[It never feels good to cry, the way it's impossible to breathe, the scratchy throat feeling, all of it sucks. But it sucks even more when there's a blade buried in muscle that's trying to move with each heaving breath. Pratt is starting to bleed now that he's jostling the blade, and that's causing him to cry more because he's in pain and distraught and fuck he hates this. He hates all of this.]
Should keep me in a cage again. Maybe... maybe that's the way it always should have been.
[He's a dangerous feral animal and can't be trusted around people. He should be muzzled and on a leash at all times.]
Was stupid thinking it would be different here. [Wipes his nose on the sleeve of this disgusting jacket as he sniffles.] Thought I could handle it. And.. I can't. I'm weak.
I'm sorry Sharky.
[As if he personally let Sharky down. Which he feels like he did.]
[Sharky's got a towel, and he's got a plan, and... that plan is starting to feel like a bad one, because they're going to have to move Pratt down to the infirmary and the more he moves, the more the knife jostles, and he really just wants to pull the fuckin' thing out and be done with it but that will just lead to a bleed-out and if Pratt's already been murdered once, Sharky really doesn't want to be the guy who accidentally murks him a second time!
He really wishes Rook were here. The good version of 'em, though, not, like, the one with the mask and the selective mutism.]
Fffuck. Buddy, I appreciate your apology and I'm, like, super down to accept it, but we gotta deal with the knife in your back. You're literally going to bleed out all over again if we don't. So I'm gonna get you up to your feet and we're gonna get you down there, okay?
[His tone is the same firm kind he'd use whenever Hurk started to come down in the bunker, sobbing and talkin' about how shitty his life was. It may or may not also be the voice he used to use whenever coaching someone through a drunk order at the McDonald's drive-thru.]
[He nods miserably. Sharky is right because he can't just lay on the floor crying with a knife sticking out of him. Not only is that dumb; that's some shit that would have gotten his ass kicked at the Veteran's Center. ]
Yeah. I guess. Okay.
[That's a very manly whimper he let's out as he gets up because this hurts really fucking bad and he can only ignore pain for so long before he succumbs to some of it. Because he's weak. Doesn't even need Jacob around to remind him of that.]
[Sharky wants to shout that it isn't Pratt who reeks, it's the fucking jacket, but the last thing he wants is for Pratt to flip out over Jacob right this second. Later, for sure, but now...
Now, he helps Pratt to his feet, bracing him on his uninjured side as best he can. Pratt might feel weak, but all Sharky can think is that it's a miracle he hasn't outright fainted by now.]
I'm so not givin' you a sponge-bath after this, that's all I'm saying. [Because jokes are the easiest way to keep sane in the face of something absolutely fucking horrendous. Like the fact that Pratt's already attacked other passengers and Sharky did nothing to stop it. Or the fact that Pratt might not have survived the fight, even if he did manage to kill someone in the process.]
Just don't move your arm. [He's going to try and make the trip to the infirmary as short and painless as possible.]
[ He gets to his feet finally, leaning heavily on Sharky because he's a lot more unsteady than he realized. The good news is he's not thinking about Jacob right now, even while wearing this disgusting jacket. So that's something. ]
Right. Elevator. Gotta...gotta get to the elevator. 'S only way out.
[ A few false starts and he's finally moving. Look at him actually making it out of his cabin to the hallway. He deserves a medal.]
Be better for you if Rook showed up instead of me. Shoulda never been me. They'd know what to do...and not...
[ Not killing people who aren't Eli? Something. He's not even sure what he's saying right now but he's trying to focus so he doesn't pass out like he did with Izzy.
The elevator might as well be a million miles away. The hallway seems to twist and extend indefinitely. He pauses to stare at it before wiping his nose on his sleeve and stubbornly walking again. He may be weak and insane but he's definitely a survivor, probably the only reason Jacob didn't flat out kill him.]
[He thinks. He fuckin' hopes, anyway. He's sturdy enough to take all of Pratt's unsteady weight, and he keeps one arm around his waist so he can't stagger too far forward or list too far back. This is basically the same as walking someone home after a black-out barfight, right down to the stab wound. He's got to have this.
