There was a time in his life when he wouldn't cast a spell on anyone without asking, save for longstanding permission or the direst of circumstances.
That was a very long time ago, and if that discomfort catches him between the ribs in a way that makes him feel painfully young for a second then no one has to know that.
Besides, he's focusing on being very still. It's a surprise, when Steve comes back and keeps going - he really did just expect the gauntlets, and he's about to say it - but then, well.
"...Older, but everyone assumed the opposite." Question for a question, come on, think -
No. Not just the gauntlets. Those were never the plan - not the biggest part, and certainly not all of it. His intention was never anything as simple - or complex - as literal disarming.
Not even of one blood soaked weapon-slash-armor.
He keeps going, but not in physically removing anything from Zerxus body, just undoing and unfastening clasps, staying well clear of any clear, single purpose weaponry. More about... mental shift, back to someone Steve can breathe around.
He starts to ask something. Then stops, tilts his head and waits.
He remembers this rhythm. "Your turn." He's pretty sure breaking that rhythm is likely to have some kind of consequence.
It almost sounds like he's slipping out of a reverie when he answers, "My - yes. It is."
The problem is, it's getting hard to focus. Gradually losing weight is helping, in one sense, but he's also losing the grounding balance of it, and -
Once the full chest plate comes over his head, it's clear why. More than one weapon was powerful and precise enough to puncture the leather of his gambeson, and that's soaked in blood too.
It isn't the tearing that surprises Zerxus, as he frowns down at himself; it's the fact that he's still bleeding.
That explains why the armor was so bloody, and the scent of it was so fresh. It also explains the distant tone in Zerxus' voice.
"Down," Steve says, immediately and firmly but gently, pushes the man back toward sitting in the nearest chair. "Work with me and sit down, please."
Can devils even die? Steve doesn't know, exactly, but he doesn't want to find out. He needs Zerxus to sit, he needs to get that leather out of the way and see where this is all coming from and at least try to do something about it.
There's a flicker of contrariness even now, a moment of token resistance, but he's weakened substantially in the last few minutes. In the midst of the Calamity that wouldn't have mattered, but there's nothing inside urging him far beyond his limits.
He all but collapses onto that chair, jarring the wounds and making himself even dizzier. "Sorry. This isn't...typical."
Reaching up to do - something helpful, anything - he realises that his hands are trembling.
He can respect that level of stubbornness, but that doesn't mean he's not glad he doesn't have to drag Zerxus bodily around after he's passed out - or wait until Zerxus has in order to do anything.
Not that he knows what he's going to do here.
"Yeah, doesn't sound like a thing that should even be possible." Maybe? But if he'd sold his soul, and was already in hell... Some kind of punishment, also maybe, and if that's the case... it's Steve's fault.
Steve doesn't know.
He does know that he's tearing that thing open so he can see what he's working with and then just - "We better both be hoping you can't die and stay dead." This is bad. He's not being flippant, even with that remark. He's being grim, and also pulling his borrowed shirt off to try to do... anything here. Mop up, get a decent look and just pressure.
"I can't stay dead." It's...not the highest of reassurances. He can die, and he can't control how long that lasts, and usually that's just a fact of his existence - but it would mean leaving the Captain alone.
The pressure does what it's meant to, at least, and after a few deep breaths Zerxus can manage, "I've got - sewing. Things. In that drawer."
Nothing meant to mend people, but he doesn't have to worry about infection.
He moves for the drawer, without hesitation or stupid questions about infection. Not able to stay dead means if nothing else, worst case scenario, infection's going to at least be a slower death.
It also means he's going to be causing more pain either in the sewing up or slower death, but- So be it, he guesses.
"Let me know if you'd just rather... die." He doesn't know. He is firmly over his head in trying to put together how to approach this. Given that he is, actually, defaulting to trusting the authority on the subject here. "Or otherwise need to tap out."
Once he's got that sewing kit, though, he - Well, stands across Zerxus' legs and ultimately sits in his lap, facing him. It's the only practical way he has to reach.
He's not shaking. He's not pale. He's just grim, determined, and with some (hidden) anger underlining it. "I'll do my best, but best case it's still gonna hurt like a bitch."
