riverviewlogs | Vikings Make The Worst Patients (OTA)

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Vikings Make The Worst Patients (OTA)

who: Ivar and you!
what: Someone is the worst sort of patient when healing
when: Later half of May
where: The hospital and communal housing
warnings: Cranky Viking and possible mention of graphic injuries

I. The Hospital

To say that Ivar was angry was an understatement. He was absolutely furious. Mostly at Dodger, but he saved a little bit for himself. He'd almost died, but who cared about that? Dying in battle was no shame. Losing to some arrogant, idiotic mutant, now that's what really had him steamed. He spent the first couple of days alternately sleeping, healing up from the various stab wounds Dodger had given him, and plotting revenge against the older man.

But by day three, Ivar had had it. He wanted out of this hospital and back on the streets. When the doctors stated he had to stay for at least a few more days to heal properly, he went ballistic. They'd ended up sedating him when he'd managed to grab a scalpel and managed to slash up one of the doctors attending him. After that, he'd calmed down, but only enough to promise not to kill anyone while he was resting.

However, this didn't mean he was going to be a model patient. Anyone who was on the third floor of the hospital right now was going to hear a very angry Viking teenager. Ivar could be quite loud when he wanted to be. There were yells, the sounds of something breaking, and then Ivar roaring, "Get out of here!" Following that was a very loud crash as he threw a tray at the nurse making a hasty retreat from his room. He was in a foul mood and everyone was going to know it.

II. Communal Housing

Eventually, the hospital let him leave after the stab wounds had completely healed. His ribs were still on the mend, but there was nothing to be done to help him there. They told him to take it easy for the next five weeks, and that they would mend on their own. One big bottle of painkillers given to him later and he was on his way.

Despite his fury at being confined to a hospital bed early in the month, he was thinking perhaps leaving the place so soon was a mistake. He was still in a lot of pain, though anyone who saw him would be hard-pressed to realize it. There was just the little signs, how he would wince every so often as he wheeled himself back towards the communal housing building, or press a hand to his ribs if he had to move in the wrong direction for too long.

It was slow going, and by the time he pushed open the door of the complex, he was completely exhausted. All he wanted to do was go up to floor five, eat, take a shower, and sleep, in that exact order. Anyone who encountered him right now was going to find a very tired Viking who was nonetheless still as bad-tempered as he'd been at the hospital.

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Despite how much Cain had been pushing to be outgoing and getting into other peoples' businesses, he really didn't have a whole lot to fill his days lately. Sure, there was his job but it was easy (and he liked it that way), and there was exploring the city (and there was plenty to look at), but he didn't have his old resources nor his nice toys and he definitely didn't have his brother or his niece-descendant or the twins...

There was a whole lot of not enough going on, basically. So when he saw someone entering the communal housing ahead of him, someone obviously with something going on, his interest sparked. Interest and some pity, although he was conscious of making it look more like sympathy since most people didn't react to pity well at all.

"You all right there?" he asked, making to walk alongside the poor wheelchair-bound guy.

Ivar turned a pair of angry, fierce-looking eyes on the man who approached him. He was in a lot of pain despite his attempts to hide it, both the sharp stabbing sensation of his broken ribs and the dull ache that he felt near constantly in his legs. It was a good thing Ivar couldn't read minds, for the thought of anyone pitying him would send him into a flying rage. He hated that above all else, having been told even by his own brother Sigurd that it was all anyone would ever feel for him.

"I'm fine," he said gruffly, a curious Norwegian accent coloring his words. His eyes were odd as well, the sclera a pale blue instead of the usual white, making his eyes blue-on-blue. It marked what the doctors would call in the twenty-first century as brittle bone disease, the reason he was unable to walk.

Cain tilted his head at seeing it, understanding it for what it was and realizing now some of the problem wasn't what it all appeared to be. He doubted that was the whole deal of it, though, because it never was just the one thing. Raining, pouring, et cetera.