Every time Pratt slows down, Sharky stops, unwilling to rush him even when he thinks the dude might collapse and need to be dragged. That... would be bad, probably, but Sharky knows he could probably lift Pratt if necessary. He reallllllly hopes it won't be.]
Okay, see? The elevator's right there. Quick trip down, I'll stitch ya up like a fuckin' pigskin, it'll be great.
["We Got This" the famous mantra from people who do not in fact, have it. But he's definitely headed that way, and he will absolutely keep going until he collapses. So.. thanks Jacob?]
Yeah. Least we're not using the stairs... [WOW. Wow.] Sharky... When I'm not bleeding out I'm gonna groan about that properly.
[He can't groan now because he's pretty sure if he does his lungs might fill with blood instead of air. But the death might be worth it for that horrible joke. Instead he gets into the elevator leaning against the wall on his good shoulder, hopefully not leaving any bloody smears anywhere.]
[Nahhh, Sharky's gonna laugh at that one because it was fucking great. He's also glad that it's Pratt here, not Rook, exclusively because Pratt can at least appreciate a bad pun. Rook just never fucking got 'em.]
Man. Some fucked up Cindarella shit right there. [He's just gonna hover annoyingly at Pratt's injured side, checking the wound as if he could see it getting infected in real-time.] We gotta make sure she ain't gonna stab you as soon as you hand it over. Figure out what happened so we can try and keep it from happenin' again. [Like troubleshooting where a gas leak is, only hopefully with less explosions!]
But first, we gotta get it outta you. [Which will be easy to do once they reach the infirmary, the elevator trip thankfully short from the passenger deck.]
[ Pratt's penance for all his mental breakdown tendancies is that he has to acknowledge every single one of Sharky's jokes. The true suffering hasn't even begun. ]
Probably should let her stab me? I attacked her like a fucking psychopath.
[ Deep breath because he's starting to get dizzy. ]
After this, the pirate with the sword, and Jacob's nasty fucking center where half the shit was rusty, I'm really testing the strength of my last tetanus shot.
[ He closes his eyes, waiting for the elevator to beep before he moves again.]
Nah, man, I'm not gonna let anybody stab you. We're tryin' to avoid that, remember? Though, we're really gonna have to like, update your vaccines or somethin'... I wonder if you even need those here, or like, if there's some kinda magic anti-bacterial air sanitizing going on...
[Sharky is a permanent fixture at Pratt's side, ready to drag him if he has to as they mutually stagger from the elevator to the infirmary. Thank christ it's a short walk, and Sharky can fill it entirely with dumbass banter.]
Alright, man, you're almost there. Just gotta get the knife out, then we can stitch you up. I don't think it's super bad [yet] so it should be an easy job.
There might be, other stab wound didn't get infected and I got a sword straight through.
[He rubs that wound, not yet noticing that hey! It's gone! He's a little more preoccupied with the current stab wound, which isn't even a wound yet, it's just a 'stab' at this point.]
I've had worse. Jacob stabbed me in the socket of my shoulder and then left the knife there. For hours. So this is.. [A laugh that turns into a cough.] was gonna say better but that's fucked up. Cuz.. it's still a knife in me. People shouldn't have knives in them.
[He may second guess everything and be mentally fucked but he's sure of that one. Knives belong outside of people. Getting off the elevator he heads for the bright light at the end of the tunnel side of the hall that he's pretty sure is either the infirmary or the morgue - either would work in this case.]
You ever play PT? This hallway...
[He's not going to elaborate, but needless to say this level of the ship is creepy.]
[He wishes he could rail on Pratt for being such a nerd that he'd bring up a demo for an unfinished game...
...but then he would have to admit that he also knows what Pratt is talking about, so. You win this time, Pratt.]
Fuckin' creepy, I will give you that. [He keeps expecting to see something big and freaky looming waaaaaay down in the distance. Maybe something will start banging on the creepy bulkhead over there?
Sharky is just glad to know that the infirmary is well-lit and well-stocked. If there are any spooky ghosts in here, they're impossible to see under all the fluorescents.]
Alright, man. You know better'n me what you can handle right now, so sit or lie down, whichever you want. But, uh, don't wanna cut your shirt clean off so... unbutton that first. Then, knife out, shirt off, stitches in.
