wilderlogs | Overheard at Camp Melai; Does this mean Robbie's Klinger?

Entry tags:

Overheard at Camp Melai; Does this mean Robbie's Klinger?

Who: Robbie and anyone (special starter for Dixon and Sirius)
What: OVERHEARD AT CAMP, Robbie accidentally figures out the healing thing. Someone tell him about it in the morning.
Where: Camp 1 - Melai Temple
When: Shortly after arrival. All conversations will pre-date that with Dixon and Sirius.
Warnings/Notes: "Overheard at camp" is basically my idea for posting several quick, one-off lines that can be taken out of context (or maybe in context) and seeing what people make of them. Possibly some talk of Dixon and Sirius' injuries.

[ 1: In the kitchen. ]

Dibs on the fleshhook!

[ 2: In the main hall, as he dumps a collection of wood-ish things in a pile in the center of the room for an anticipated fire. ]

Yay, carbon monoxide!

[ 3: Anywhere. ]

Hey, V- guys? This old Enya statue won't not stop undressing me with her eyes. It's freaking me out.

[ For Dixon and later Remus. ]
[ When Robbie heads over to Dixon, he doesn't have a specific plan in mind. He's got what small bits of cloth he could find, not wanting to cut up blankets; anyway, he's unsure how to bandage a face without mummifying Dixon. He remembered to clean them by boiling and to boil separate water for cleaning the wound, which has him feeling rather pleased with himself. He's no doctor, and he wouldn't call any of this sanitary, but Robbie's doing what he can. ]

Hey, I figured you might want to... I don't know, get the day's crap off of that.

[ He looks pointedly at the burn and then resumes talking to Dixon's face as a whole. ]

Or whatever your doc told you to do. If it's one of those things where you flinch too much to do it yourself, I'm not skeeved out by it. I can help.

[ Infections are nasty business, and his pockets don't have any Tylenol. You get a high fever - you're dying. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Dixon is miserable, and for the last several hours has been keeping uncharacteristically to himself, sitting with his back to one of the temple walls with his eyes closed but clearly not sleeping. His heart's been pounding on and off, he's sweating, and any attempt to try and nap it off is met with a sort of skin-crawling anxious feeling and trembling. Any painkillers he had for his face are long out of his system, and Brainy's high-tech medicine was not a curative so much as a temporary anodyne.

He knows it's not the burn that's the worst part, though. The most lethal if it gets worse, possibly, but right now he'd take that risk over the shakes and cravings he has as circumstance forcibly cuts him off from two decades of habitual, aggressive drinking.

When Robbie approaches, it's a kindness. His eyelids flutter open.]

Huh?

[It takes a moment to place Robbie, but he puts it together soon enough. The kid who stood up for him when there was that stupid debate about rocks and Phos tried to whale on him. He winces and sits up straighter.]

My doc told me a lot of things that ain't happening here. You're looking out for me?

[ Robbie shrugs – the question implies a deeper thought process than he’s using. ]

I guess? I’m not stalking you. Your face is jacked, so I figured you’d want help. If you don’t, cool, but you should still take the clean stuff.

[ He holds out the pot, which has cooled to room temperature, and the fabric. The latter is hooked over one finger on a bandaged hand. Robbie doesn’t want to contaminate it more than absolutely necessary. ]

Besides, until someone proves otherwise, we’re stuck together like magnetic trains. Choo-choo.

[ And Dixon’s not off on the right foot with some of the group. Not even the left foot. So maybe Robbie is making it a point to make sure the guy doesn’t get ignored. ]

No, I didn't mean that, it's just...thanks. [Dixon isn't in any sort of mood to resist Robbie's companionship. If anything, the generous gesture awakens some kind of desperation in Dixon to continue it. He hasn't wanted to be on the outs with the rest of the group; it's just been an unfortunate reality, fueled by his own aggression and impulsive loudmouthing.

Just like that, Robbie's earned a swell of earnest goodwill.

