The Games We Play [Clover]

[Jesse Fforde]

THE GAMES WE PLAY
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ooc: backdated to 7 January 2016

<Jesse Fforde> Two months ago, Jesse would have been riddled with anxiety. He had taken Clover’s leg off, and she had cursed him for it. It was an accident, and it might have killed him, the thought that she might leave him. That she might think that he meant it. That it might push her away. After all they’d been through, however, and after sitting down to reassure her, Jesse was more amused than anxious. The leg would grow back. Clover might think twice about slicing him, but he could change her mind. They had time, and Jesse was armed once more with a blinding confidence and a complete lack of inhibitions.

By the time he woke up the next night, he’d calmed. It was just before sunset - he was able to fight the force of the sunlight, and he slept now like a normal human might. He slept because he still needed sleep, and his pattern had acclimatized to his vampiric allergies. It was easy to sleep through the day, though sometimes he woke up early. At least, in the quiet moments before and during twilight, he could watch Clover sleep. The planes of her face were calm, expressionless. Smooth. He tucked her hair behind her ear, even pressed a kiss to each closed eyelid.

After ten minutes of lounging and waking up, he rolled out of the bed and sauntered toward the bathroom. First, he took a long shower, making sure to clean away all the blood that had clotted on his skin from the night before. When out of the shower, he used the camera on his phone to assess the damage to his throat. The wound gaped, deep and ugly. But it was healing. He took a while, slowly applying the bandage - sitting there on the closed toilet, testing his vocal chords.

<Clover> As a child, Clover had the most vivid dreams imaginable, each one filled with vibrant colors and picturesque landscapes. But over time, the quality of her dreams declined. The colors faded. The landscapes transformed. Clover’s nights became blanks; her dreams became black blurbs decorating her sleep cycle. She had no reason to look forward to sleep, and she had no reason to fear sleep. After the accident, when she’d closed her eyes, she met the same darkness she associated with sleep. There were no nightmares, no reliving the moments before, during, and after the blade sliced through her flesh and bone. Her handicap made it quite easy for her to navigate the dreamscape.

Falling asleep had been tricky. Even though she’d closed her eyes, she’d fought the familiar heaviness of sleep. Her body had refused the rest. Her mind had continued going, reviewing every little detail of her day, but her review had skipped over the bloody mess. Perhaps it was her mind protecting her, or perhaps she had no interest in remembering. Before she had the opportunity to delve into the hidden meanings, she’d fallen asleep. She’d given in to the pressure of the rising sun. After that, time meant nothing until she felt the release offered by the setting sun.

Even before she opened her eyes, she knew she was alone. She couldn’t feel his body next to her. When she stretched out her arm and spread her fingers apart, she felt nothing but the sheets, and she held nothing but the sheets. He’d left her. Wherever he had gone, he’d left her. Clover could have dragged herself out of bed, but she hesitated. Instead of getting up, she reached down and pulled the sheets up over her tanktop and up over her head. She hid herself underneath the fabric, blocking out the rest of the world. She didn’t want him there anyway.

<Jesse Fforde> Satisfied that he could talk - even if he sounded like an old man who’d had half his throat taken out due to cancer - Jesse finished drying himself off. A crisp, white bandage was applied around his neck; the bleeding had at least stopped, and the fabric wouldn’t be stained, outwardly. Unless under duress, he supposed. His hair was combed and slicked to the side, his body only slightly glistening with residual water as he stepped out of the bathroom with the towel around his waist. His clothes were scattered all over the place - some kept at Clover’s apartment, some kept upstairs. Some kept at Larch Court - all moved from the apartment at Veil Towers. He didn’t go there anymore. Ever.

In the bedroom, he knew that Clover was awake. She was no longer laying in the same position he’d left her. Regardless of whether she was awake or not, he’d still have made the same amount of noise as he opened and closed drawers; as he found a pair of jeans and pulled them on without underwear, the towel dropping heavily to the ground. Barefoot, he padded back over to the bed, where he grabbed the bottom of the blanket and pulled it clean from Clover’s body.

“Get up,” he said, though his voice was barely there. It was a whisper without heft, cracked and bereft of much sound. “We’re going out,” he said. Where? He hadn’t yet decided. He knew there was a live band playing over in Swansdale. First, they could visit the hospital and steal some crutches for Clover, though. Or a wheelchair. That could almost be fun.