[Is he going to have to unbutton Pratt's fucking deputy shirt? Please, bro, you have this. Right???]
[ He doesn't acknowledge his awesome victory because instead he's focused on sitting on the table, trying to not drip blood onto it.
Jacob's jacket is so big on him it's almost only being held onto him by the knife itself. Still, he tries to not jostle it as he unbuttons his poor damaged deputy shirt he's wearing under it.]
This uniform was not designed for this much abuse. Gonna fall apart on me.
[ A soft chuckle because if that isn't fucking symbolic.]
Aight, sorry if I... you know, bleed all over you.
[ Like that's something he can control.
Under the uniform he is wearing an actual new shirt and not his gross ass undershirt he wore for 6 straight months back home. Small steps towards his retirement.]
You'd be surprised, dude. Shit, Kim found an old deputy uniform, had it in the "not totally trashed" clothing pile back at Prosperity. Totally ragged and shit, but at least it had all its buttons! And who gives a shit about blood? I just throw out these clothes when I'm done with them anyway.
[He's rambling, but he can't help it. He's never been in, like, a nice joint like this, with sterilized suture kits, bandages, and all that shit. It makes everything feel way more, like, important? Serious? Whatever. The point is, he's a little nervous, and like a kettle, he's got to whistle a little to keep from exploding.
While he talks, he grabs up the necessary supplies, towels, etcetera. After that, it's a pretty quick procedure.] Alright. Knife's comin' out, your shirt's comin' off, and I'm patchin' you up. [It seems especially important to keep Pratt completely informed about what's about to happen -- Sharky doesn't want to accidentally trigger some fucked up fight response.
No point in counting, he figures; the only warning Pratt gets is the feeling of Sharky's hand around the knife before he yanks it out with one hand, the other pulling Pratt's shirt and the godawful jacket off. There are only a few seconds there before Sharky's got pressure on the wound, pressing down hard.]
Man, didn't even think of that. Might never have to do laundry again and just keep getting new shit? Damn, that's the high life there.
[That's extravagance he's never even IMAGINED.]
Yeah. Just get it over with.
[He doesn't scream, or even cry out, but the way his breath hitches and his fingers dig into the table show the effort that takes. Not that Sharky would even care especially since he broke down crying about ten minutes earlier. But that's just so ingrained in him that he can't shake it.
Because fucking hell this hurts. Somehow it's even more painful now that the knife isn't in there, probably because Sharky is pushing on the injury to get it to stop bleeding.]
Affirmative. [Deep shuddering breath.] Fuck. How bad is it?
[The silence isn't surprising but it does make Sharky sad, in a way that's deeper than he's willing to process this early and without alcohol. He keeps the towel pressed hard down on the wound, patting Pratt's shoulder with his free hand.]
The knife ain't too big and the blade's pretty sharp. [It's one hell of a shiv, that's for sure. Pratt's lucky -- the knife could have been serrated, or dull, or some weird fuckin' shape designed to tear out the muscle.] Gonna wanna keep from usin' your arm for a bit, though.
[Hopefully it'll heal clean, and he'll have full use of his arm again before long.]
Just stay still and we'll stitch you up World Series style.
[His destroyed voice sounds even more strained, fighting for every word in between pained gasps.]
Good, good. I don't really want to use anything, gonna stay in my room curled into a ball for the next week. It'll heal real nice that way.
[Turning into a depressed sack of potatoes might be good for healing, but will be terrible for his mental health. But it's hard to think clearly when he genuinely thinks he just murdered someone.]
Least you don't have to worry about doing even stitches, I'm already a fucking mess. Just another shitty scar.
[His back is a disaster of old lacerations and healing bruises. It's obvious at some point his ribs were broken and healed slightly thicker in places. Jacob hadn't been big on medical treatment, especially after the helicopter crash. A few of the long puckered scars do have dotted bits above and below indicating where some stitch work had been done, but most have healed badly due to lack of care.
There's also a pretty gnarly scar down his front from chest to naval where it looks like someone might have tried to split him open like a baked potato.]