"You're capable," he allowed easily, "but that's different from fine."

Not exactly the most persuasive of arguments but he was going to stick around for a while longer. See what else this kid had to say, whether he would accept the offering or continue to shove back.

"Point being? Unless you've got a way to heal broken ribs instantly, you're welcome to fuck off." Ignore the grumpy teenager. He was naturally this abrasive even when he wasn't just out of the hospital after getting into a near-death experience.

He pushed the button for the elevator, but the machine was damnably slow. He was forced to continue to share space with this stranger. Ivar folded his arms, looking very much like he wanted to stab something. Or someone. He really wasn't picky when it came to random acts of violence.

That was a look Cain knew well. Angry teen, but one who would follow up on it given the chance. He'd seen plenty, been father to plenty more. Attitudes like that said nothing of personality but he knew he wouldn't get very far while all that was still hanging around.

"Sorry, magic isn't my forte," he said, leaning up against the wall next to the call button. Elevators were definitely too slow. "Have you checked with Gramarye or any number of openly magical something-or-others around here?"

"I'll do that after I've been out of the hospital for more than an hour." His bed was calling to him. He could practically hear it. At this point, he didn't know if he was more tired or hungry. Hospital food sucked. He needed something more substantial. Meat, probably, and lots of it.

He pushed the button again impatiently. When would these doors open? While he waited, he finally took a moment to study the man who seemed to not take a hint. Ivar's mind was always switched on, thinking five steps ahead of everyone around him. He read people, seeing what made them up, but more importantly getting inside their heads, and being able to predict their behavior.

Hm, recent escapee huh? Kid probably had a lot going on by now but he wasn't going to let that stop him. When all eyes were turned to Cain, he just smiled as if it were a pleasant greeting. He definitely didn't give much outward indication of his thoughts or ancient demeanor, but he knew fully hiding his maturity wouldn't get him anywhere, either. People here were odd and no doubt expected everyone else around to be just as strange, and if some mid-twenties punk saw more than most people his age — he hadn't met a single person yet who was overly surprised.

Not even the ones who knew how old he really was.

Truth be told, Cain felt like he was the one most often put off balance by the strangeness of the place. He'd seen so much in his lifetime but only within the parameters of his reality, and now he was seeing new things every day. It was tiring to just take it all in, unable to block anything from constantly sinking down and changing his perspective and...

... well, that elevator could come any time now. Maybe he could use a nap sometime soon, too.

"You look like you could probably use more time there instead of running home," he said helpfully. Just a bit pointed.

Who did this guy think he was? Ivar didn't need advice from anyone, even when he could use it. Stubbornness was one of his defining traits and it would take beating him into the ground to get him to listen to anyone. He saw something paradoxical in Cain, something that seemed both open and closed off at the same time. He was too tired to figure out why that was.

"And what was I going to do? Sit on my ass and think up ways I'm going to butcher the man that put me in there? I don't do well sitting still for too long." The Viking teen was like most of his people despite his keen mind, more prone to action than just thinking. Besides, he had a definite plan on how he was going to get back at Dodger. That bastard was going to rue the day he ever tangled with Ivar The Boneless.

The elevator door finally opened with a soft Ping! Ivar wheeled himself in and turns to the buttons, stabbing the one for floor five with more force strictly than is necessary.

Cain slipped himself inside the elevator behind the kid. Briefly he debated not pressing any button of his own and letting him think they were on the same floor, but the lie could hardly be sustained, could it? He reached over the kid's head and pressed floor six before settling himself back against the wall.

"Is that not what you're doing here?" Whatever the kid actually wanted to do with the person that put him in the hospital, Cain wasn't sure that he cared. Way too much he didn't know to mull over that part.

Ivar didn't hide his displeasure when the man entered the elevator with him. Some people just didn't know how to take a hint. He winced as the jerky motion of the elevator starting to rise jolted his ribs again.

