capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

WHO:

idateforsupper
WHERE: Warren and Ali's place.
WHEN: Friday night.
WARNINGS: Not much except lots of Bondblood
SUMMARY: Bond has just been mostly pwned by Carnage. A lot. And needs to recover. A lot.
FORMAT: Para then whatevs

The plan is simple enough: get to somewhere safe, patch up, relax. The reality isn't quite so easy.

It's nothing more than sheer determination and the ability to completely disregard pain that has James making it to the closest 'safehouse' he knows, though it would have to be a god damn top floor place. His hotel room is miles away, and considering he's walking- or stumbling technically- he'd opted for this place: Warren and Alisons apartment that he's visited a few times before.

He doesn't think to knock. That's not what James does. He's just leaning his body weight against their front door, bleeding over everything, and trying to fiddle with the lock with shaking hands.

Get. Open. Maybe if he just slams his head against it in frustration too, that'll help? It hurts, if nothing else.

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Despite the fact that the TV was on, Warren's sharp sense of hearing picked up on the clicking of the lock. It could've been the fact that he never used the door and found it WEIRD that anyone else would, but regardless, he pulled away from Alison and got to his feet, head tilted slightly as he listened.

"Someone's here."

Cue him going to the door to find out. Maybe it was just that really old lady down the hall walking to the wrong door again.

"Seriously? Tell them it's late." Alison frowned, leaning back into the couch as Warren went off to answer the door. With their luck, it was probably that jerk Twoey.

Just in case, Alison got to her feet and walked behind him. "Who do you think it is?"

Bond barely hears anything from inside the apartment. He's struggling to hear much at all beyond his own heart beat roaring in his ears and his laboured breathing growing more agitated by the fact his hands are incapable of working right.

And then the door's opened and with his weight against it as he was, James can do little more than grunt in vague surprise and stumble straight into Warren.

"Whoa!" Warren held out his arms instinctively and grabbed onto him, eyes wide with surprise. What the hell was he doing here!? And what the hell happened to him??

"Bond!?"

"Ohmigod!" Alison jumped back. "Warren, is that James Bond?!"

She moved closer.

"Mr. Bond? James? What happened to you?!"

Okay. He's good. That was a minor set back but he can now attempt to get his balance back, which mostly involves trying to shove Warren away with an icy stare- sorry about all the blood- and try standing on his own feet again.

Which means leaning on the wall and leaving a smeared, bloody hand print there, but seriously, he has worse things to worry about right now.

"Need t'use y'bathroom," he's managing to mumble as he considers moving. Soon. Just... give him a second.

Warren backed off, not really caring about the blood since it was a regular part of his wardrobe anyways, still giving Bond that wide eyed look. Warren's secondary mutation was healing (before all that Apocalypse stuff returned), so he couldn't help but be concerned no matter how much of a dick Bond could be at times.

"Go ahead, but are you going to tell me what the hell happened to you?"

Yeah, no sense in giving the guy directions to the john when he already knew where it was.

The sight of the blood, however, kind of upset Alison. She flinched, just remembering when she'd been covered in her own. She blinked, unable to say anything for a moment. Not really time to think of herself being ripped up when James Bond was so hurt.

"Did someone attack you?"

"No," is all he's saying, possibly to both questions. Who knows?

He's just making his way towards the bathroom leaving the door wide open as he tugs off his jacket and shirt- with plenty of flinching- fills up the sink with water, starts checking out the extent of the damage. He's more than certain he's got a few breaks, fractures and had a dislocation going on, and the amount of bruising and open wounds from all that debris and tentacle stuff is just... yeah. He'll clean them up and just see what he can salvage.

"Alcohol."

Valid request.

Warren gestured for Alison to get it before he briskly walked down the hall toward the bathroom. He wanted answers, sorry Bond, and he wasn't going to let off until he had them.

"Who was it?"

She nodded, going to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of the closest thing she could find. Alison returned, moving close to the bathroom and handing it to Bond when she was near. She eyed his wounds, trying to place if she'd had similar before.

The two get a heavy frown directed at them, even with the delivery of alcohol from Alison. HE IS NOT REQUESTING AN AUDIENCE!

Still, considering the amount of washing he's trying to do, he's not really got time to be shooing them away and locking the door behind them. Plus if he passes out, he may need the help...