I think I need to be fucking leashed to my room. So I can't get out.
Okay, good, good. [Sharky's just hoping that Pratt keeps to his word on that one. Otherwise, he's gonna have to force Pratt into a sling, and the guy won't use that.
The scars are... um. A lot. Sharky tries not to focus too hard on them, already angry enough at Jacob Seed without needing to catalog every single thing that Pratt went through. Worst of all, they're not even unfamiliar injuries. John's scars had been singular and obvious, but Jacob's always had been recognizable more by quantity than quality.
He doesn't have any way of really helping Pratt out emotionally, though. All he can do is do his absolute best job on these fucking stitches. Seriously, he's going to try harder here than he probably has on anything in years.]
Man, I dunno. Tyin' you down doesn't seem like the right response. ...I dunno, maybe what you need is, like. Enrichment or somethin'? Like... a chew toy? [...Yeah he's realizing he's treating Pratt like a wild dog, but you know what? It's practically his fursona.]
Yeah, yeah, it's some furry bullshit but I'm serious, man. Gotta find you a productive outlet for your shit before you get murked.
[...um.]
...Aaaand that's, uh, the other thing. You, uh. You don't remember what happened at all after you tried to jump the chick? Or, like, what you were doin' before she talked to you?
[All to keep him distracted from Sharky's quick and surprisingly efficient stitching. He's had plenty of practice between the cult, the apocalypse, and the raiders.]
[He winces, because even having been recently stabbed, and having experienced a whole host of awful at the Veteran's Center, there's still something just viscerally uncomfortable about the sensation of thread being pulled through skin. But Sharky is making quick work of it, which is appreciated.]
No, but that's not... [Hn.] I don't remember a lot of shit. Most stuff actually. I might randomly remember in a few weeks, but not right now. My brain doesn't... work right anymore. Everything is distorted and wrong, almost like when you try to remember dreams where the more you try the further it slips away.
[But he does try. Closing his eyes and focusing on that instead of the stitchwork happening behind him.]
I remember leaving my room. I was going to go on a patrol because.. there was something. Something. I thought something was going to attack the boat? Jacob said I wouldn't be able to tell a threat from a sacrifice. I don't know what the fuck that means. And I didn't want to be yelling at a fucking hallucination if my roommate came back, so I left.
Went out on the deck, and I kept hearing gunshots, but I knew they weren't real. It was sunny when I first went out there, but when I attacked whoever that was it was dark. So hours later probably, and I don't know what I did during that time. [He's imagining the worst, but the reality is he walked about 20 miles in a circle round and round the deck dozens of times.] She said..What did she say... I didn't even know she was there and she asked me who I killed.
I think I threatened her. Or at least said some crazy fucking shit. And she tried to tell me that we didn't have to fight, that the people here didn't do that. That they were trying to... [Fuck what had she said?] Trying to be better than killing each other.
Then I called her weak.
Everything after that is... all fragmented. I tried to disembowel her, but she wasn't - I dunno she bled wrong. It was like oil. She stabbed me in the shoulder, right in the joint, and I remember thinking about when Jacob did that to me, and then she tried to punch me. But I don't remember anything after that.
[The first thing Sharky wonders is if this is what they mean when they talk about cult programming. That's the whole point of the shit, right? To fuck up the way you think, until you think you can't think right ever again, unless Joseph's around to plop you on the path or whatever?
Trying to retrain Pratt's brain to not work so shitty isn't really in Sharky's wheelhouse, though, so he has to focus on the more important bits.]
Okay. So... you and her argued, and you lost your shit on her when she, like, triggered that Jacob bullshit in your brain. Got it. You said, uh, she got your hand real bad, but it looks okay now. And, uh. I don't see any injury on the other side of your shoulder, here, buddy. ...Promise you won't, uh, freak out if I tell you what I think happened?
[Yeah he sees the writing on the wall. At least he's close to finished -- it's a narrow wound, all things considered, and it doesn't take that many stitches to close. Honestly, Sharky probably was too thorough.]
Yeah she, sliced my fingers open. Hurt something terrible which is... weird. [He blinks, thinking about the fact he remembered any of this at all, and that he could still feel it. That means he hadn't completely flipped out. Which means he did this consciously? And like... knew what he was doing the whole time?