"Food's better here, there's a bath, and I like sleeping in my own bed." Also, he'd pretty much terrorized the nurses and doctors until they were all to quick to discharge him as soon as he'd been stable enough to do so. "Plus I left most of my weapons here." He'd been given back his knives when he left, but there was nothing like the feeling of his favorite axe in his hands.

There was also the fact Letha was going to worry herself into the ground over him if he didn't come back soon, not that he was going to share something so personal with a perfect stranger. He cared a lot about her well-being. Most of the time, anyway. Ivar would never fully shake that self-centered nature that most psychopaths possessed.

"Huh. Got anything good?" he asked, interest piqued. While he wasn't a fighter so much as he was a runner, sometimes fleeing to flee another day wasn't an option. All he had on him was his switchblade. Getting a gun might have been a good idea but he didn't need that distance like most others would have. Besides, getting back into shape with something less prevalent nowadays would be a good time-consumer. "From around here, I mean."

If a teenager could get his hands on some lethal weapons in the Quarantine, Cain doubted there would be any issue in looking around for himself.

Talk of weapons was one of the few ways to get Ivar talking civil. He didn't sound nearly as full of attitude and sullen as he had the rest of the conversation thus far. "Just a few knives." Ivar was proficient with ancient weapons, but he hadn't had a chance to practice with anything modern. He reminded himself to look up the man teaching him to fight better later. Bucky had promised that he would teach the Viking how to fire a gun.

"Most of what I have was on me when I got brought here." Good thing he'd just come from battle or he might not have much at all.

Now there was a change. Not surprising, really. Cain grinned at the less-hostile tone and was glad the elevator wasn't too reflective to give him away unless the kid turned around.

"Yeah, only got my one knife," he said. Had it on him right now, actually. Was it a good thing or a bad thing this kid apparently had all his weapons upstairs instead of on him at the time? "And a multitool but I'd rather keep that one gore-free. Other uses and all that."

There were definitely ways to get past that prickly defense he kept up at all times. Not many, but when people did, he tended to relax. Ivar mainly just tried to keep people at arm's length because he was afraid of getting hurt. Too many times at home he'd been mocked and made out to be nothing because he couldn't walk. He'd developed a tough shell to compensate.

The elevator finally stopped and Ivar winced again. He thought about putting some ice on his ribs before getting something to eat. "You should get something else. Or the monsters might eat you if you go outside the walls."

Cain moved to hold the door open by placing a hand on the frame while the kid took a second. However long he needed, really. Would suck if he got there, missed the window long enough, and had to ride up to Cain's floor before he could come back down. Cain would have found it amusing but they clearly lived too nearby for him to forget his manners.

"Any suggestions?" His own preference was very likely the exact cliche people would expect of him, but he was always open to trying new things. Cain would only settle his ways permanently when those ways themselves settled.

[Just a chance encounter with 2B - the two helped professor Sycamore a while back, but didn't really meet since then, until now.

Ivar being on a wheelchair is normal and not something that is a cause for worry or curiosity, but this time... this time 2B sees that something is different, and wrong.]

What happened?

[So, have a nosy android approach and ask bluntly.]

She had found it oddly silent about the complex of late, and now she knows why. Elizabeth is just on her way back home from a day at work when she catches sight of him, and moves to press her palm to the door in order to hold it open. Concerned grey eyes meet his, and she smiles faintly as the fact that he is in rough shape registers in her mind. Her free hand tentatively lowers to rest against his shoulder, a gentle gesture she makes unthinkingly, really.

"It is good to see you, cousin." She need not call him that, not really. But it seems to suit, and it gives her comfort to know she has a relation here, however distant. "I had wondered why it has been so quiet of late."

Shifting the hand from his shoulder to the back of his chair, she helps him push himself inside, and pauses.

"If you wish, I can help you get abovestairs with greater ease."