That level of consideration floors him more than the sudden, debilitating onset of mortality. The huff of laughter is choked, and it stains his lips red.
"I barely noticed the lance going in." That was the deepest hit, he's pretty sure, just beneath his ribs. "Pain isn't a problem."
It's not that he doesn't feel it; it's just one of those constant companions, like grief and self-loathing. Usually it isn't part of someone trying to help him, and the first pierce of the needle doesn't shift the shell-shocked wonder in those burning red eyes.
Steve looks up from what he's doing, briefly. "Well, let me know if that comes back along with your ability to die." There's eye-contact with that, and he... probably shouldn't see burning red eyes as reassuring, but he... does.
Then he bends his head back to the task, starting with the lance wound. It's... just adding more blood to all this, making everything slippery and the whole thing harder. This man better still be able to heal in some capacity though, because there's more damage here than just on the surface.
"You still owe me a question." He doesn't look up, and his weight on Zerxus' legs doesn't shift. Just focused, but also: talk to him.
He's a steady canvas, at least; no flinching, and only the occasional tremble.
"So I do." His voice is rough, strained, but he does sound more present; maybe the pain is anchoring him. Maybe it's the solid weight on top of him. "Did you have siblings?"
He's grateful Zerxus isn't fighting him. He doesn't know if he's just shocky from blood loss, or feeling more pain than he's consciously aware of - that tremble could be either - but holding Zerxus down to do this, after he's pretty convinced he caused it wouldn't be a good time for either one of them.
"Not exactly. Dad died when I was a couple of months old, and mom was a nurse. The lady who stepped in to help had a kid who was about my age I grew up with. Stuck together all the way through enlisting together. He died in action not long before I took a really long nap." That's more than was needed, delivered with an air of distraction since he's focused on sewing this shit up. And being as gentle about it as he can, given the circumstance (including equipment and severity and lack of experience).
While not at all convinced there is any point. At least, he hopes, it's keeping Zerxus distracted and thinking. "Was the assumption that you were older personality or something else?"
They keep having more in common than he expects, and if he was in a sharper state of mind he might think to question that kind of coincidence. As it is, it's just another note of wistfulness.
"At first. I was - quiet. Intense. Responsible. He was already a pirate when we met."
He was a cabin boy with aspirations, but at the time it was very impressive.
"Also I was taller." There's a trace of youthful smugness to that, shining like something ancient that could only be unearthed when he was drifting like this.
The angle of that slash is a bear, and leaves Steve needing to brace himself against Zerxus' chest with his forearm to get to it.
Still getting it done, needle biting in, thread pulling through (which Steve can almost hear, and can certainly feel the friction of), knotting it off and then breaking the thread and repeating the process.
"Bucky was older than me - and until that project I mentioned taller. He was pulling my ass out of the fire most of the time until then. He was kind of a devil may care type, but I was in some kind of fight every time he turned around. After... things flipped around on size and who the responsible party supposedly was." Then, since Zerxus is drifting: "Why'd it take you that long to meet?"
Edited (DRIFTING NOT DRAWING WTF) 2024-10-30 01:19 (UTC)
He doesn't have much strength to lend, which is a truly surreal feeling, but he does brace his hands against Steve - one at his back, one on his hip - to steady him as much as he can.
"Sounds familiar." It was very fortunate that both of them eventually learned healing magic. (It would be nice for that to come in handy right now, but Zerxus knows better.) "He wasn't my brother, yet."
Does that make sense? He's starting to lose track.
And Steve would feel a lot better if that grip was a lot harder, but he'll take the help he can get - and point of contact. It's useful for monitoring Zerxus.
Right?
Right.
"I can't tell if it was a magic thing, a 'close as brothers' situation, he married your sister, or one of your parents married one of his."
Potentially makes sense. Definitely does not actually make sense. "Maybe tell me which one if you feel like it. And ask me a question." Steve is not losing track. Of anything.
He can't quite manage another laugh; it's more a rueful exhale.
"Fair. We were - very close, for a long time. And then..."
They're into territory that would be quite firmly locked off, most of the time. Zerxus doesn't even notice.
"Eaedalus. Nydas's older brother - more sense than both of us." They didn't have the same instant rapport, didn't spend hours diving into caves or chatting beneath the stars, but he'd always been a sort of...solid, steady extension of that dynamic.