Fuck.]
You know I can't promise that, I nearly punched you for trying to hug me - I don't even know what makes me go nuts most of the time.
[He looks down at his hand, the vague memory of being able to see tendons and muscle in every finger. Maybe that didn't happen, did he hallucinate an injury? Or maybe the whole damn thing?]
[Sharky takes a deep breath, finishes the last of his stitches, and jumps in head-first.]
So, like... I don't know if you won that particular round, dude. I think maybe she got you good in the chest, or maybe somewhere else you can't remember, and uh. Youuuuu, probably didn't survive? 'Cos, uh, people don't just... heal... overnight?
[Definitely trailing off as he tries to gauge Pratt's response to this news.]
[There's a pause, Pratt looking down at himself. The stab wound from where Izzy ran him through that had been mostly healed, sure isn't there anymore. The bruises from being launched into the railing during the fight that should have been forming aren't there either. ]
Good.
[That's the cue for Jacob to reappear and say something shitty about how weak Pratt was, but as soon as there's the barest flicker in Pratt's peripheral vision he's making a dismissive hand gesture at it.]
No. Not now. Fuck off.
[He rubs his side where that sword wound should be, can't even feel a scar beneath his fingers.]
That's good, means I didn't kill her. [He's still not sure what else he might have done, but that's a start.] And I fucking deserved it. So... Good. Maybe she won't stab me again when I try and give the knife back? Depending on how much of a fight I put up.
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Should keep me in a cage again. Maybe... maybe that's the way it always should have been.
[He's a dangerous feral animal and can't be trusted around people. He should be muzzled and on a leash at all times.]
Was stupid thinking it would be different here. [Wipes his nose on the sleeve of this disgusting jacket as he sniffles.] Thought I could handle it. And.. I can't. I'm weak.
I'm sorry Sharky.
[As if he personally let Sharky down. Which he feels like he did.]
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He really wishes Rook were here. The good version of 'em, though, not, like, the one with the mask and the selective mutism.]
Fffuck. Buddy, I appreciate your apology and I'm, like, super down to accept it, but we gotta deal with the knife in your back. You're literally going to bleed out all over again if we don't. So I'm gonna get you up to your feet and we're gonna get you down there, okay?
[His tone is the same firm kind he'd use whenever Hurk started to come down in the bunker, sobbing and talkin' about how shitty his life was. It may or may not also be the voice he used to use whenever coaching someone through a drunk order at the McDonald's drive-thru.]
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Yeah. I guess. Okay.
[That's a very manly whimper he let's out as he gets up because this hurts really fucking bad and he can only ignore pain for so long before he succumbs to some of it. Because he's weak. Doesn't even need Jacob around to remind him of that.]
I smell fucking atrocious.
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Now, he helps Pratt to his feet, bracing him on his uninjured side as best he can. Pratt might feel weak, but all Sharky can think is that it's a miracle he hasn't outright fainted by now.]
I'm so not givin' you a sponge-bath after this, that's all I'm saying. [Because jokes are the easiest way to keep sane in the face of something absolutely fucking horrendous. Like the fact that Pratt's already attacked other passengers and Sharky did nothing to stop it. Or the fact that Pratt might not have survived the fight, even if he did manage to kill someone in the process.]
Just don't move your arm. [He's going to try and make the trip to the infirmary as short and painless as possible.]
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[ He gets to his feet finally, leaning heavily on Sharky because he's a lot more unsteady than he realized. The good news is he's not thinking about Jacob right now, even while wearing this disgusting jacket. So that's something. ]
Right. Elevator. Gotta...gotta get to the elevator. 'S only way out.
[ A few false starts and he's finally moving. Look at him actually making it out of his cabin to the hallway. He deserves a medal.]
Be better for you if Rook showed up instead of me. Shoulda never been me. They'd know what to do...and not...
[ Not killing people who aren't Eli? Something. He's not even sure what he's saying right now but he's trying to focus so he doesn't pass out like he did with Izzy.
The elevator might as well be a million miles away. The hallway seems to twist and extend indefinitely. He pauses to stare at it before wiping his nose on his sleeve and stubbornly walking again. He may be weak and insane but he's definitely a survivor, probably the only reason Jacob didn't flat out kill him.]
Elevator. Yeah. Got this.
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[He thinks. He fuckin' hopes, anyway. He's sturdy enough to take all of Pratt's unsteady weight, and he keeps one arm around his waist so he can't stagger too far forward or list too far back. This is basically the same as walking someone home after a black-out barfight, right down to the stab wound. He's got to have this.
Every time Pratt slows down, Sharky stops, unwilling to rush him even when he thinks the dude might collapse and need to be dragged. That... would be bad, probably, but Sharky knows he could probably lift Pratt if necessary. He reallllllly hopes it won't be.]
Okay, see? The elevator's right there. Quick trip down, I'll stitch ya up like a fuckin' pigskin, it'll be great.
[WAIT]
Hahaha, "pigskin." Get it???
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Yeah. Least we're not using the stairs... [WOW. Wow.] Sharky... When I'm not bleeding out I'm gonna groan about that properly.
[He can't groan now because he's pretty sure if he does his lungs might fill with blood instead of air. But the death might be worth it for that horrible joke. Instead he gets into the elevator leaning against the wall on his good shoulder, hopefully not leaving any bloody smears anywhere.]
I'm gonna need to give her the knife back.
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Man. Some fucked up Cindarella shit right there. [He's just gonna hover annoyingly at Pratt's injured side, checking the wound as if he could see it getting infected in real-time.] We gotta make sure she ain't gonna stab you as soon as you hand it over. Figure out what happened so we can try and keep it from happenin' again. [Like troubleshooting where a gas leak is, only hopefully with less explosions!]
But first, we gotta get it outta you. [Which will be easy to do once they reach the infirmary, the elevator trip thankfully short from the passenger deck.]
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Probably should let her stab me? I attacked her like a fucking psychopath.
[ Deep breath because he's starting to get dizzy. ]
After this, the pirate with the sword, and Jacob's nasty fucking center where half the shit was rusty, I'm really testing the strength of my last tetanus shot.
[ He closes his eyes, waiting for the elevator to beep before he moves again.]
This is gonna suck.
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[Sharky is a permanent fixture at Pratt's side, ready to drag him if he has to as they mutually stagger from the elevator to the infirmary. Thank christ it's a short walk, and Sharky can fill it entirely with dumbass banter.]
Alright, man, you're almost there. Just gotta get the knife out, then we can stitch you up. I don't think it's super bad [yet] so it should be an easy job.
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[He rubs that wound, not yet noticing that hey! It's gone! He's a little more preoccupied with the current stab wound, which isn't even a wound yet, it's just a 'stab' at this point.]
I've had worse. Jacob stabbed me in the socket of my shoulder and then left the knife there. For hours. So this is.. [A laugh that turns into a cough.] was gonna say better but that's fucked up. Cuz.. it's still a knife in me. People shouldn't have knives in them.
[He may second guess everything and be mentally fucked but he's sure of that one. Knives belong outside of people. Getting off the elevator he heads for the bright light at the
end of the tunnelside of the hall that he's pretty sure is either the infirmary or the morgue - either would work in this case.]You ever play PT? This hallway...
[He's not going to elaborate, but needless to say this level of the ship is creepy.]
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...but then he would have to admit that he also knows what Pratt is talking about, so. You win this time, Pratt.]
Fuckin' creepy, I will give you that. [He keeps expecting to see something big and freaky looming waaaaaay down in the distance. Maybe something will start banging on the creepy bulkhead over there?
Sharky is just glad to know that the infirmary is well-lit and well-stocked. If there are any spooky ghosts in here, they're impossible to see under all the fluorescents.]
Alright, man. You know better'n me what you can handle right now, so sit or lie down, whichever you want. But, uh, don't wanna cut your shirt clean off so... unbutton that first. Then, knife out, shirt off, stitches in.
[Is he going to have to unbutton Pratt's fucking deputy shirt? Please, bro, you have this. Right???]
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Jacob's jacket is so big on him it's almost only being held onto him by the knife itself. Still, he tries to not jostle it as he unbuttons his poor damaged deputy shirt he's wearing under it.]
This uniform was not designed for this much abuse. Gonna fall apart on me.
[ A soft chuckle because if that isn't fucking symbolic.]
Aight, sorry if I... you know, bleed all over you.
[ Like that's something he can control.
Under the uniform he is wearing an actual new shirt and not his gross ass undershirt he wore for 6 straight months back home. Small steps towards his retirement.]
Go ahead. M' ready.
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[He's rambling, but he can't help it. He's never been in, like, a nice joint like this, with sterilized suture kits, bandages, and all that shit. It makes everything feel way more, like, important? Serious? Whatever. The point is, he's a little nervous, and like a kettle, he's got to whistle a little to keep from exploding.
While he talks, he grabs up the necessary supplies, towels, etcetera. After that, it's a pretty quick procedure.] Alright. Knife's comin' out, your shirt's comin' off, and I'm patchin' you up. [It seems especially important to keep Pratt completely informed about what's about to happen -- Sharky doesn't want to accidentally trigger some fucked up fight response.
No point in counting, he figures; the only warning Pratt gets is the feeling of Sharky's hand around the knife before he yanks it out with one hand, the other pulling Pratt's shirt and the godawful jacket off. There are only a few seconds there before Sharky's got pressure on the wound, pressing down hard.]
All good??
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[That's extravagance he's never even IMAGINED.]
Yeah. Just get it over with.
[He doesn't scream, or even cry out, but the way his breath hitches and his fingers dig into the table show the effort that takes. Not that Sharky would even care especially since he broke down crying about ten minutes earlier. But that's just so ingrained in him that he can't shake it.
Because fucking hell this hurts. Somehow it's even more painful now that the knife isn't in there, probably because Sharky is pushing on the injury to get it to stop bleeding.]
Affirmative. [Deep shuddering breath.] Fuck. How bad is it?
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The knife ain't too big and the blade's pretty sharp. [It's one hell of a shiv, that's for sure. Pratt's lucky -- the knife could have been serrated, or dull, or some weird fuckin' shape designed to tear out the muscle.] Gonna wanna keep from usin' your arm for a bit, though.
[Hopefully it'll heal clean, and he'll have full use of his arm again before long.]
Just stay still and we'll stitch you up World Series style.
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Good, good. I don't really want to use anything, gonna stay in my room curled into a ball for the next week. It'll heal real nice that way.
[Turning into a depressed sack of potatoes might be good for healing, but will be terrible for his mental health. But it's hard to think clearly when he genuinely thinks he just murdered someone.]
Least you don't have to worry about doing even stitches, I'm already a fucking mess. Just another shitty scar.
[His back is a disaster of old lacerations and healing bruises. It's obvious at some point his ribs were broken and healed slightly thicker in places. Jacob hadn't been big on medical treatment, especially after the helicopter crash. A few of the long puckered scars do have dotted bits above and below indicating where some stitch work had been done, but most have healed badly due to lack of care.
There's also a pretty gnarly scar down his front from chest to naval where it looks like someone might have tried to split him open like a baked potato.]
I think I need to be fucking leashed to my room. So I can't get out.
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The scars are... um. A lot. Sharky tries not to focus too hard on them, already angry enough at Jacob Seed without needing to catalog every single thing that Pratt went through. Worst of all, they're not even unfamiliar injuries. John's scars had been singular and obvious, but Jacob's always had been recognizable more by quantity than quality.
He doesn't have any way of really helping Pratt out emotionally, though. All he can do is do his absolute best job on these fucking stitches. Seriously, he's going to try harder here than he probably has on anything in years.]
Man, I dunno. Tyin' you down doesn't seem like the right response. ...I dunno, maybe what you need is, like. Enrichment or somethin'? Like... a chew toy? [...Yeah he's realizing he's treating Pratt like a wild dog, but you know what? It's practically his fursona.]
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[ He actually kind of laughs. Because while that should be insulting it's pretty much true. ]
Considering how much I fucking eat, I don't think I need a chew toy. Though maybe if I like... hide a red bull in a puzzle box.