<Clover> Her automatic reaction was to curl into herself and shield her head with her arms. She’d been assaulted by pillows before, so she always prepared herself for the possibility. But when she moved, she felt the muscles in her right thigh pulling, trying to connect and control the bottom portion of a leg that was no longer there. Clo gasped, a sharp intake of air that almost had her choking, and gripped at the bandaged area. She pressed her fingers down around her knee, as close to the wound as she dared, but her actions only made the pain worse. She stayed like that, just cradling the remaining portion of her leg. When the pain subsided, she slumped onto her back and stared up at Jesse.

“**** you. I’m not going anywhere,” she frowned. In a particularly childish show of her irritation, she snagged one of the pillows and chucked it at his face. Clo wanted to see the pillow connect; she wanted to hear the dull sound as it smashed into his face. But she’d tweaked the same nerves in her right leg and she hissed out in pain. The thought of crying had been cast aside, buried beneath another raw emotion, one that Clover had yet to fully understand. “I’m not hobbling around. I’m not. You go out into the world and let me know how it looks.”

With that, she lifted her head, snagged the pillow from beneath it, and placed it over her face. The rest of her words were muffled, all of them undecipherable. She’d mumbled about how she didn’t want people staring at her. She mumbled about how he’d gotten his voice back so soon. Clo wanted him to leave her alone, and yet she didn’t want to be left alone. The thought of him sitting there or lying there, suffering along with her, seemed like a wonderful plan for the next two weeks. She didn’t have an exact timeframe for her recovery, since being a vampire never came with a handbook on healing and basic ********, but she assumed two weeks would work.

Clo lifted the pillow from the lower portion of her face and spoke again, “I’ll go out when I have my leg back.”

<Jesse Fforde> He may have had his voice back, but it was only a fragment of what it could have been. When he spoke, it tickled at the back of his throat; if he spoke too much, he knew he’d be coughing and hacking like no man’s business. Maybe it would be better if he fed, but he hadn’t tried yet. For a few seconds, his resolve weakened; the pillow connected with his face only because he was second-guessing whether he should or shouldn’t drag Clover out. Not if the whole endeavour was going to be spent in pain. Grabbing at the pillow at the wrong second, he caught it before it fell to the ground. Even though he ended up tossing it on the ground, anyway. No point giving Clover back her ammunition.

The bed bowed beneath Jesse’s knee as he crawled onto the mattress, careful not to nudge at Clover’s leg as he moved to hover over her, grasping at the corner of the pillow in an attempt to pull it away from her face. At this moment, he really wished he was a telepath. He wished he could speak directly into her mind. Instead, he had to clear his throat. He had to test it, by swallowing a couple of times.

“You made me go out when it was the last thing I wanted to do,” he said. He even managed a teasing pout; his bright blues widened, brows curling inward in a pathetic kind of puppy-dog frown. “But if it hurts too much… well, we can stay here and I’ll distract you…” he said, that pout - which couldn’t last very long - morphed into a gleaming grin of the worst kind of mischief.

<Clover> When she felt the bed dip, she knew. Clover waited for him to try something; she waited for him to poke or jab at her. Instead, she felt tension at the corner of her pillow, showing that he meant to take it away from her. He meant to pull her shield down and force her to acknowledge the world. How dare he. She wanted to call him names again, to remind him how horrible he was to her, but she couldn’t. Clo let him pull the pillow away and she stared at him as he spoke.

“I made you go out because you needed to go out. I don’t need to,” she countered, as if her word were law. But his expressions, his range of expression, had her lips twitching for a smile. She hated herself. He was using his looks to get something out of her, and he knew it. She knew that he knew it. “I don’t want to go,” she reiterated, “I mean it.”

The look in his eyes made her groan. She had a feeling that if they stayed, he’d find some annoying form of torture. He’d find new ways to puncture holes in her world and drown her, or he’d take her other leg. The last portion of her thoughts had come from the darker part of her mind. She ignored those words.

“If I let you drag me out of this bed, where would we go, and what would we do? And if I refuse to go, what kind of distractions are you offering?” She sounded as if she were going to weigh the two options and pick the lesser evil. She’d already decided that she’d leave, whether he knew it or not. His pouting had a lot to do with her decision. She spoiled him too much. “I spoil you too much, Jesse.”

<Jesse Fforde> If he dragged Clover out and she complained about it the entire time, he’d bring her home again. He’d deposit her somewhere near a fire and a television, heap her up with blankets (with him under them beside her) and they’d stay inside and do nothing. For however long it took for her to become restless and bored out of her ******* mind. Her questions settled in his brain and his eyes glazed for a moment as he thought about it. Really thought about it, rather than settling on vague notions.