The burns cover Dixon's left hand, half his face and a good portion of his neck, so his first motion is to gingerly take one of the clean fabrics and clean his burned palm. It's taken a beating with the attack with the Wheelers, and most of the barely-healed tissue has been ripped away to an open wound. It's painful enough to touch that Dixon's attempts to wipe pebbles and dirt out of it are fairly inept; he isn't able to force his mind to override his body's instinctive repulsion to pain.]

You know, my momma says I was pretty handsome before this. [It's a pitiful attempt at cracking wise. He gives Robbie a look, like he's seeing him for the first time, undistracted by inebriation or monsters or anything like that. Tall, lean, looking like a college football type, probably as wholesome as city Yankees get (at least, that's what Dixon assumes from the accent).] You got a name? I didn't catch it back at the...you know, the thing.

[i.e. that whole thing where he nearly got brained by a space-rock that was a teenager, somehow. He's almost stubbornly refusing to try wrapping his head around that one.]

No problemo, compadre.

[ His Spanish is half-terrible, half living in New York gives him just enough of an idea of how the accent sounds. ]

You'd do the same for me.

[ It's nonchalant, but Robbie wants to assume a baseline of decent humanity in every normal person. It's part of his every-life-has-value mindset. Normal people are the real heroes, day in and day out.

... it's still not going to give him a complete pass on a statement like that. 'My momma'? Oh, there is a entire universe to be had in this response. ]

Yo momma lies so much she got kidnapped in a rug store. [ He flashes a sheepish grin. ] Sorry, I had to, but I meant what I said earlier. It doesn't look that bad.

[ He pauses, considering the state of the skin on Dixon's face. It's far from healed, but it doesn't look as gooey as it might. A tight nod. ]

You just have to keep it clean and whatever you do, don't pick it. Insert joke about how I'm not yo momma. And I'm not. My name's Robbie.

Oh, come on. Pale as you are, you ain't Mexican.

[It's quite likely Dixon would, for all his faults. It's not an absence of decency so much as a presence of overriding rage and impulsiveness that drives the worst of him. There are elements of the word 'protect and serve' that have stuck with him, residual and skimpy but there nonetheless.]

Don't you talk shit about my momma, Robbie. [But Dixon's not serious. He can tell when he's being joked at and when he's being jabbed at. It's only the latter that throws him off kilter every single time.

His hands keep shaking as he tries to get the gravel out of his palm, to the point where after a moment, he takes a deep breath and gives up. He doesn't even want to try with his face and neck.]

You mind helping out a little extra? [He doesn't want to explain that he's shaking like a leaf for reasons that have nothing to do with the pain of the burns.]

[ The look Robbie gives him can only be described as sideways. He’s trying to rationalize that statement, blame it on the miseducation of public schools. People actually think that only Mexicans speak Spanish. ]

Nah, but some of my cooler friends are. My family’s mostly English, with some French and German way, way back. I think one of my greats- was Czechoslovakian.

[ That last is about as spicy as his gene pool gets, but it’s always sounded like the exotic bit to him in a my-people-use-paprika sort of way. He mentions it now as a defense, like it moves him closer to Latino. Silly, he knows, but the comment still feels gross.

But they’re joking and Dixon needs another set of hands. He’s reading too much into it and doesn't want to be rude, so he smirks in response to the order and moves on. ]

Yeah, I don’t mind. Hang on though, I need a tool.

[ Tweezers would be best, but he doesn’t carry them ever and hasn’t seen anything like that. He does have his wallet, though, and fishes his driver’s license. Robert J. Baldwin, organ donor, is going to get his face dirty.

Robbie holds his hand out expectantly for Dixon’s, intending to use the corner of the plastic card to leverage the gravel free. ]

Sorry, I don’t think I can boil this one. It needs to be stiff and straight. That’s not a euphemism.

I think my family might got some French in them. Cajun French, way back, on my momma's side, but who knows? We never did that family tree stuff.

[Dixon's chief left him some very simple instructions after his death, which included to stop being a hateful bigot - and Dixon's been trying in earnest. But some hate is easy to recognize in one's self, the throwing people out windows, the slurs, the arrests without cause. And then there's the subtle stuff that Dixon doesn't even realize is part of the fuel underneath the extreme actions.

He's got a long way to go and doesn't even know what obstacles lie along that shrouded path.

Clever, using the edge of the driver's license. Dixon extends a trembling hand, preemptively wincing, knowing that the process of cleaning out the injury is going to be like holding onto a hot pan handle. He's no stranger to pain, especially not lately, but there's only so much you can subject yourself to before you get shy of it. He keeps the joking around going, if only as a distraction.]

Don't flirt with me. I'm out of your league.

[He bites his lip, aware that along the way he unsettled Robbie and hoping it's just because of the gruesome nature of the assistance he needs. Or maybe it's a Yankee thing. There's always been some crossed wires between the occasional Northerner that's passed through Ebbing and the townsfolk there.]

[ Robbie nods at the offered morsel of ethnicity. It’s at least something - some sort of identity that isn’t always looked at positively. He knows that Cajun is sometimes seen as Other, and Robbie thinks that maybe he’s being over sensitive about the Mexican comment. It’s probably lack of education leading Dixon to know the name of only one Latin American country. ]

You should be careful how you spread that around, Emeril, or we're all going to expect gumbo every night.

[ One of his hands closes tightly around the offered wrist. Robbie forces it to steady, and the grip won’t allow Dixon’s hand to be pulled back easily. They both know it’s going to hurt.

He starts coaxing out the gravel, and after the first chunk, he uses more force. It’s better to get it out quick on the first attempt than to try to be gentle and need several goes at the already tortured skin.

Robbie, too, jokes as he goes, wanting to provide a focus other than pain. ]

But I’m not so sure we should be using cayenne and okra for dinner. That’s enough of a digestion challenge when we have good toilet paper. I haven’t seen any cha-cha-cha Charmin', and I’ve been looking. I have a delicate, pampered heiny. I’ve put in a requisition form regarding a bidet.

[ His eyes stay on his work, grimly assessing the next place of attack even as he digs the card beside a new pebble. He’s not squeamish, and he doesn’t want to waste time between motions. Robbie knows he’s racing against Dixon’s pain tolerance. ]

And old and cantankerous is not my type. I’m kind of in this dating-people-who-don't-attack-strangers phase. It’s a new scene. The app's called PaciKissed.

[Oh, Robbie, you're giving Dixon and his beliefs on race so much more credit than they could possibly deserve.]

We're gonna have to get creative with what we put in that gumbo. I don't know how to season a raccoon.

[Dixon buries himself in the sound of Robbie's voice, kind of half-listening to the content, letting each syllable tug him back out from the undercurrent of pain. If it weren't his hand, if it weren't burned instead of just scraped, if his nerves weren't shot from detox, it might be easier. But Robbie's ramble gives him something to grab onto, and forcing out a few laughs helps.

Maybe he should have caught fire a long time ago. He's stumbled into quite a few instances of compassion that he didn't expect and doesn't think he deserves since that. He either didn't find any or didn't know how to recognize them before. It's like when the the snow melts and everything you forgot was under there shows up on your lawn.]

Do those phone apps work? [He grinds his teeth hard as Robbie gets some of the last of the debris out.] Only time I tried one it said the nearest chick was seventy miles away.

And I didn't attack the rock kid first.

[It's his line and he's sticking to it, and there is some truth to it - but by now it's just a kind of compulsive comment, not an argument he's looking for. He doesn't want to relitigate the way he faceplanted the first group meeting.]

First off, I don't care how the thing with Phos started. You're the adult, so you can't have the 'I'm going to be the one to finish it' mentality, because we know the teenager does. Second, remind me to never ask about the meat stew.

[ Trash pandas are not for eating, nor are rats. He's going to have to keep a real distance from the kitchen, because he doubts the standard Triple Crown of cow/pig/chicken are going to be on offer tonight. ]

And I don't know if dating apps work or not. [ What? There's joking, and then there's outright lying. He has no idea and acting like they make him a playa wouldn't be right. ] I live in New York now, so I'd probably get more hits. You're never the only one in New York.

[ He's finished with Dixon's hand and lets it go, eyes traveling to the damage on face and neck. He thinks they look cleaner, thank whatever god has this temple, but he's not leaning in to check. ]

I'm going to spread the word that you should have first dibs on any alcohol that turns up.

[ Strategically leaving out the next part in the plan, 'me and that big dark-haired kid can hold you down while someone pours it over the burns to sterilize them.' Robbie can practically hear the screaming that will involve. ]

I wish there was something I could do about your face...

[ His hand is raised, like he might reach to daub at the raw facial skin, and his thoughts are all coloured with mercy and empathy. When he starts to glow white, Robbie jerks back and nearly topples over. Of all the colors his powers have ever been, white isn't one of them. But it feels... good. A little tingly in his broken hand, then warm and a feeling like the swelling draining out in a rush.

His focus had been on Dixon, though, and after a few seconds, the light pours out of him in a sharply defined wave. It doesn't make it far, just a couple of feet, but it's enough for Dixon, and anyone walking closely by, to be caught in the light.

The light buoys Robbie up, but he can feel himself draining away. It feels like using up the kinetic energy saved up in an entire fight - no, in several days of training - in about ten seconds. The glow shuts off like someone flips a switch, and there's nothing left to keep him going. ]

That's... new...

[ His voice is thick and slurry like the town drunk in a 50s movie. Robbie tries to look at his hand, but the downward tip of his head and eyes is too much for his equilibrium. The room keeps spinning even when he's stopped moving, and then his brain gives up and directs his eyes to roll back into his head. It's time to sleep it off. He pitches forward. ]

If I don't have dibs I'll just punch out anyone ahead of me in line... []Dixon has very different ideas of what he'd use the alcohol for than Robbie does; just the mention gives his heart some kind of Pavlovian jerk, like it starts to rush its pace again the way it has intermittently all day, making rude and cacophonous demands behind his ribs. He doesn't have long to fixate on the fantasy, though, because then Robbie moves for his face and starts glowing.]

Hey...!

[It's not that Dixon doesn't feel the tug of flesh on his face as Robbie heals him - the unsettling sensation of skin moving without muscle or touch to guide it, knitting into scar tissue in unnaturally fast procession - but that it's an entirely secondary thought to the almost god-like state Robbie's in, glowing and lit up and then, just like that, a young man unconscious on his feet, headed for the ground.

Dixon lunges to his feet and grabs Robbie in his arms, bearing the load of his weight before he injures himself. It's not a particularly artful move, but it keeps Robbie's head from smacking on the floor, and that's all that can really be asked right now.]

Someone help! Man down! [He lowers Robbie to the floor, checking Robbie's pulse and noticing with the hand against Robbie's neck that the burn on palm and wrist that was such a source of agony seconds ago has turned into nothing but mottled scarring.]

[Sirius avoided everyone at first. He'd talked to more people today than he had since the war. This past year his best friend had been a cat for God's sake. But eventually he stepped closer, close enough that Robbie's healing magic affected him as well.

No longer suffering from a split lip and a swollen eye, Sirius didn't have time to appreciate the sudden lack of pain.

He was at Dixon and Robbie's side in a few moments.]

What happened?

[He'd seen the light, but missed the build up.]

Magic shouldn't do this.

[Dixon hasn’t met Sirius, but he has seen him lurking around the camp, the other guy with a fucked-up face. Which is no longer fucked up. Figures this guy knows magic, which it seems literally everyone but Dixon has some sort of experience in. If there weren’t an immediate crisis, Dixon would have some time to build up resentment.]

He started glowing and then he collapsed. He’s got a pulse. [Dixon turns Robbie to his side, trying to pick up on any signs of trauma, but aside from being completely unconscious Robbie looks totally fine.] You know magic? You know any magic that can wake someone up?

Nothing I can use.

[Bitter? Oh, yes. But who wouldn't be?

Having crouched to get a better look at Robbie, he mulled over the possibilities.]

This magic has different rules. But if I had to guess, I'd say say he overexerted himself. He probably needs a few minutes, maybe hours. We should keep an eye on him to be sure.

He doesn't look like he's seizuring or nothing. [Dixon's not totally sold on 'just overexerted', as some of the worse options haven't exactly been ruled out. What if they're just sitting here while this kid's dying of an aneurysm? He pulls off his jacket and bunches it up, rolling Robbie back and then elevating his feet. At least if the kid's just fainted that'll get him up and moving sooner.]

Didn't your face used to look like hamburger? [Says the guy who up until two minutes ago had half his face as open second-and-third degree burns.]

[Sirius sat back, quietly amused at how Dixon manhandled Robbie. He might have intervened, but Robbie had insulted his beloved nickname. The way he saw it, there was no need for concern yet. While magic could go catastrophically wrong, it was rather obvious when it did. He couldn't imagine that being any different.]

And you don't look like minced meat. Whatever that was, it was a powerful healing spell.

Do you think we need to find someone who has actually useful magic?

[Dixon checks his shaky hand, the one he and Robbie were working on getting the gravel out of moments ago. The injury is gone, replaced by scar tissue - he runs a hand up his neck and face and finds the same thing there, the texture making it clear that whatever healing happened didn't do many cosmetic favors. But he's not going to complain about having no open wounds getting bitchslapped by every breeze or picking up grime, begging to get infected.

He looks back at Sirius, squinting a little, trying to size him up.]

Do you know this kid? I basically just met him.

[Sirius shot Dixon a dark look at the comment about magic. He wasn't wrong though. Sirius was largely useless without his own.

He held Dixon's gaze. His own hollow eyes said enough about just what he'd been through, as if his physical condition didn't tell plenty already.]

We just met today.

If you want to look for someone else, feel free. I'm sure there's someone here who hasn't had all their magic taken from them.

[Dixon’s a little taken aback by the hundred-yard stare in Sirius’ eyes. The first thing he thinks of is Mildred, the way that hollowness was there even behind the steely intent. The horrors of a woman who lost a daughter.

Dixon doesn’t show it on his face, though. He stays kneeling, keeping an eye on Robbie, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Not struggling to breathe.]

You really think he’s okay? Because I don’t want to go hunting for people who know as much as I do if he is.

[Fucking magicians.]

He said his name’s Robbie. What’s yours?

Edited 2018-04-03 00:28 (UTC)

I do, yeah.

[Sirius didn't say that if Robbie weren't, there wasn't much they could do for him. Even Muggles needed those unusual instruments to do most things or so he thought.

He sat back and turned his attention to Dixon for now.]

I'm Padfoot. And you?

[He watches Robbie, looks between the two of them again, and sits down. May as well just watch the guy and hope he comes to. He fidgets a bit, uncomfortable that Robbie provided such help and that the most he can really do is elevate Robbie’s feet and make sure a wild coyote or whatever doesn’t eat him.]

We can at least put a blanket on him or something.

[He snorts.]

That Navajo or something? And I’m Dixon.

[Sirius should have gone with Orion. Or Stubby Boardman. But no, he had to pick Padfoot. Oh well, too late to change it now.

He rested his hands on the ground and leaned back. He envied Robbie a little. Passing out was tempting.]

Navajo? What is that?

[His History of Magic class never covered world history. Or maybe it did. He never paid much attention.]

Some kind of Indian. Fuck if I know. [He gives Sirius a bit of a skeptical look.] You okay? I don't need two people passing out on me. Can't watch and go get help at the same time.

[Sirius refused to straighten up again. He might not be able to take a nap but he deserved this much.]

This is nothing.

[He pointed at Robbie.] Especially after that. I should write him a thank you letter.

So. You're American? Is that where you were before this?

If you say so. I'm going to have to sign that card too. Didn't think to bring my prescription with me to go saving the world.

[He touches his fingertips to the healed burns, the waxy scars he knows are there from the touch and from the like ones on his hands and wrist. He'd been on a lot of painkillers over the last few weeks.]

Yeah. Missouri. You sound some kind of English. [But hey, who even knows anymore, for all he knows Sirius is from Mars. He puts a hand to Robbie's shoulder, like he's trying to make sure the guy knows somewhere in his subconscious that they haven't up and abandoned him.] They're getting us from all over but it seems like us Americans still got the majority.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Overheard at Camp Melai; Does this mean Robbie's Klinger?

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