"He took in my son." Nydas had felt like family for a long time, but that was when the Okiros were indelibly linked.
His hands are sturdier against Steve, now. It probably won't last.
Mention of a son makes Steve sadder for Zerxus. He doesn't know how old this situation is, not even close. He does know it isn't new. He isn't sure that really matters, here, except in making it more painful.
He finishes up that lance wound, pauses to wipe blood off his hands and onto the barely attached fabric of his pants (and incidentally onto his thighs), clears more blood away from the next wound.
"No family, no kids." He actually sounds a little amused by that albeit in slightly bitter way. Mostly, he's totally busy trying to keep this guy alive (since said guy wants it). "I almost had a relationship once."
He needs to find a way to get Zerxus to keep talking without asking questions. "Taking your son says a lot. He must have been an impressive guy you trusted a lot."
Edited (family not marriage, ignorable) 2024-10-30 02:04 (UTC)
Steve starts to say something about the number of ways, given what his life is and has become, that not having family is really the better option. Even if he's also the guy who points out he was going to need something if they were going to care about his soul.
Then Zerxus comes out with that and Steve stops stitching, stops working, pulls back stares. "I can't really argue, given that I didn't know the guy existed until now, but I feel like me sitting in your lap and blood loss are probably contributing to the impression."
Eternity is not long enough for the length of time it would take him to ask all the questions in his head right now. Not given he'd have to answer one for every one he asked, anyway.
"Are you?" The glint in his eyes makes it clear that he's still coherent enough to make jokes, at least; his hand even tightens on Steve's hip, a little.
"He was...a protector. Kind, brave, arrogant, stubborn." It's the lightest his voice has ever sounded.
The grip on his hip tightening makes Steve take a moment and a deep breath. Of all the inappropriate reactions....
That are mostly happening in response to stress, connection, and intimacy, rather than just touch and position.
He's just abruptly aware of both.
He makes a rough noise in the back of his throat. "I'm gonna dodge being the kind of dishonest arguing any of that would take, except maybe kind - and I think your judgement there might be clouded - and point out anybody who managed a marriage to your ass had to be stubborn. At that point it's just a survival skill."
Oh, even with half his blood on the floor he is not missing that. Fully in his right mind, anchored in the present instead of drifting into the past, it would probably scare him off.
Fortunately, he doesn't have to trust himself if he's half dead.
"Fair." He strokes that other hand down Steve's back, this time. It's not firm or steady, but there's no missing the intention. "Well. The second part."
It's fine. Steve's mind is fully anchored in the present, none of his blood is on the floor, and he's scaring himself off.
Except the part where he doesn't move, just takes a second, closes his eyes briefly in response to the hand sliding down his back and then a deep breath.
Then goes back to what he was doing. Which is... stitching a man up, who is probably bleeding to death on his way to a temporary death that will leave Steve alone in hell.
He's not much of a runner.
...He wants to arch back or lean in. At least someone here is half dead. Horrible safety net, but it does at least exist. Covered in blood should be enough, though. Sense should be enough.
"You aren't trying to tell me you have a functional standard of kind."
It really should be enough, and on some level Zerxus knows that it's a good thing that Steve is choosing to focus on stitching.
The problem is, pain and pleasure have gone hand in hand for a very long time now, and his body doesn't register any sort of dissonance. Far more urgent, right now, is how gentle Steve is being. Even with a clumsy jab here, a rough pull there - it's so easy for him to feel.
"Maybe not." His hand has settled on Steve's other hip, now, and he keeps it there. "Still don't think I'm wrong."
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That was a very long time ago, and if that discomfort catches him between the ribs in a way that makes him feel painfully young for a second then no one has to know that.
Besides, he's focusing on being very still. It's a surprise, when Steve comes back and keeps going - he really did just expect the gauntlets, and he's about to say it - but then, well.
"...Older, but everyone assumed the opposite." Question for a question, come on, think -
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Not even of one blood soaked weapon-slash-armor.
He keeps going, but not in physically removing anything from Zerxus body, just undoing and unfastening clasps, staying well clear of any clear, single purpose weaponry. More about... mental shift, back to someone Steve can breathe around.
