Hector didn’t bother to hang up the phone, instead letting it fall limply from his hand and off the bed. He winced as the receiver clanged against the floor, remaining otherwise still against the mattress. With his panic slowly but surely receding, the disciple allowed himself to shut his eyes, doing his best to ignore the nagging paranoia that came with risking sleep. Yet, despite the ordeal looping vividly in his head, Hector fell rather quickly into a heavy, merciful rest. It hadn’t been intentional at all, but no less welcomed as he was granted brief reprieve from reality. He even dreamed a little. Something about Central Park.
The disciple woke sometime later to the sound of the front door closing, his cheek pressed to pillow drenched in cold sweat. He was shivering as well, and badly, which only intensified the various aches and pains already plaguing him. A feeble groan promptly followed a sharp inhale of breath, his eyes instantly wet again. He made a point to keep them closed. His head was pounding too hard to invite in vision anyway.
As he halfheartedly reached for his blanket, Hector’s ears pricked at the sound of footsteps drawing closer to the bedroom. The disciple’s gut then wrenched in reflexive fear, his jaw set and eyes squeezed more tightly shut as if to will himself invisible. Yes, he’d invited Harry over. He’d been rather choiceless in the matter, but still, the man was expected. But, Rodriguez positively dreaded the doctor’s inevitable reaction to seeing him. It wasn’t that Harrison had a weak constitution—he couldn’t in his line of work. No, it was something far more foreign to Hector. Something ugly that he couldn’t articulate, even if he wanted to.
He was ashamed of himself.
The actor croaked as he grasped at his sheets, fumbling to hoist them up to his shoulder in time. He hissed sharply, too, as the fabric rubbed over the edge of his open wound.
Harrison simply rolled his eyes with contempt as the door shut behind him. Only a complete imbecile would leave their door unlocked in this hell hole of a city. Ever since splicing had been on the rise, and people started to get some sort of bug going through their heads, driving them up the damn wall, LeCaine had been extra cautious going just about anywhere in the hours of the night. The door lock clicked and his half done-up leather shoes were tossed to the side, among the pile of whatever else was laying on the floor.
That was when he noticed the drops of blood. Hell, it was more like a trail, leading straight to the bedroom.
The eerie sight caused his hands to clutch the briefcase of medical materials much tighter than necessary. He kept his trenchcoat on all the same and stepped around the dried stains and softly called out after hearing the frail response from Hector. “C’est moi…-” the smooth tone hushed, unsure and slightly terrified as to what he was about to walk in on. “It’s just me-” the doctor seemed to try and soothe whatever he was now laying his eyes on. A pile of bones, blankets, blood, and well… It was a train wreck.
The feeble attempt to cover himself in bedsheets was noticed and the case of first aid materials dropped to the floor next to the mattress as Harrison immediately began to undo the buttons of his jacket, and toss it over the nearby chair. Soon after, sleeves were rolled up, as he knew all too well that there would be blood to be dealt with. He wondered weather more casual attire would have been a better decision.
"Let’s see what you’re hiding," a hand reached for the edge of the sheet, waiting to reveal the wounds.
"Hey there," Joe said as he pushed the chair in from the table he’d been busing. Most of the crowds had left for the night, and though there was an hour left until closing time, the bartender was beginning to settle things up for the night. Only two regulars were there, nursing drinks with bottles left on the counter.
"Welcome to Devil’s," he said, addressing the newcomer. "At least you’ll be welcome for about another hour — can I get you something?"
It was as if the doors to the clinic had never fully closed by the time that Harrison was leaving. You could see the dark circles under his eyes turn into pools of exhaustion. The doctor could barely manage a grumble under his low and heavily accented voice. A hand absently pinched the bridge of his nose before unloading his body weight on to one of the barstools. Lazily, eyelids half-opened and glanced over the small menu that was just to his left. It didn’t matter. Nearly every single bar in this city served the same swill.
"I won’t keep you here late, believe me-" LeCaine smirked. The last thing the Frenchman wanted, was to sit around and nurse a drink. It would be quick and painless… And then right back off to the metro to get into his cozy apartment. This just happened to be on his way home.
"Do you have anything special? Strong? Anything I can’t get across the street?"
- "You deserved every minute of that."
- "I was an idiot to think you’d changed."
- "You never listen, do you?"
- "You’re hopeless. Get up."
- "No, I meant it. I meant every word."
- "You’re a bad person."
- "Get out of my life."
- "Let go of me!"
- "And to think I loved you."
- "I never want to see you again."
- "I wish you were dead."
"Did you really think you could get away with that?"