[ Sorta like peanut butter in a Kong but for Deputies. ]
Something to keep me occupied cuz... pretending to be retired hasn't gone so well. Though I haven't tried sitting by the pool with ice cream.
Maybe after I see if Hallmark makes apology cards for being a fucking psychopath.
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[...um.]
...Aaaand that's, uh, the other thing. You, uh. You don't remember what happened at all after you tried to jump the chick? Or, like, what you were doin' before she talked to you?
[All to keep him distracted from Sharky's quick and surprisingly efficient stitching. He's had plenty of practice between the cult, the apocalypse, and the raiders.]
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[He winces, because even having been recently stabbed, and having experienced a whole host of awful at the Veteran's Center, there's still something just viscerally uncomfortable about the sensation of thread being pulled through skin. But Sharky is making quick work of it, which is appreciated.]
No, but that's not... [Hn.] I don't remember a lot of shit. Most stuff actually. I might randomly remember in a few weeks, but not right now. My brain doesn't... work right anymore. Everything is distorted and wrong, almost like when you try to remember dreams where the more you try the further it slips away.
[But he does try. Closing his eyes and focusing on that instead of the stitchwork happening behind him.]
I remember leaving my room. I was going to go on a patrol because.. there was something. Something. I thought something was going to attack the boat? Jacob said I wouldn't be able to tell a threat from a sacrifice. I don't know what the fuck that means. And I didn't want to be yelling at a fucking hallucination if my roommate came back, so I left.
Went out on the deck, and I kept hearing gunshots, but I knew they weren't real. It was sunny when I first went out there, but when I attacked whoever that was it was dark. So hours later probably, and I don't know what I did during that time. [He's imagining the worst, but the reality is he walked about 20 miles in a circle round and round the deck dozens of times.] She said..What did she say... I didn't even know she was there and she asked me who I killed.
I think I threatened her. Or at least said some crazy fucking shit. And she tried to tell me that we didn't have to fight, that the people here didn't do that. That they were trying to... [Fuck what had she said?] Trying to be better than killing each other.
Then I called her weak.
Everything after that is... all fragmented. I tried to disembowel her, but she wasn't - I dunno she bled wrong. It was like oil. She stabbed me in the shoulder, right in the joint, and I remember thinking about when Jacob did that to me, and then she tried to punch me. But I don't remember anything after that.
It's her knife though, I remember that much.
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Trying to retrain Pratt's brain to not work so shitty isn't really in Sharky's wheelhouse, though, so he has to focus on the more important bits.]
Okay. So... you and her argued, and you lost your shit on her when she, like, triggered that Jacob bullshit in your brain. Got it. You said, uh, she got your hand real bad, but it looks okay now. And, uh. I don't see any injury on the other side of your shoulder, here, buddy. ...Promise you won't, uh, freak out if I tell you what I think happened?
[Yeah he sees the writing on the wall. At least he's close to finished -- it's a narrow wound, all things considered, and it doesn't take that many stitches to close. Honestly, Sharky probably was too thorough.]
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Fuck.]
You know I can't promise that, I nearly punched you for trying to hug me - I don't even know what makes me go nuts most of the time.
[He looks down at his hand, the vague memory of being able to see tendons and muscle in every finger. Maybe that didn't happen, did he hallucinate an injury? Or maybe the whole damn thing?]
Just tell me.
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So, like... I don't know if you won that particular round, dude. I think maybe she got you good in the chest, or maybe somewhere else you can't remember, and uh. Youuuuu, probably didn't survive? 'Cos, uh, people don't just... heal... overnight?
[Definitely trailing off as he tries to gauge Pratt's response to this news.]
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Good.
[That's the cue for Jacob to reappear and say something shitty about how weak Pratt was, but as soon as there's the barest flicker in Pratt's peripheral vision he's making a dismissive hand gesture at it.]
No. Not now. Fuck off.
[He rubs his side where that sword wound should be, can't even feel a scar beneath his fingers.]
That's good, means I didn't kill her. [He's still not sure what else he might have done, but that's a start.] And I fucking deserved it. So... Good. Maybe she won't stab me again when I try and give the knife back? Depending on how much of a fight I put up.
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