[Ivar turns towards 2B, recognizing her from the last mission that they went on together. He's clearly weary, having wheeled himself from the hospital back to the commune.]

I got into a fight.

[He says this very flatly and doesn't bother to elaborate. It's bad enough to be in pain, he doesn't want to have to admit he lost to Dodger too.]

Were it anyone else, Ivar would respond to their actions with annoyance and a gruff nature. But Elizabeth is different. She's kind to him even when she doesn't need to be. That's a rarity for a Viking more used to people showing him scorn and mocking him when they had the chance. For this reason, he reaches up to pat the hand on his shoulder with his own callused one.

"It's good to see you." His words are sincere. There's something calming about her presence. Like her, he also likes the idea of having family here, however distant, while he's so far away from his own.

"It's alright. I can manage." However much pain he was in, Ivar never liked to appear weak in front of others. It was important to him to be able to be independent, even when accepting help would have been in his best interest.

I understand.

[She decides not to press further. Ivar's weariness speaks for itself well enough. 2B still feels the need to say something, though.]

However, you survived and are alive. That's good.

[And didn't suffer any permanent injury either, as far as she can tell. But body parts can always be replaced, right?]

There was word going around about Ivar's brawl and the state he had been left in. It was disappointing how little of a surprise this was. The boy had shown himself to be impulsive and hot tempered from the brief interaction they had over the network. Maybe that was why Jon decided to visit him and see how he was convalescing. There was something about Ivar that reminded him of himself when he first joined the Wall. He was never murderous in that way, but there was the same lack of impulse control.

He could hear his shouts from down the hall, a few nurses darting away in a mix of fear and frustration. There was one man who was having his arm stitched from having been slashed, indicating the sort of mood Ivar was in. He wasn't wise to see someone that was acting like a cornered animal, but Jon was never wise.

There was the sound of a crash as he neared Ivar's room, a nurse bolting out and nearly running into him. He stepped inside without any fear, pulling a chair to sit next to the boy's bed. "It's not smart to push away the people trying to save your life."

Ivar got through the door with no small amount of struggling. He was going to need to break into that bottle of pain pills sooner rather than later.

He looked at Cain, giving one of those penetrating, observant stares, looking him over like he was trying to get inside his head. Then he looked away after deciding on whatever he had found. "I can't speak for modern weapons, but I think you'd do well with a short sword."

[Ivar begins wheeling himself into the main room of the first floor and towards the elevator. He's tired as all get-out.]

I still have both my eyes, which is more than the other guy can say.

[He considered that a small victory despite the fact he'd technically lost the fight. Dodger was going to get what was coming to him, one way or another. Ivar was already working on revenge plans.]

"What, like a gladius?"

There was some definite entertainment in the tone — and hidden in it was a tone that said Cain was clearly impressed. Although it wasn't the end-all, be-all of potential short swords, no one in the world could fault him for having a soft spot pertaining to anything that came out of his empire. He'd breathed life into that, and it had gone on to make a place in the world. No matter how stained that place was. He'd taken what he had gotten. Hell, just gladius didn't mean anything specific back in the day but now it generally referred to a certain type of blade and he could roll with that.

As long as this kid was willing to entertain him, he'd probably stay standing in the doorway. Not that he figured it would be for long because it really looked like the other needed to rest and get off his metaphorical feet. Still.

Ivar's foul mood had not abated in the slightest. However, what he was running out of was things that were close at hand to throw. Good thing for Jon, because Ivar had unerring aim, able to draw a stripe of blood from a man with an axe without otherwise touching him. He looked bad-tempered as Jon entered and appeared to be debating the merits of beaning him in the head with the water cup on the side table.

He turned to look at the man with his curious eyes, the sclera light blue instead of the usual white, making the entirety of his eyes except for the pupil completely blue. Despite his weariness, there was an air of fierce wildness that hadn't lessened in the slightest. "They're not helping. They're hindering."

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Vikings Make The Worst Patients (OTA)

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