He starts to ask something. Then stops, tilts his head and waits.
He remembers this rhythm. "Your turn." He's pretty sure breaking that rhythm is likely to have some kind of consequence.
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The problem is, it's getting hard to focus. Gradually losing weight is helping, in one sense, but he's also losing the grounding balance of it, and -
Once the full chest plate comes over his head, it's clear why. More than one weapon was powerful and precise enough to puncture the leather of his gambeson, and that's soaked in blood too.
It isn't the tearing that surprises Zerxus, as he frowns down at himself; it's the fact that he's still bleeding.
Well. The cost was simple enough, at least.
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"Down," Steve says, immediately and firmly but gently, pushes the man back toward sitting in the nearest chair. "Work with me and sit down, please."
Can devils even die? Steve doesn't know, exactly, but he doesn't want to find out. He needs Zerxus to sit, he needs to get that leather out of the way and see where this is all coming from and at least try to do something about it.
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He all but collapses onto that chair, jarring the wounds and making himself even dizzier. "Sorry. This isn't...typical."
Reaching up to do - something helpful, anything - he realises that his hands are trembling.
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Not that he knows what he's going to do here.
"Yeah, doesn't sound like a thing that should even be possible." Maybe? But if he'd sold his soul, and was already in hell... Some kind of punishment, also maybe, and if that's the case... it's Steve's fault.
Steve doesn't know.
He does know that he's tearing that thing open so he can see what he's working with and then just - "We better both be hoping you can't die and stay dead." This is bad. He's not being flippant, even with that remark. He's being grim, and also pulling his borrowed shirt off to try to do... anything here. Mop up, get a decent look and just pressure.
He still knows this is bad.
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The pressure does what it's meant to, at least, and after a few deep breaths Zerxus can manage, "I've got - sewing. Things. In that drawer."
Nothing meant to mend people, but he doesn't have to worry about infection.
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It also means he's going to be causing more pain either in the sewing up or slower death, but- So be it, he guesses.
"Let me know if you'd just rather... die." He doesn't know. He is firmly over his head in trying to put together how to approach this. Given that he is, actually, defaulting to trusting the authority on the subject here. "Or otherwise need to tap out."
Once he's got that sewing kit, though, he - Well, stands across Zerxus' legs and ultimately sits in his lap, facing him. It's the only practical way he has to reach.
He's not shaking. He's not pale. He's just grim, determined, and with some (hidden) anger underlining it. "I'll do my best, but best case it's still gonna hurt like a bitch."
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"I barely noticed the lance going in." That was the deepest hit, he's pretty sure, just beneath his ribs. "Pain isn't a problem."
It's not that he doesn't feel it; it's just one of those constant companions, like grief and self-loathing. Usually it isn't part of someone trying to help him, and the first pierce of the needle doesn't shift the shell-shocked wonder in those burning red eyes.
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Then he bends his head back to the task, starting with the lance wound. It's... just adding more blood to all this, making everything slippery and the whole thing harder. This man better still be able to heal in some capacity though, because there's more damage here than just on the surface.
"You still owe me a question." He doesn't look up, and his weight on Zerxus' legs doesn't shift. Just focused, but also: talk to him.
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"So I do." His voice is rough, strained, but he does sound more present; maybe the pain is anchoring him. Maybe it's the solid weight on top of him. "Did you have siblings?"
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"Not exactly. Dad died when I was a couple of months old, and mom was a nurse. The lady who stepped in to help had a kid who was about my age I grew up with. Stuck together all the way through enlisting together. He died in action not long before I took a really long nap." That's more than was needed, delivered with an air of distraction since he's focused on sewing this shit up. And being as gentle about it as he can, given the circumstance (including equipment and severity and lack of experience).
While not at all convinced there is any point. At least, he hopes, it's keeping Zerxus distracted and thinking. "Was the assumption that you were older personality or something else?"
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"At first. I was - quiet. Intense. Responsible. He was already a pirate when we met."
He was a cabin boy with aspirations, but at the time it was very impressive.
"Also I was taller." There's a trace of youthful smugness to that, shining like something ancient that could only be unearthed when he was drifting like this.
