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

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.

Well.

That's an excellent question.

"When we get up there, plasmids are gonna catch on quick. You won't have to worry about running out, if that's what you mean."

It's not what he means, and Sinclair knows it, but...

"No. I mean, I mean..."

Forgive him, he thinks Sinclair actually misunderstood and he's trying to work out how to word this.

"I listened to the tapes lying around," he says, without any particular embarrassment. Hey man, if people wanted a right to privacy, they shouldn't throw their diaries around like confetti. "And they said... plasmids are bad, if you take them. But they're bad if you stop, as well."

He's not, you know, panicking, because the future is the future and he isn't there yet.

But it's not a friendly thought.

"Maybe worse if you stop," Sinclair nods.

He exhales, trying to choose his words carefully. It feels something like delivering bad news to a cancer patient.

"It's different for everybody, son," he says. That's a partial truth. Some people withstand the effects for longer than others, they all give in eventually. "I wouldn't worry too much."

That sounds... well. Like it could go either way. Maybe there are people who spliced up but didn't turn into splicers as he understands the word; hell, maybe he's even met them without knowing it. Splicing is obviously popular. And the unharmed people could be holed up around the city, or might have been killed by the crazy violent ones.

And apart from seeing the ghosts, Jack doesn't think he's had any side-effects. So if it's a case of wait-and-see... that's a good sign, right? That's a good start.

And I mean Sinclair wouldn't straight up lie about this, would he?

Jack's certainly learned that people lie, but it's hard to overcome the instinct to be trusting.

...Yeah, he's just kinda been looking at Sinclair for a fair amount of time now.

There's definitely a threshold between an I'm-thinking-about-what-you're-saying stare and a now-I'm-thinking-about-something-else stare and it's not really making Sinclair uncomfortable, but he's not exactly sure what to say now either.

Actually, he almost anticipated a fair amount of incredulity on Jack's expression, but that's not there either. It's just blank, nothing. He can't read it and that alone unsettles him a bit.

"You alright?"

Jack comes back. He starts to chew on his lip again.

He keeps thinking of Atlas and how he never realised the whole man was a lie, he couldn't tell. He wants to ask, now, if Sinclair is telling the truth. It's like being blind and the only way to see is to ask other people. But he also feels like accusing Sinclair of lying isn't the best way to foster a happy working relationship.

Oh no. Is this why people in Rapture are always deceiving each other? This is awful.

He takes a breath and opens his mouth.

"I want to go to bed now."

Something doesn't sit right here, and the only plausible explanation is that Jack doesn't believe him. Either that or there's something else he's not saying. But whatever it is will have to wait, Sinclair doesn't think either of them have the energy to figure it all out right now.

"I think I'm about done for one day myself," he nods. "Don't forget your pillows."

And so much for making sure the valuable things were hidden and locked away. He doubts Jack would run off with anything, but it never hurts to be safe. Guess he'll have to risk it this time.

Jack nods.

He's none too familiar with the niceties of bedtime, so there's no good-night or sweet-dreams, but he gives Sinclair another nod -- this time a well-wish, maybe the mute equivalent of 'goodnight' combined with 'hope your leg feels better' -- before he leaves the room.

It's later.

During his time in the city Jack has catnapped, dozed, slept with one eye open. On a dirty floor, wedged into a hole, behind a hacked turret that would deafen him with bullets every time he closed his eyes. Here, in relative safety, even though he's in a stranger's house, he falls asleep quickly.

And before long, he starts to dream.

He's a boy again -- small, bald, limbs out of proportion. Pushing the plough through crowds of golden wheat. On the farm -- his parents' farm in Kansas. The great metal frame feels light in his hands; the uneven ground doesn't even slow him down. He's good at this. He's at home.

Then suddenly there are voices in the corn, shouting instructions, and he realises they've been telling him which way to go. Anonymous at first, they quickly turn into raucous laughter and snarls, and the splicers appear all at once. Go left. Go right. He does. Pick up the plough. Sing a song. Stand on your head. Jack tries to keep up, but it seems like he's moving at a snail's pace, like a stuck video, and the orders layer over each other until he doesn't know what he's doing.

As soon as the tears start, he's in his mother's lap, telling her all about it, and she's holding him tight and whispering shh, shhh, it's all right, it's not real, you're safe, you're safe, it isn't real, you made it all up... you made it all up, kid.

She smirks and all at once she's Fontaine, standing without apology in front of him.

Tough break, kid.