"Carnage."

James is distracted though, rifling through his jeans pocket for ... a sewing kit...? There's an open wound on his bicep where it's been cut clean open. That's also what the alcohol is for.

Ah, well that made sense. Warren didn't bat an eye at the homemade survival tactics at all, and kept his gaze on Bond's face. "You went after him even after I told you what he was capable of?"

You know you're James Bond when you have that much a death wish. Jeeze!

"Where is he now!?"

"Ohmigod!" Alison whispered. She was glad he didn't fight that stupid Twoey, but it wasn't like Carnage was better! That fella had banged up Warren pretty badly, and she nearly shuddered when she remembered those injuries.

"Shouldn't you...go to a hospital?!"

Bond's going to need to sit down for this bit, picking the toilet as a good enough perch as tips half a bottle of the alcohol over his wound, gritting his teeth and stifling a low 'hnnnggh' because jesustittyfuck that hurts like hell. But he's been through worse.

"Sewers," he answers Warren, wondering if it's too much to hope that his one word answers will be one day taken as a hint that he DOESN'T WANT TO TALK. But he's doubting that right now.

He'll just get to stabbing his arm with a thick needle and thread and try stitching himself up. See, Alison, he's capable of caring for himself, "Don't need to go."

"Sewers," Warren repeated. No, he didn't take such hints very well and probably wouldn't anyways had it been obvious. Carnage was on his shit list BIG TIME right now, and the fact that Bond was here - of all places - in the middle of the night sewing himself up was another matter of curiosity.

"And you walked all the way up the stairs to get here?"

"Why didn't you go to a hospital?!"

Like she could TALK, but whatever! Bond didn't resurrect, did he?

"I bet it's closer!"

The look Bond gives Alison is a pure 'stfu, woman' glare. He hates hospitals. He doesn't even have health insurance and he's not paying someone to do what he can do himself. Plus he doesn't trust Doctors.

His own stitching up is going fine anyway, though he still has a few other wounds to tend to after, but on the whole he's not as bad as he could've been. And yeah, bearing that in mind, along with the fact Warren won't shut up either, James is finally resorting to full sentences.

"No. I flew." O hay thar sarcasm.

Edited 2010-01-29 05:54 (UTC)

Way to ruffle Warren's feathers, Bond. Angel crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. "Need anything else while you're at it?"

Edited 2010-01-29 05:57 (UTC)

Alison glares right back at him. Men. Hmph.

Yeah, did he need anything?

LIKE AN AMBULANCE?!

Edited 2010-01-29 06:04 (UTC)

"Peace and quiet? Or is that too much to ask for?"

He's finally done with his arm stitching, and he's biting off the thread with his teeth and leaving it at that for now. All that remains is getting to his feet (with mild difficulty), ripping up the remains of his jacket into strips and tying tightly around any cuts that are still deciding to pour with blood.

"Oh, and a coffee." He would request alcohol, but he's just taken to finishing off that bottle by swigging from it. It's needed for medicinal purposes.

All Bond got for that was incredulous look before Warren turned around and went to go finish watching TV. Have your peace and quiet, Bond, but if he wanted a coffee he could get off of the toilet and go get himself one from the kitchen.

Maybe some other day Alison would have been nice enough to get him a coffee, maybe, but she wasn't in the mood for this. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"It's in the kitchen, if you want it Mr. Bond."

She couldn't look at him anymore. It was too much of a reminder of her own wounds.

So she just went to curl up next to Warren on the couch.

Well thanks for the sympathy, guys. He was almost dead an hour ago and now no one will even make him coffee. Bastards.

So. After he's done with as much patching up of himself as he can do, James is quickly tidying up the mess he's made around the bathroom because he's nice like that, and then heading back down the hall to where the two were on the couch.

He'll just walk around topless like he owns the place. That's okay right?

"You needn't worry about Carnage for now. He's been dealt with for at least... however long it takes him to recover. Maybe only a few hours." Searching for the coffee.

Edited 2010-01-29 06:24 (UTC)

"It won't last long," Warren pointed out. "I completely eviscerated the guy and he ran off down the street to go break more stuff."

Not that he was undermining your abilities, Mr. Bond, but healing factors went a long way for psychos! Warren knew this from firsthand experience!

"Coffee maker's on the counter, by the way."