“First - I was going to take you to get a wheelchair. Or crutches,” he said. He then had to turn away to cough - just the once, with his mouth resting against his own upper arm as he stared at the wall opposite, Adam’s apple bobbing almost uselessly in his throat as he he swallowed several times in an attempt to lubricate his throat. And while he tried to get his voice to work properly, he was thinking of all the things they could do…

“Do you know how fun a wheelchair could be? We could find a hill…” he said. The suggestion was half serious, half not. He figured Clover would probably dismiss the idea as far too childish and reckless. And they’d have to go do something sensible. The live band was mostly forgotten as all the possibilities of wheelchair shenanigans took over his mind. So he just shrugged. They could find something.

“If we stay here…” he started, until he felt that insufferable tickle in his throat again. His voice cut off, but he shifted his weight. His eyes grazed the length of Clover’s body, before he lifted her shirt, fingers playing circles upon her taut stomach before slowly travelling southward. He glanced back up at Clover with an arched brow and that same playful grin. The choice was hers.

<Clover> Slowly, Clover raised her hands and placed them over her face. She let out a groan and shifted her weight, trying to turn away from him. Wheelchair games. At the thought, she groaned again, drawing the sound out as if she were suffering at the mere notion. If she weren’t missing a leg, she would have said yes. That realization fueled the second groan. The fact that she actually considered what he said fun and funny.

“I don’t need to fracture my skull, babe.” She’d had to remove her hands from over her face, just so that he heard her clearly. When she did, she just looked at him. His counteroffer, one built around the two of them remaining home and remaining in bed, seemed the better of the two, especially if he meant to go through with it.

“How can you,” she stopped, her lips curved for a deep frown. “I’m missing a leg. That ruins almost everything, and I’m missing a leg. How could I possibly turn you on? I’m disgusting.”

Clo said it without an ounce of pain, though it bothered her. She’d been struggling to accept the fact since it happened, but she wasn’t able to move on. And the scarring. She hadn’t forgotten the scarring. “You’re insane,” she sighed, “and I’ll always choose that option. Why would you give me the choice? Between sex and wheelchair games. That’s the choice you’ve given me? Sex.” She still couldn’t believe him, so she had to switch up the question before her response. She had to be sure of his implications. Afterwards, she wondered if she’d rushed herself, or if she’d been too harsh.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse laughed. Amusement was preferable to disappointment and he chose to believe that Clover really wasn’t that boring. Here, the woman who had taken him to the fair to cheer him up, who always encouraged him to do bigger, badder things. Surely, she wasn’t balking over a wheelchair ride down a hill?

It occurred to Jesse, however, that there was something else at play. There was something else going on in her mind and it was right there, visible to him when she asked how she could possibly turn him on. Embarrassment. Shame. The laughter gave way to an open mouth and a half formed word, before he started coughing again. No, that wasn’t going to work. His torso pressed down over Clover’s as he reached beyond her to the bedside table, where the pen and notebook had been left.
This was second nature to Jesse. Writing everything down.

Straddling Clover’s hips, balanced the notepad on her chest while he wrote his list.

• • WE CAN DO SEX LATER
  • WE’LL GO SEE A BAND. OR SOMETHING. AFTER WHEELCHAIR/CRUTCHES?
  • YOU’RE RAVISHING BECAUSE OF YOUR MIND
  • YOU’VE CAUGHT A CASE OF THE ‘VAIN’ AND WE NEED TO CURE YOU
  • I’M SORRY ABOUT YOUR LEG. AGAIN. ****.
  • DON’T BE ******* BORING.

After the list was written, Jesse cast his glance over it one more time - if she chose to be offended, so be it. He shrugged, flipped the book over and held it up for Clover to read, wriggled it, even, so she’d take hold of it so that he could get up and finish getting dressed. And thusly allow her to get up and get dressed, too - though he assumed she might require a little aid. Maybe. If she would let him.

<Clover> Guilt. Every single cough wedged a knife between her ribs. And when he reached for the notepad, she felt the knife puncture her heart. Perhaps she shouldn’t have slit his throat. How many times had she thought that same thing. She’d apologized to him; she’d told Jersey that she had no intentions of doing it again. She watched him as he began to make a list, but her eyes moved from the notepad to his bandaged throat. Perhaps she shouldn’t have slit his throat.

