Sam had no idea how long it had been since he'd been home. He knew he'd set off to the Hollowed Grounds without saying anything when he first got sick, but that could have been days or weeks ago; maybe even hours, for all he knew. Everything, time and space, was blending together into an unknowable lump, and all he knew was that he desperately wanted to fall into bed, get a bath yet also never see the sea again, and drink from someone.
Not strong enough to do any of those things, he slumped against the door as he tried to open it. If he had been more aware of things, maybe he would have thought to fix his appearance first: he was dishevelled, his jacket lost somewhere in the last few days and his shirt untucked, his hair all over the place. Dirt from the woodland coated his clothing and crusted sand clung to his skin and hair.
The door swung open more dramatically than he was expecting and Sam fell in, crashing against one of the kitchen counters and falling to his knees, too woozy to keep balance. As a pot came to a smashing clatter beside him, he idly thought in the back of his mind that he wouldn't be able to sneak into bed as he'd wanted to, but couldn't quite remember who would be around to catch him.
Truth be told, you kind of assumed that Sam had just moved out. He'd talked about it, after all, and when he didn't come back for a few days... well, you figured that was it. Normally you would have hunted him down and made sure his new place was well stocked and set up, but you've had your hands fucking full with helping Vai take care of Torchline and all the fevered idiots who won't stop turning up.
All that to say, you're understandably surprised when he literally crashes into your kitchen, chaos in his wake.
Your first thought is: Oh great, so the looting's begun. Feeling rather too tired and aggravated to deal with that shit, you groan and roll out of your bed, grabbing shorts and the panther paws, a scowl scrunching up your face. Your second thought, as you go down the stairs, is: why the fuck would anyone try to loot the kitchen?
Your final thought is said out loud, your scowl transitioning into a frown. [say]"Red? Th'fuck're you doin', man? It's th'middle of th'night."[/say]
Sam was suspended for a while in an odd calm, leaning against the counter and letting his mind stay delightfully blank, even as he was aware, in some capacity, of noise from upstairs, footsteps getting closer. He felt almost like two people: one aware of everything and filled with panic and shame, the other blissfully unawares and calm, unsure of what was going on but knowing it likely wasn't too much to worry about.
When Zeph spoke to him, the first person came out for a moment: he suddenly felt very alarmed, his eyes widened, as he realised he didn't remember the last...he had no idea how long it had been.
[say]"Zeph?"[/say] His voice came out scared and small, but more worryingly for Sam, it didn't sound like his own. His hand came up to his throat, touching it with horror. [say]"I don't---I don't know where I am or what's happening or-- Oh God, I don't remember the last days. I don't know...where have I been? I think I went to the Grounds...?"[/say] Hands pushing desperately through his hair, he went to flop against the wall, eyes wide and blankly staring forwards. [say]"The Voice is worried. The Voice is worried and she's never worried--"[/say]
Oh.
Oh no.
Confusion. Sweat (do Ascendeds sweat? What would it be made of? Questions you never thought you'd ask). Fragmented speech. Being dressed in less than a full suit, despite it being hot as a dog's taint out. All these things add up in your mind, resulting in one rather unfortunate conclusion:
Sam has got the plague.
You crouch down in front of the redhead and try very hard to keep the worry out of your face and voice. [say]"S'okay, Red- here. Lookit me."[/say] You want to reach for him, but you're also still rather irrationally terrified that doing so will result in your contracting the bug. Now more than ever he feels like a child, lost and afraid and desperately in need of someone with their shit more together than you. [say]"Yer sick. S'gonna be okay, but you gotta... gotta rest. Maybe eat somethin'? Fuck, I dunno. Whad'ya usually do when yer sick, eh?"[/say] Sleep? Eat? Water? None of these are things Ascended do.
You keep your voice calm, but in the back of your mind you're beginning to feel a familiar sense of helplessness. You hadn't known what to do for Ray, and he'd never recovered from his disease. What if you fuck it up again? What if fever takes someone again?
Why the hell did you let yourself give a fuck again?
Thankfully, Zeph didn't continue to be angry with him; Sam didn't know if he'd be able to handle that at the moment, his brain fragile enough already without the one person he trusted enough to lean on being mad. No, instead Zeph was everything Sam wanted him to be, calm (or at least, appearing to be) and taking charge of the situation. Able to relax a little, some of the panic left Sam's face.
[say]"Um..."[/say] He let himself lean against the counter, push a hand through his hair as he tried to think. [say]"I..I haven't been sick since I Ascended. Not until now."[/say] Sam tried to shift himself up away from the counter, to sit on his own, but found himself immediately woozy again, falling back within seconds. [say]"I went to the Voice and she doesn't know what to do, Zeph."[/say] He turned to stare wide-eyed as he said this, hoping that Zeph might understand just how significant that was; if The Voice didn't know how to cure Ascended, no one did.
[say]"Gods don' know everythin', no matter what they say."[/say] It's grumbled half under your breath; t's easier to blame the gods than acknowledge your own helpless fear, how much you hate seeing him on your floor, fevered and disheveled and childlike in his loss. Fuck, if he doesn't remind you achingly of Ray, and if that old feeling of worthless ineptitude isn't creeping back into your bones.
Breaking down won't help Red, though. Won't help anyone- and so you inhale deeply, steeling yourself before leaning down to grab at his arm, throw it over your shoulder. [say]"C'mon, Red, let's get ya t'bed, eh?"[/say] Gently you lead him towards the bedroom, trying to keep the worry from your face. [say]"'S gonna be okay. I gotcha."[/say]
And you do - for now. For a brief moment. But that moment will pass soon enough, and the calm will not hold for long. But for now? You settle in the bed beside your tenant, running your hands gently through his red hair and wondering what the fuck you're going to do.
[fin <3]
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