Words: 1279 total
988 Quenton, 291 Stroud


Quenton lingered in the hallway, looking out at the milky, pale disk of the morning sun through the dirty, suicide-proof windows of the University General Admissions floor. It was impossible to stay laying down- his back hurt and the resident wouldn’t be awake and on floor for the nurses to talk to about a painkiller for another two hours. It felt like his ribs and shoulder were housing a broken wing that was trying to birth out from under the skin. Everything was swollen.

Sleep was a dream, and waking was memory of two captains, either walking with certain purpose and bright, burning eyes. It would pass, eventually. Books always said that the dissociation and terror passed and gave way to anger, then a devil-may-care bravado, sometimes quiet resignation. Could he just skip to the last? Sure, why not. It’s my head, I can will it to believe whatever I want. Six impossible things before breakfast even. I don’t want breakfast. Didn’t the nurse say the carts with breakfast would be around at eight? You’re getting distracted, Quenton.

“The midnight oil’s burned. Not where I’d expect you to be camping out, “ the voice was familiar and echoed on the linoleum down to him. Quenton turned to find his cousin Stroud striding like she owned all she surveyed, fabulous in a boat necked union jack shirt over her usual hip-hugger jeans.

“They ended up calling you after all-”
“Vanes and Aunt Ms are out, as you said. But they’re all hours away even if they were home. I called Aunt Lee and Dad-”

She means Uncle Forbes- His brain broke in with interpretation and translation that wasn’t immediately available like it should be.

Stroud was still talking, something about the family, “-You should be safe though. They mentioned it was bad, but not life threatening?”

“It’s a Scapular body fracture, the most common kinda of break for its type. Broken ribs. Internal stitches and staples. Neurovascular examination and some x-rays. They don’t want me up just yet, but I can’t lay on my face another hour. “ Quenton gave the report on a sigh.

“What did you do, get hit by a car?”
“That’s about what I feel like. No, “ Quenton rubbed his hand along his face, pressing into the muscles around his eyes and brow. “Terrorist attack.”

After a moment he looked over at her and couldn’t tell what the look she was wearing meant. Enigmatic at best, completely alien at worst, Stroud was all he had. He wished she would be a normal family person for once. Her mouth curled in an odd smile, like a joke was ready to come out- “Skirt or slacks?”

“What?”

“The Terrorist. Who were they?”

“I don’t know. He was a terrorist.”

“Ah, slacks, then.”

“What? Like men can’t wear skirts?”

“Good point. So you got attacked? What happened?”

‘ Got attacked.’ Quenton’s brow furrowed, as though the shadows of the tension wires had appeared before them both in the hospital yard. No, he hadn’t gotten attacked at random on the street by some energy stealing youma or agent. The poor victim had suffered that, he’d just been lucky enough to be the one that came along. “Something like that. Guy in black came out of nowhere, started beating the crap out of me. He moved so fast it was inhuman. I can’t say much more...someone else showed up and got his attention. Drew him off. I pulled myself away until I could force up and limp-run. Adrenaline and all. “

“So what’s the verdict?”

“2 to 4 weeks of immobilization in a sling for my shoulder. Antibiotics for infection, anti-inflammatories to reduce inflammation, diuretics to reduce fluid buildup- nothing collapsed. No heavy lifting, which is going to be a problem getting anything done.”

“For classes or pleasure?”
Quenton pulled a face. He wasn’t about to kiss and tell to his cousin, not that he’d done much of any of the latter recently. And he wasn’t going to mention Alex to her. He wasn’t in the mood for her lurid sense of humor. “Will you be able to give me a ride when I’m discharged?”

“Naturally. IF you tell me what you were out so late doing that you got yourself tangled up with a terrorist.”

“I was on my way to the studio, that’s all. I’ve been trying to get that cast armored piece. I’ll never manage the pouring now. Or even the mixing. Really any classes for the fall semester are going to be made suddenly really, really interesting. And by interesting I mean trials of obnoxious.”

“So work outside the box, Cuz. Looks like instead of bronze or marble, you get to discover what you can do with paper and wire. Try looking up the Nebuta or Neputa Matsuri, maybe. Good things for three dimensional guys like yourself.”

Quenton wavered as the throbbing ramped up a moment and made his head swim. His still good hand white-knuckled on the window sill. “Alright.....paper. I’ll... look it up.”

“Not here you won’t. Where’s your phone? You could look it up on that.”
“Its in the room...personal effects are all in a bag in the closet. They had to cut my shirt off. No, I don’t want yours when they let me go. “

“It isn’t indecent as long as I have a bra on.”

“Can you help me back to the room. I have to lay down, whether it hurts or no. My door key is there. “ He shifted as Stroud got under his good arm and with surprising gentleness shifted his weight into her power. Her shoulders were like a steel armature, however boney she sometimes looked. “Its important...I have some plants. Did I tell you I got some?”

“No. You want me to water them?”
“Yeah, if they’re dry. And you’ll see the hanging clothes on the pipes. If you could bring a clean set. Something I can just get over the arm. Sleeves are going to be a problem. “

“Maybe you should reconsider wandering about at all hours, Quincy?”
“No? Night or day, I don’t expect it matters to some people when they commit a murder. And just the same it doesn’t matter to me which it is as long as I have the inspiration. ”

“Well, let’s inspire you to your bed and getting on the mend. I brought a book, some coffee, and I can read to you until they give you the grade-a good stuff to send you to sweet Morpheus’ arms for a bit. “

“Stroud-”
She looked over while still walking for both of them. “Mmm?”
“Thanks.”

“Are you kidding? I own this lovely bag of bones, ” she thankfully refrained from shaking him. “You still owe me a fascinator with Damascus metal.”
It was a cover up- she was being tender. She’d even brought a book. He didn't care what it actually was, anything was better than having morning news or TV shows droning from the plastic box they always hung near the beds. The sort that included the call button. So close he could smell the pipe smoke on her hair. It was familiar, a comfort- it felt like he was getting heavy or...maybe smaller. Exactly the way he felt when they were young, or at least he was very much so. He’d get exhausted playing and she’d carry him home in both her arms, his cheek rested against her young, rounded shoulder. It was so hard-muscled now, not very comfortable. It always felt like flying because she roll-stepped so as not to jostle him. Wouldn’t that be something as a full grown college student?