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With a*****e friends like these

Taym's hand met another first, which moved back quickly, accompanied by a small, surprised sound. America was pleased she managed to nearly finish an almost recognizable rendition of the barbed-wire tattoo she'd seen before. Glancing to Kostya, she commented, "I think he's coming to, better get the bottle."

The whiskey comment had not been a joke, though from the look on the medic's face when they delivered a small brown bottle labeled Sunny's Paint Thinner: use as directed it may as well have been. The label included helpful stick figure illustrations that clearly indicated anyone drinking from said bottle stood a good chance of either passing out or making terrible life choices.

With Friends Like These (a p***s Kostya really)

Kostya got an irritated swat of Taym's hand for his troubles, face turned away from the frankly-alarming fumes rising off the glass dixie cup.

He made himself open his eyes, immediately regretted it at the pang in his temple, and surveyed their combined artistic efforts.

"Really," he deadpanned. And flinched, when even taking in a breath to speak hurt.

With a*****e friends like these

"Hey, c'mon now," America chastised, joining Kostya with a sideways smile. "Take your damn medicine, it'll take the edge off at the very least." She waggled her sharpie menacingly. "And don't think I never noticed what you did to my neck, mister."

friendship

Kostya offered another dixie cup to Taym, and would continue to do so until he'd downed three.

"Receive cuff," he answered, "cannot go place for vun month, or else activate and they vill be exploding. Apologies for not also volunteer. Had number been short, vould have offer, but prefer both of us not being restrict."

friendship

He took the other two shots without protest--with a dim sense of relief, actually--and again barely batted an eye at the strength of what he was downing, although he did flinch when tipping his head back for the third put pressure on his wounded shoulder.

"I want to hope that 'exploding' is a figure of speech but he ******** shot me."

He owed some thank-you's all around, apparently, and the sudden sense of being a burden shut his face down, snapped him away from his idle consideration of America's face and hands. His expression went distant again, eyes wandering off America and over the far wall.

"If you'd volunteered," he told Kostya flatly and quietly, "I'd have thought you'd lost your goddamned mind. And if scruffy Scooter is Mark, then yeah. Bless his scruffy ******** heart indeed." There wasn't any sarcasm in at all. As far as he could tell, Mark had saved his life as much as the other five.

He absently touched the IV leading into his arm, absently thought about how much of his remaining good veins were under a cast, now, and absently wondered whether they'd had any trouble. He'd sometimes been told that once they were gone they were gone for good, but he'd never exactly been working with phlebotomist precision and he'd been, as much as possible, careful. Always careful. Always meticulous, a facade of control.

"I hate hospitals," he added to neither and both of them, quiet and tired. "They're gonna let me go tonight, right?"

friendship

When people speak of dropping everything, they usually don't mean it literally. Usually they will take a moment to put down whatever might have been in their hands. To tie up, at least a little, whatever loose ends might remain before rushing off to whatever needed their attention. When Peyton had gotten the DM on Twitter from taym she had literally dropped the armful of laundered clothing she'd been putting away and went for the door. She'd walked quickly down the long hall of the dorms, but by the time she'd hit the door she'd picked up the pace into a jog.

He said he was fine, but hadn't that been what she'd said? And hadn't it been a lie? If the power hadn't been out, if the resources hadn't been cut thin, wouldn't they have kept her longer? Yes. She was worried, really worried. For as long as they'd both been on this island the worst that had ever happened to Taym had been whatever had ******** with his appetite. She was the one that got hurt, not him. That was how it was supposed to go, not the other way around.

She was grim-faced when she made it to the infirmary and knocked on the door, waiting only a second before letting herself in regardless of any protests coming from inside. Then paused just inside as she realized Taym wasn't alone. America was there at the side of the bed, and Kostya lingered near the pair of them. She spared both of them a glance, but her attention was quick to jump to the man on the bed, and the sight of him made her throat tight.

It did help ease a little of the knotted worry to see him awake and talking, but he looked worn, sallow. "Hey." Her voice was soft, but she tried to flash him a smile that didn't quite make it. Fingers knotting together, she moved closer until she was standing next to America's chair. The urge to reach out to touch his hand was a terrible thing, but with visible effort she resisted. Instead small fingers moved to touch the blanket at the very edge of the bed.

no goddammit go away

It was one thing for America to see this: she'd already seen him at his worst. The damage had been done there, irreparable; in any case she struck Taym as shrewder than Peyton, less impressed by flimsy appearances. With Peyton there remained a facade to hold up, one that she'd forever taken as truth.

He gave the new arrival a flat, unimpressed stare as Kostya made his exit. "Did I not just tell you I was fine?"

America, witness: miracle cure number one, small dose of pink-haired Sun hunter, paired with three shots of wallpaper-disintegrating whiskey. The pain-blurred sharp edges returned in abrupt focus; the distracted, worried roaming of his eyes gave way to irritated rolling. Not for even a fraction of second did he give Peyton anything to worry about.