Fontaine makes a break for it down the leaking hallways of Rapture. Jack tries to chase him, but he's going too slowly again. He can't move his legs quick enough, he can't run. Only when he loses sight of Fontaine does he realise that it's because of a weight on his back, something bearing him down, something large -- Sinclair?

Sinclair, the southern gentleman, is riding on his shoulders. Kicking his feet, pulling on Jack's hair. Jack, an adult again, throws him overarm onto the ground, and tears open his stomach.

Instead of a slug, there's a tape recorder. The kind he's been finding and listening to. Jack presses a button. But instead of playing, it starts to record.

Help, he says into it. Help. Help. Get me out of here. Get me out of here!

Then he puts it down beside the body -- just a body now, not a dead person, just a body -- and looks around, desperately, for someone to find it, anyone to come by and listen to the message. But nobody's coming. Nobody's coming.

Hahaha, kid, says Fontaine on his radio, ya never did amount to much.

There are plastered statues all around him. They give him an idea. He props up Sinclair, stands him on his feet, invites him to start a conversation; Sinclair stares accusingly at him for a few moments before crumpling back onto the floor. And Jack doesn't understand why.

His mother and father are shaking their heads. No wonder we aren't real, son. Never would have wanted a boy like you.

Pathetic, says Ryan behind him.

Jack wakes up.

He's on the couch in Sinclair's dark apartment. Metal and timber groan quietly behind him. The turrets are silent. His blankets are on the floor and he's curled around his pillow as if afraid it will escape.

Quietly, his face buried in the back cushion of the sofa,

Jack starts to cry.

Sinclair, on the other hand, while managing to sleep better than Jack usually got to, has been unable to sleep a full night since he came to Rapture. There's a constant glow coming in the windows from the neon of the city and those Wales geniuses decided that no one in Rapture would need blinds. There's more to it than that, he thinks, but he doesn't care to examine it any further. He misses the sun, same as everyone else down here, but it's not that. Still, when he and Jack reach the surface, he intends to take a full day to do nothing but lie on the beach. Sometimes he just feels pale, it'll be good to get some color again.

And, you know, it doesn't hurt that once he's settled in up there he'll be able to have a whole island to himself if he wants it. Which he does. You better believe he does.

He lies in bed, staring out of his window at the sea. The tangled seaweed that flaps about in the current, the ugly brown fish that settle above the muck. It's not exactly a tropical paradise. And yeah, the city is beautiful, the entire concept is nothing short of a miracle, but at the end of the day he sure as hell is not going to miss this place.

And then there's a sound that interrupts his thoughts, through his open door out in the living room. It's quiet, but usually his entire suite is dead silent, any noise is out of place at night. It occurs to him that it's not impossible his concerns were valid ones, and his guest is politely plundering his drawers and cabinets. But then again, he doubts Jack's abilities to do something like that this quietly.

Sinclair swings his feet around to the ground, pushing himself up onto his good leg using his night stand. He limps along the wall until he can lean in the door frame and tries to listen a little more closely.

It sounds like...sniffling. And in the pallid light filtering through the windows, he can make out the indefinite form of shaking shoulders pressed into the sofa cushions. Jack is crying.

Oh christ, Jack is crying. Sinclair is now faced with the option of attempting to console him or ignoring him and listening to his quiet piteous whimpers until one of them falls asleep again.

And that sounds utterly miserable.

Sinclair clears his throat. "Can I get you anything, son?"

Edited 2013-03-03 21:35 (UTC)

Jack startles and turns over, half-rises onto his elbows, and sees Sinclair.

He just stares for several moments. Holds his breath. His eyes are wide and wet and his face is stained with snot and tears. The tears have cut pinker lines through the layers of soot and grime. You know how when people cry in movies and it's kind of contained and not too ugly? This isn't that.

Then another sob forces its way out of him and he swallows and scrubs at his nose with a dirty shirtsleeve.

His head kind of wobbles from left to right, not enough to be shaking it no, more like indecision.

He's not embarrassed to be caught crying, exactly. Well, he is, but that's not it. It's more like... he feels like he's done something wrong. Maybe someone in his past didn't have patience for babies that cried at night. Maybe it's just a holdover of the hollow feeling the dream gave him.

"I didn't mean to _cry."

The appropriate thing now would probably be to go to Jack's side and pat him on the back, but given the state of Sinclair's leg that's not exactly an option. Which is sort of a relief, he's never been good at that kind of thing.

"It's alright kid," he says quietly, "Do you want to talk about it?" That's consoling, right? He's trying here.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject