faderift | open

Were you sleeping? That's fine. Sleep it off. Heal. Rest a while. Amos will be waiting when you wake up.

He's leaning slightly forward, expression blank, but those who have studied Amos in close quarters for long can tell something's off. The angle of his shoulders, the shortness of his breath, the stillness of his hands: worry, disappointment, something like that.

He's holding a mug of coffee. "You have fun?"

Unlike, say, Satinalia, this doesn't come as a surprise. In the chaos of arriving back at the Gallows, he had managed to send a message off to Amos. Just the basics: that he's back, and that he's here in the infirmary, and that he'd be out soon. Carefully left out any level of detail in true James Holden grade bullshittery, as familiar to Amos as his unhappiness is to Holden now.

And it is obvious. Holden wakes up slow, groans (haha, fuck medieval torture instruments actually), drags a hand down his face, and then — focuses on Amos.

"Please tell me that's for me," he says with a nod to the mug, moving to push himself at least partly upright.

Amos hands him the coffee silently, staring intently, not moving. The extent to which he is not moving is, perhaps, unnerving, if you're not expecting it. And maybe if you are.

Answer the question, Captain.

He accepts the mug and sighs, holds out long enough to at least enjoy the smell the coffee before answering. He hadn't, as a point of fact, been looking forward to this.

"The mission went fine," he clarifies wearily, before actually explaining with, "but the place where we stayed stopped to sleep was run by a psychopath."

There's a note to his voice, something like: what are the odds? or Apparently that's a danger here, or maybe just I fucking miss space.

The note, the implication, the human interaction that goes between raw facts and clenched muscle and the urge to kill, that's all left out of Amos' analysis. Amos isn't amiable today. He's just Amos.

"He dead?"

"He's dead. It's over."

Important that he's able to grant that reassurance, both for Amos's peace of mind and all of theirs. This is no Cortázar, gone who knows where and doing who knows what.

(Oh, Dawes says it's all in hand. Because Dawes is, of course, someone they all trust.)

He holds the mug two-handed, otherwise untouched, and keeps his attention on Amos.

"Everyone got out alive. And I'm okay."

There's the except, of course. Everyone got out alive except Gawen Pickney and his bride, those other Dalish elves, and who knows who else. That's guilt, but not a burden Amos needs to carry.

Something untangles in Amos' chest. His posture shifts. Less obvious displeasure. A breath. He finds a place to sit, and sits. He even lets himself lean back, resting his feet on the edge of Holden's cot.

"This shit happen a lot?"

infirmary

He's not actually keen on the idea of staying here, but he doesn't, at least, argue. The littering of random shallow cuts pretty much everywhere would be one thing, but the stab wound in his gut requires some care. So in the infirmary he stays, at least in the immediate aftermath of their arrival back at the Gallows. When he's not sleeping it off, he's ready to greet anyone with a smile, offer some conversation, or maybe ask for a book to help pass the time.

kirkwall

Between the care at the infirmary and the help of some magic, he's back on his feet sooner rather than later. Did he ever expect to miss autodocs or the Roci's medbay? No, but here we are. One cool day, he makes his way into the city, maybe moving with more care than usual, or with a bit of a limp, but the important thing is that he can.

What he does, of course, is seek out his favorite coffeeshop, order the strongest thing they have, and finally take a seat once he has a steaming cup in hand.

We all have our means of coping.

wildcard

[ come at me, ask for personalized starters, or w/e! ]

Edited 2020-11-07 20:52 (UTC)

Amos relaxes, and Holden offers a brief smile in response. And then, at last, drinks that promised coffee. It's a little lukewarm but strong, thank God.

"Considering everyone seemed as surprised as I was," he says dryly. Though he remembers something, and then goes on, "But I remember hearing something about ice cave demons. Didn't get the full story at the time."

They were a little BUSY.

Amos feels two thoughts bubble to the surface of his mind. He voices one.

"This place is worse than I thought."

The other is the desire that he'd brought to cups of coffee. But- no, there's a third.

"Next time, I'm going with."

"We both underestimated the danger here."

Everything's changed, different from what they know, but how much of an excuse is that? That's been their lives since the Cant.

He looks over at Amos and, after a beat, nods.

"We'll go together next time." A sip and, "I wouldn't have minded having you around as backup when we were dealing with that asshole." And only then. He'd never wish the experiences beforehand on an enemy, let alone a friend. "He was old as shit, if you can believe it, but fucking spry."

Incredibly embarrassing actually to get fucked up by a wrinkled dude who could've blown away in the wind.

Amos shrugs. "There's fucking magic here. Dunno how people trust anything. Anybody can just break the rules. Like Ilus."

But also, yes, fuck old people, and that one specifically.

"It's their normal," he says, face scrunching up as if to say what he thinks of that. "We're the ones who are going to have to adapt."

That is, maybe, an admission.

Not touching that. That is an ugly shape that only Naomi is qualified to suture and mend. He just nods and goes along with it.

"Y'know," Amos says, "before the war, they used to keep mages cooped up? I figure it'd 'cause of the magic stuff. That's how they adapted."

Okay, not touching, maybe poking with a stick.

"This is a lot of blood," Derrica says, gently enough to avoid alarm. She doesn't sound panicked, though her brow has pinched into a concerned frown as she guides him into more reclined position. "I'm going to cut this shirt open, is that okay?"

It already has a puncture, so he can't be too dismayed about parting with it.

"It was a very large spike," he says dryly, with apparently no such compunctions about gentleness. But he doesn't resist any ministrations, moves as she directs him as best he can. "That's fine."

He is definitely not attached to the shirt, ruined as it is anyway. There'll be evidence of some emergency first aid, fabric repurposed into bandaging — also bloody — wrapped around his midsection.

His eyebrows pull together, shoulders tensing into a sharper line. He knows, he knows that he can't just throw himself at every battle in the universe. That he isn't qualified, that it's arrogant, that it's stupid, that it's futile, and that it's only likely to end in his own death, and probably others' too.

He doesn't have to like it, though.

"We have to do good," he echoes slowly, "where we can, and when we can." Naomi's absence feels like more of a bleeding wound than any physical cut, but maybe this is the only way to deal with it. "That's not going to be everywhere. Fine. It wasn't back home, either. But it will be somewhere, sometimes. Riftwatch might be our best bet to do that while we're here. It's the only real bet I know about, anyway."

He looks at Amos as he says it, steady, but soft. It's a question, not an order; it's trust. Amos's opinion is valuable, and he wouldn't let Holden lead them off a cliff.

Amos considers it, like tasting brandy that's too expensive for him to ever drink. This isn't his thing to decide, really. The only think he can decide is if Holden's decision is worth following.

He thinks of Sawbones' wide, sad eyes.

"Yeah," he says, "this place is a real pain in the ass."

Noon sees him at the docks, means to wave and carry on with his business, but he pauses when he gets a better look at the man.

"Thought I saw you 'round the Gallows," Noon says, amiably, "But I'd been hopin' to see you better than you are now. You look like shit, friend."

He sighs, leans back against the pillows and takes another drink of coffee.

"We'll figure it out."

"We gotta," Amos agrees. "What the hell happened to you, anyway?"

He does not...put down...his mug.

Amos doesn't blink, but he does slowly begin to lean forward.

This coffee is not too warm anymore, so it's pretty easy to keep...drinking...for a long moment here.

He's smiling very... gregariously.

open

i'm not sorry.

ಠ_ಠ

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the murderhaus-related stuff — ota

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as promised, timewarps to when he first cropped up in the infirmary.

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kirkwall

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