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Still getting it done, needle biting in, thread pulling through (which Steve can almost hear, and can certainly feel the friction of), knotting it off and then breaking the thread and repeating the process.
"Bucky was older than me - and until that project I mentioned taller. He was pulling my ass out of the fire most of the time until then. He was kind of a devil may care type, but I was in some kind of fight every time he turned around. After... things flipped around on size and who the responsible party supposedly was." Then, since Zerxus is drifting: "Why'd it take you that long to meet?"
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"Sounds familiar." It was very fortunate that both of them eventually learned healing magic. (It would be nice for that to come in handy right now, but Zerxus knows better.) "He wasn't my brother, yet."
Does that make sense? He's starting to lose track.
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And Steve would feel a lot better if that grip was a lot harder, but he'll take the help he can get - and point of contact. It's useful for monitoring Zerxus.
Right?
Right.
"I can't tell if it was a magic thing, a 'close as brothers' situation, he married your sister, or one of your parents married one of his."
Potentially makes sense. Definitely does not actually make sense. "Maybe tell me which one if you feel like it. And ask me a question." Steve is not losing track. Of anything.
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"Fair. We were - very close, for a long time. And then..."
They're into territory that would be quite firmly locked off, most of the time. Zerxus doesn't even notice.
"Eaedalus. Nydas's older brother - more sense than both of us." They didn't have the same instant rapport, didn't spend hours diving into caves or chatting beneath the stars, but he'd always been a sort of...solid, steady extension of that dynamic.
"He took in my son." Nydas had felt like family for a long time, but that was when the Okiros were indelibly linked.
His hands are sturdier against Steve, now. It probably won't last.
"Did you ever - ?"
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He finishes up that lance wound, pauses to wipe blood off his hands and onto the barely attached fabric of his pants (and incidentally onto his thighs), clears more blood away from the next wound.
"No family, no kids." He actually sounds a little amused by that albeit in slightly bitter way. Mostly, he's totally busy trying to keep this guy alive (since said guy wants it). "I almost had a relationship once."
He needs to find a way to get Zerxus to keep talking without asking questions. "Taking your son says a lot. He must have been an impressive guy you trusted a lot."
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What he means to say, after, is that Steve would have made a good partner.
What he actually says is, "You remind me of my husband."
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Then Zerxus comes out with that and Steve stops stitching, stops working, pulls back stares. "I can't really argue, given that I didn't know the guy existed until now, but I feel like me sitting in your lap and blood loss are probably contributing to the impression."
Eternity is not long enough for the length of time it would take him to ask all the questions in his head right now. Not given he'd have to answer one for every one he asked, anyway.
And he's still trying not to blurt out questions.
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"He was...a protector. Kind, brave, arrogant, stubborn." It's the lightest his voice has ever sounded.
"Wouldn't want him stuck here, either."
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That are mostly happening in response to stress, connection, and intimacy, rather than just touch and position.
He's just abruptly aware of both.
He makes a rough noise in the back of his throat. "I'm gonna dodge being the kind of dishonest arguing any of that would take, except maybe kind - and I think your judgement there might be clouded - and point out anybody who managed a marriage to your ass had to be stubborn. At that point it's just a survival skill."
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Fortunately, he doesn't have to trust himself if he's half dead.
"Fair." He strokes that other hand down Steve's back, this time. It's not firm or steady, but there's no missing the intention. "Well. The second part."
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Except the part where he doesn't move, just takes a second, closes his eyes briefly in response to the hand sliding down his back and then a deep breath.
Then goes back to what he was doing. Which is... stitching a man up, who is probably bleeding to death on his way to a temporary death that will leave Steve alone in hell.
He's not much of a runner.
...He wants to arch back or lean in. At least someone here is half dead. Horrible safety net, but it does at least exist. Covered in blood should be enough, though. Sense should be enough.
"You aren't trying to tell me you have a functional standard of kind."
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The problem is, pain and pleasure have gone hand in hand for a very long time now, and his body doesn't register any sort of dissonance. Far more urgent, right now, is how gentle Steve is being. Even with a clumsy jab here, a rough pull there - it's so easy for him to feel.
"Maybe not." His hand has settled on Steve's other hip, now, and he keeps it there. "Still don't think I'm wrong."
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