without stitches. Probably. It's still bleeding but not like it was a few minutes ago. He's sure it'll be fine.

One gauze pad and some medical tape wrapped around his thigh and he should be good to go.

Unfortunately he's short a pair of pants and a way of getting himself out of this tub. He decides he can deal with wearing torn and bloody pants long enough to get to his room, and so he reaches over onto the floor, picks them up and pulls them back on as carefully as possible over his bandages. And that's about the extent of what he can do for himself here.

Sinclair sighs. "Hey, uh," he calls out, not really sure how to phrase any of this, or if Jack can even hear him.

The banging around ceases, and the door slides open to admit Jack, who is eating cold beans out of a can with a spoon that he found wherever.

Whatcha need?

If only words were unnecessary to get across what Sinclair needs. This pains him to say out loud.

"Would you mind helping me over to my room? Don't think I'm gonna be able to get out of this tub by my lonesome."

The internal cringe here is almost enough to overpower the smarting in his leg. He's sure he'd be able to get himself to his room, but if he tried to pull himself out of this bathtub he would probably end up doing more harm than anything else.

"Last time, promise," he adds, laughing.

Jack's fireman instincts don't extend to mind-reading, sorry.

Once the request is communicated out loud, though, he heads over to the bathtub -- depositing the beans next to the soap on the way -- and leans briskly over Sinclair.

"Did it work?" he asks, looking down at the injured leg. The pants are on, he notices. But there's a bulge underneath them, under the tear from the hook, that suggests wadded bandages.

While Sinclair answers, he'll be lining himself up with hands under the guy's arms to heft him out of the tub.

It's not exactly comfortable, being dragged up by your armpits, but Sinclair makes the most of it and sits himself on the edge of the tub once he's been lifted far enough.

"Well it'll take a while, but it's looking a lot better than it was," he says, swinging his legs over to get his feet on the ground. "I should be able to walk a little better now, if you'll just help me up here."

"Good," says Jack quietly. He can drag Sinclair around a few feet at a time, but piggybacking him clean out of Rapture might not be as easy. And they have that deal thing, assuming Sinclair's not another backstabbing con-man.

Speaking of piggybacking. He gets a better grip under the man's shoulders and knees and hup's-a-daisy

carefully sets him on his feet, keeping a hand at Sinclair's back in case he's about to keel over again. It reminds him, in a strange way, of carrying the little sister in the Proving Grounds -- she'd try to climb on him, trusting his disguise, and he'd have to carry her short distances, gentler than a squirming fighting captured sister. Warmer and softer than a gun.

It was, to say the least, a confusing experience.

Sinclair takes a second to test out how much pressure he can put on his leg, and it's enough now that he can limp out of the bathroom with a little assistance.

"Sorry about this, sport," he says as they make their way to his room. "I wasn't planning on making you do all the work."

The little assistance actually falters for a moment, as Jack's hand wavers away from and then back to Sinclair.

It hadn't occurred to him, really, that he's been basically doing everything he's told for the last however long. It's habit, it's instinct, it's what he's been doing ever since he arrived down here. Follow the arrow, complete the objective.

Thanks, Sinclair, for bringing to his attention that he's never really stopped taking orders.

Jack licks his lips nervously. He's choosing to help, he reminds himself, like a mantra. Because it'll be worth his time, not because someone told him to or spoke a few particular words.

"It's... no trouble."

Hey now, carrying Sinclair inside was your idea. He was just taking you up on your offer.

But Sinclair catches the hesitation, though he doesn't pay particular attention to Jack moving away. "I think it's enough trouble for both of us," he says, letting himself plop down onto the mattress when they get to it. Honestly, if he were here by himself then he would have no issue taking himself from room to room, but however he did it would probably not be the most comfortable thing to watch. Entertaining, maybe, but extremely unpleasant. Either way, this is not his idea of an ideal evening. Jack is a virtual stranger, and here Sinclair is relying on him for transportation between rooms in his own house.

"I've got some spare sheets and pillows in that closet," he points at a set of french doors.

Hey man if you'd just suck it up and splice a medkit like everyone else

Jack nods and heads over to the closet, raiding it pretty thoroughly. Thoroughly and none too carefully. Might want to teach him some tidiness, Sinclair, because right now there are wrappers in the kitchen and beans in the bathroom and a closet full of disorganisation. Presently, Jack is covered in blanket and pillows like a kid with his ghost costume pulled up.

He doesn't speak while he's rummaging. That's because he's psyching himself up to something.

"...Mister Sinclair?" he says at last, as if asking permission to speak. I did warn you this question was coming, and thinking about the mind control has brought it back to the front of his mind.

Sinclair watches Jack plunder his linen closet and bites his tongue. It's reflex to say something; usually everything in his apartment is as organized as can be and watching someone tear it apart is almost physically painful. But technically Jack is a guest and somehow berating him for being a slob seems...inhospitable. Especially considering everything else Jack has done for him in the last half hour alone. He's too tired to think too much about it anyway.

But Jack's tone when he speaks feels like cause for concern. Sinclair answers with a brief, "Hm?"

"You know more about plasmids than me," says Jack hesitantly.

You know, in case that was news to Sinclair.

"When we get up there... do I... have to keep taking them? So I don't..."

You know. Turn into.

Those other people.

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