Clo didn’t notice that he’d finished the list until he wiggled the notepad at her. And when he did, when she took it in her hands, she scanned over the list. Of course he’d offended her, but more by calling her boring that calling her vain. Jesse always had a way of offending her, one that she actually enjoyed. She liked the feel of the irritation associated with his words.

“So I want to look presentable. You’d want two legs to walk on,” she countered, grabbing the pen to scribble on his list. She made her own notes, alternating between making checkmarks and writing words. At the end, she’d given her opinion on each line. But she wasn’t going to let him see her replies. She took the notepad and turned it face down on the mattress. “I want to go see a band. And don’t call me ******* boring. You’re boring.”

Her comeback came with much enthusiasm, even though it required little thought and lacked originality. Clover wanted to shove him onto the floor, but she nudged him. She nudged him until she was able to sit up. Moving made her ache, but she’d grown used to the dull throbbing. The steady hum and the transmission of pain told her that everything would be fine, that her leg was already mending itself, even if she couldn’t see it. Even if the limb hadn’t begun to fade back into existence, she would be perfectly fine. And she had no room for her continued pouting.

“I can do this on my own,” she told him, even though she wasn’t sure that she could. “I can handle this. Just don’t help me unless I fall.” And she took a deep breath, gripped the bedside table, and stood. She wobbled, but she gripped the table until she regained her balance. The process was slow, and she didn’t want him to laugh. If he laughed, she knew she’d cry. Angry tears. Bitter tears. Violent tears. She stumbled and had to lean heavily into the dresser; she had to lean over it and grip onto both sides, to grip at the wood as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat. But she’d made it. She’d done it on her own. She collected her clothing. She grabbed jean shorts, even though it was too cool for shorts, and she snagged a white t-shirt, the first shirt she could grab. And she wobbled. She grabbed the drawer, but it opened further. She fell back, taking the drawer with her.


<Jesse Fforde> Clover wanted to be left alone, so Jesse left her alone. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a hoverer. While Clover fumbled and hobbled Jesse remained nearby, swiftly pulling on a shirt and jacket, and threading a belt through the loops of his jeans. For all her own insecurities, Jesse knew Clover as strong, and independent, and fiercely able to take care of herself. He would not do her the injustice of hovering and fussing over her unnecessarily.

There was guilt, of course, that he had taken her leg when she’d just wanted to play. Guilt that she seemed to be taking it so hard, and with such anger. In the future, however, he was certain this would become something that they both would laugh at. It wasn’t a deal breaker. No way in hell he was going to allow it to be any kind of deal breaker. He would get her through her bad mood, they would try to have a good time, and everything would be fine.

His head snapped up when he heard the sudden pull of the drawer. Although he had quick reflexes, they weren’t quite quick enough. He couldn’t catch Clover before she fell, but he at least managed to slide beneath her to break her fall. Clothes tumbled out of the drawer as Jesse’s back hit the floor, his hands focused on balancing Clover rather than himself. Laying there, then, he did laugh. He laughed because despite the circumstances, he thought it was ******* funny. Zero fucks were given for his own throat, and the fact that he found it hard to talk. His voice was not something that he took for granted; sometimes he wished to get rid of it all together.

His laughter wasn’t as loud or boisterous as it could be; just a whispered laugh, broken by a snort. Beneath Clover, his body shook with it, though he fought to get control of himself so that he could help Clover up.

<Clover> Shock. Her mind and body registered the fact that she’d fallen, but beyond that, she felt frozen. Clover didn’t know whether to laugh or to shout or to cry. As pathetic as it sounded, she wanted to do all three. Or maybe she planned on staying there, resting atop Jesse, until they both came to terms with her predicament, until she came to terms with her predicament. If it weren’t for the fact that she wanted to see a live show, she might have actually stayed there, on the floor. But she wanted to go to a show; she needed to go to a show. Her mind had concluded that her desired inactivity and her moping fed into a cycle that regurgitated nothing but negativity. Negativity fueled her sarcasm, but it also fueled her depression.

When she finally registered Jesse’s laughter, she’d already felt her anger fading. Her desire to get dressed and leave had spared them both an argument. Still, Clover didn’t know what to say to him. She only knew that she wanted to scold him. “You’re an ***. The next time you’re injured, I’m laughing at you,” she scowled. Clo pressed her palms flat on the floor and shifted her weight off of him. She waited for him to move. She expected him to help her to her feet. Her determination fell to the back of her mind, replaced by her desire for him to cater to her, to treat her as if she were precious cargo that required collection.

Only after she was standing did she begin the arduous task of dressing herself. Clo began the slow journey to the bed, and then she lifted her shirt off her body. Truly, she had no real issues dressing. She had both arms, unlike Jersey, so she had no problems with her upper half. And her lower half, although only partially present, caused only minor issues. Her black, high-waist shorts made everything easier. Her remaining leg--her remaining foot, really--went into the one of the boots she’d set beneath the edge of her bed. One leg. One boot. She remained quiet, staring down at her lone boot.

[Clover]

<Jesse Fforde> Help her to her feet, Jesse did; as soon as she’d pushed herself up and off of him, he slid out from underneath her, pulling her up onto her one good foot. After helping her to the bed, he swept the clothes up off the floor that he thought she had selected and handed them to her; there was a gleam in his eye that he wasn’t aware of, a cheeky misbehaviour that he couldn’t lose. Sometimes he wondered if he’d gone from one extreme to the other, and whether this extreme was as abhorrent to Clover as the other. He was certain she would speak up, if that were the case. And he would wait. When he was injured, just like this, when she laughed at him, she would see. Laughter was preferable to pity.

While Clover dressed, Jesse finished dressing himself; he pulled on his own boots, and his jacket. His phone, his wallet, his keys and his tome were stashed into numerous pockets - the same ones he always stashed these regular things. When he turned back around it was to see Clover staring at her leftover boot, forlorn. He did his best not to laugh. Again.

He stepped in front of Clover and hooked one finger beneath her chin, wanting to tear her attention from the single boot. He pressed a smiling kiss to her lips, before he leaned past her to collect the notepad and pen from the bed. The notepad was soft-covered and able to be rolled. The pages were already almost tattered. It didn’t matter that they were shoved into the inner pocket of Jesse’s jacket. Just in case. The pen joined them. Only then did he offer his arm to Clover, smile still lingering on his lips; there was a high tilt of his chin, the stark white of the bandage still visible. If she were to get about town with her injury, then Jesse would not be hiding his.

An injury that he had. One that she was perfectly able to laugh at, should she wish to. Jesse himself found much amusement in the injury; a kind of nostalgic ease as he settled into old ways.

<Clover> His helpful attitude pushed her toward a middle point, the center between her positive emotions and her negative emotions. She’d looked at him, whether he knew it or not; Clover liked watching his movements. In between dressing herself, she’d watched him finishing his own routine. She might have watched him, shamelessly, until he finished getting ready, but her eyes had strayed and her attention waned. And her leg, her one remaining leg, had captured the attention he’d lost. How long ago had they had the discussion about the accident, also named the incident? She’d forgiven him. She’d told him she knew it wasn’t intentional. But had she forgiven him?

Just as Clo rubbed at her knee, enjoying the feeling attributed to nerve endings that were still very much intact, she felt him nudge her chin upwards. She’d been so lost in her own pity party that she hadn’t even noticed his approach. His smile might have appeared too contagious, almost mocking, but the kiss said something different. Clover hated herself for mimicking his smile. Slowly, the corners of her lips turned upwards, and she felt the tension. Clo knew exactly when her expression changed. Her slight pout and her scowl had been replaced by a small smile, one that grew with every passing second. Yes, it was contagious, downright infectious.

“We can go to the hospital in Westwall,” Clo said. She took Jesse’s offered arm and pushed herself up from the mattress. In all honesty, she had trouble letting him lead. Surprises and impromptu journeys were her specialty. Relinquishing control made her feel like a passenger, a passenger that wanted nothing more than to take the wheel and ruin Jesse’s basic itinerary. “Or we could do what you want,” she corrected herself.

Clover gave up then and decided to let him lead the way. If she kept interjecting and trying to push him along, she had the feeling he’d call her boring again, or he’d let her know she was ruining his plans. She’d slit his throat, so they really owed it to one another to try letting him take control of the daily plans.

“Is this a pity date, or is my mind so sexy you needed to reward me?” The question came out of nowhere, but it made her laugh. She wasn’t serious, not in the least.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse wasn’t a control freak. Westwall was where he had planned to go; it was the main hospital, wasn’t it? Where else would they go? He chuckled to himself, the sound airy, the burn and scratch in his throat only exacerbated by the wound there. As if the consumption of more blood would help to ease the itch of healing. Instead, he focused on boosting his own blood, feeling the rush of energy through his limbs, the burgeoning of strength. Nothing to sooth the itch, but it was something.

If anything, it was a guilt-date. But even then, it was nice to be able to take Clover somewhere; to be the one in control. Is this how she felt, when she took Jesse places? She called them surprises; Jesse wasn’t even surprising her, but he was still anxious, somewhere deep down, that he would let her down. That whatever he chose for them to do, it would be boring. It wouldn’t be fun. Rather than going to the extreme of childishness, it would instead be a date of decrepitude. An old man, with his old man dates.

But what could they really get up to, with her leg how it was?

Regardless, it appealed to him. The opportunity to wheel her around. To be in complete control. He hadn’t meant to take her leg, but it could work in his favour.

Out the door of the apartment, he helped Clover toward the portal that would take them to Larch Court. From there, they had numerous portals to choose from. They’d have to go to Bullwood station, and catch a train to Westwall. From there, it was only a hop to the hospital. Easy.

“Nothing better to do…” he started, paused, swallowed. “... than to spend it with a cripple,” he rasped, eased the cough from his throat, the itch, the scratch. She had laughed. He was laughing. He pressed a kiss to Clover’s temple even as he pulled them both through the portal, his arm around Clover’s waist tight, holding her tight so she didn’t stumble and fall when they landed.

<Clover> Cripple. Hadn’t she been so sensitive about the word? Hadn’t the word become taboo? And yet he’d used the word, and the world continued on. In fact, she laughed at his word of choice. She ducked her head to look down at where her leg should have been. Only moments before, she’d been sullen; she’d wanted nothing more than to wallow in her own negativity and live amongst her special type of misery. One decision, her choice to try spurred her onward. Already, she felt a type of relief. Yes, her leg would grow back. Yes, she had no choice but to wait for her leg to regrow, to fade back into existence. At the same time, she had company. Jesse had his own injury. They were two cripples, two people missing different pieces, and they were moving forward. Really, he’d pushed her forward, or dragged her forward, until the motion eventually forced her to play along. She had some faith that he knew what he was doing, but there was always the possibility that he was just as uncertain, just as lost.

When the fadeportal deposited them at Bullwood station, she relied on his hold to keep her from falling. For a moment, she’d forgotten that she had one leg. Ghost leg syndrome, perhaps. Or maybe she’d lost herself in the fact that he’d planned a day for them, and that was so very different. Her wobbling was brief, and she leaned on him until she regained some semblance of balance. “One person looks at me funny,” she began, her voice low, “and I’m going to shoot, Jesse.” Her threat was empty, as evidenced by the grumpy expression on her face. She’d pouted at him.

As they boarded the train from Bullwood to Westwall, Clover stared into the face of every passerby. The people quickly looked away or found something extremely interesting about something just beyond her line of sight. No one wanted to look down at her missing leg. She took pride in the fact that they were so uncomfortable. During the journey, she leaned over and inspected the bandage on Jesse’s throat. “I think you look nice.”

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse laughed.

It should have bothered him. That kind of threat was one that he might have taken seriously. He might have put his sire voice on, and told Clover it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe they shouldn’t go anywhere; maybe they should stay home until she had calmed down. And she might have got angry with him - because she was joking. Because she didn't’ like the sire mode. Regardless of whether or not Jesse thought Clover might be kidding, however, he only managed a slight shrug.

It worried him, on some vague level. There was a lack of care for the consequences. If they were seen? He didn’t care. If there was chaos? He didn’t care. Hobbling along with Clover now he was warmed by the thought - he imagined a train car in panic due to the sound of a gun fired, brains splattered against the glass of a heavily graffiti’d window. He felt like a vampiric Clyde, Clover his sadistic Bonnie.

He was accustomed to the way people avoided him. If Clover really was worried about people looking at her funny, he hoped that their aversion to him would help them to keep their eyes from her, too. Still preoccupied with the adventures they could have as Bonnie and Clyde, he couldn’t help but catch Clover’s lips in a kiss after she had complimented him. He tucked his face in close to Clover’s ear.

“You look better,” he whispered, the sound harsh and yet amused.

The train had halted at Gullsborough, the brakes squealing and screeching below them. A few people got off, a couple of people got on. Jesse was still imagining chaos and brains. The next stop was theirs, but they had a couple of minutes.

“You’re the Bonnie to my Clyde,” he said, leaning back then so that he could gauge Clover’s reaction. Did she like it as much as he did?

<Clover> He’d captured her lips in a kiss, but she felt as if she were the one to capture his. Yet again, she forgot about her missing limb. She wanted to kiss him again, but her movements would have been far too clumsy, reminding her more of the way the train shuddered as it came to a stop. Instead, she placed a hand upon his thigh and enjoyed the fact that they were so close to one another. The fact that he was treating her so well both delighted her and unnerved her. Had her compliment drawn the same from him? And his nicknames? Were they all based around her behavior?

Clo wondered why he found her so interesting when she found nothing exceptional about herself, nothing beyond her collection of uncertainties and her bloodlust. For a few minutes, she mulled over his nicknames. She focused on the jerking motion of the train as it moved from one station to the next, going from Gullsborough to Westwall. Bonnie and Clyde. Clo recalled the tale and focused on the journey of the two. Of course, they’d died, but she and Jesse were already dead. The same demise meant absolutely nothing.

“I like it,” she decided. Her small smile grew and grew, born out of ideas about their future massacres and fed by the thought of a hail of gunfire. The nicknames promised something more, and Clover wondered if Jesse realized what he’d done, what he’d truly said. “Now we need to rob banks and shops. We’ll go down in style, although I’d rather we didn’t go down at all.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t loud, just a little expression of amusement that belonged between the two of them. When the train came to another stop, their stop, Clover wasted no time standing up. Her movements were awkward, but she got up on her own and she held out her arm so that Jesse could help her along the car and out onto the platform. Looking out of one of the train’s windows, she saw the hospital. They were so close to the goal that she could feel the crutches beneath her arms, the padding digging into her flesh.

“****,” she suddenly swore, the exclamation sounding more like the result of pain. Clo closed her eyes and muttered yet another curse word, followed by several more. “I hope there isn’t a mosh pit. I can’t go.” And she looked genuinely upset, as if the idea of being excluded suddenly hurt more than the idea of being without a leg. “Unless I…,” she trailed off, looking at Jesse to try and gauge his possible reactions, “I probably shouldn’t stab anyone. Fine. I know you’ll give me the look. You don’t have to give me the look.”

<Jesse Fforde> “We’ll start with hospitals, then we’ll move on to banks and shops,” he said as he helped Clover out onto the platform. There was no need to stop. They would keep going until they got to the hospital, his arm neatly tucked around Clover’s waist, his gait slow and yet casual. They were just on a nice stroll through the city; there was no need to rush. No need to make Clover feel at all hindered by the fact she couldn’t walk as fast as she might be accustomed to.

When Clover swore an explained her sudden fallen features, Jesse laughed - a whispered chuckle. It made sense that she would think there would be a mosh pit. With Jesse’s taste in music, it was to be expected. He enjoyed heavy metal or punk; though that wasn’t really what he’d had in mind. They weren’t going to go to some abandoned house like the one he’d met Ishaq in, his MIA childe screaming into the microphone, lead singer of his own heavy metal band. There was a place Jesse knew in the city that was known for its live acts; there was a pit, of course, but there was also a raised section where the bar was, where there were stools and tables. It was a grungy, back-alley kind of place, but he knew there’d be a band playing. There was always a band playing. Whether or not they were any good was questionable. - but sometimes there were gems. He and Clover would have to find out.

Although he tried to tell her as much, as soon as he tried to get the first word out, he started to cough again. He turned his head away from Clover so that he could cough into his own shoulder; he could taste his own blood on his tongue, had to hold it there for a couple of seconds, to wipe his mouth against his jacket to be sure there were no stray spots of red to give the seriousness of his condition away.

In the end he just shook his head. They weren’t going to stop so that he could write everything down; that would be stupid. Clover would just have to wait. She’d just have to be led by him, and she’d have to be happy with what she got. He remained silent all the way to the hospital, that teasing gleam in his eyes, a vague grin nestled upon his lips. When they reached the building, he had to pause out front, peering around the sides. There had to be easy access. There had to be some easy way to get in and get out with their loot, without being questioned. Clover was missing a leg, for ****’s sake. Surely no one would question a legless person being wheeled out of a hospital.

Because, of course, that was Jesse’s goal. Where Clover might have been thinking about crutches, Jesse was thinking about wheelchairs. Instead of going around the side, Jesse led Clover straight through the front doors. Maybe they’d just find one in some hallway, somewhere…

<Clover> Whether he noticed or not, Clover kept sneaking little glances at him, glances that might have been mistaken for so many different things. She could have been admiring his profile: Clo enjoyed admiring him, simply because she liked to imagine all of the tiny parts, the small, individual cells. She could have been looking beyond him: She could have been looking at streetlights and the faces of buildings, things the night brought to life. Only she knew what her glances meant and where her eyes focused, and her eyes focused on his neck; she looked for any signs of blood seeping through the crisp bandaging.

Even though his voice and his laughter were impaired, she still took some pleasure in hearing his weak laugh. She almost felt lucky not to have lost her voice. Her awkward words and ill-timed interrupters brought her a great deal of comfort. He seemed to step back into a comfort zone, but she would have been lost, cast into the unknown. If it weren’t for his coughing, she might have continued thinking about the silence drawn between them. The scent of his blood layered lightly with the night air, buried beneath smoke, leather, and car exhaust. Clo didn’t know whether or not to ask about his well-being, so she remained quiet. She inhaled deeply and felt the quick rush that accompanied the scent of blood.

“I smell your blood,” Clover whispered. Her words took the both of them down an adjacent route, one free of obvious shows of concern. The statement let him know that she knew, that she’d smelled the blood. Wasn’t that enough to show that she cared or that she felt something closely related to concern? No other words followed. They dissolved back into silence again, and she had no problem with the lack of conversation. Not then. She’d turned her attention to the sounds around them. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, speak, and she had no interest in filling the space for the both of them. They had a whole city of sound.

Once they’d reached the hospital, Clover expected a quick entry and a quick exit, but they stopped. He stopped. And if he stopped, she stopped. She shifted around, her remaining leg cramping under the stationary position. He looked as if he were surveying the building; he looked as if he were looking for weaknesses in its defense. Clo placed a hand over his, as if to tell him that they had no reason for reconnaissance or breaking and entering. He led them toward the sliding doors and she tried not to look as if she were a woman in need of aid.

She didn’t require medical attention, but entering the hospital made her feel as if she needed assistance. Again, she felt as if she were just another human being. Every step took them toward doctors, nurses, and patients. They were so close to the floor that had served as a second home. So close, and yet so far. Jesse had constructed quite the evening, and mentioning that they were in the hospital seemed counterproductive. Finding crutches should have been simple, but Clover couldn’t think of finding a pair lying around on the floor or leaning against a wall.

“This is where I met Jersey.”

A small group of doctors and nurses swept by, sending papers flying in every direction. The group might have collided with a receptionist, or they might have been moving so fast that the wind they created scattered the paperwork. Clover hadn’t been paying much attention. Times before her turning always seemed hazier than the times after, but she still recalled the meeting clearly. She recalled little details which grew into larger details. Had she told him the story, or had he read the story? Her mind focused on the familiar floor tiles and the marks on the wall. Everything looked exactly the same, except for the empty wheelchairs sitting off to the side of the receptionist area.

“They almost bled me out, in the emergency room,” Clo exaggerated. She’d raised a hand and pointed a finger in the direction of the curtained-off areas. The meeting with Jersey took place on the second floor, the floor right above their heads. Clover remembered the cold rooms, the small bathroom stalls, and the way the bottoms of the hospital socks stuck to the floor. There were little grips on the bottom. How useful. “We’re not getting a wheelchair. We’re going to look for crutches. I don’t care that the wheelchairs are right there. I want crutches, Jesse.”

She almost sounded like a child in the way she began her argument. He hadn’t even spoken the words; she had no idea if he meant to take the easy route. Clover knew that the wheelchairs were there, that they were accessible, and he’d seemed eager beforehand. “Crutches,” she emphasized.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse noticed. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done his own fair amount of staring. He did it when she wasn’t looking. He did it when she was doing other things; mundane things, everyday things. And when she was sleeping during the day, in the hours when Jesse himself was able to resist the lethargic pull of the sun. That was when he liked to stare at her most - when she was sleeping, when dreams or latent thoughts caused her features to twitch and reform, or even when her features were simply impassive, restful, devoid of any kind of expression. Calm. Relaxed. He had etched the very curve of her cheeks into his memory, burned the voluminous pout of her lips into his dreams.

When she told him she could smell his blood, Jesse just glanced sideways and shrugged, bringing his fingers to the bandage as if he could tell just by touch whether the blood had seeped through the crisp white. If it had, the material had soaked it up, and it wasn’t much - when he pulled his fingers away, they were clear of crimson.

Even if he were bleeding, even if the crisp white was bled through with red, the two of them would still fit right in. They were two injured people in the halls of a hospital, and the nurses and doctors were so preoccupied with their own jobs and their own tired dance with the rat race that they didn’t even blink. They probably all assumed someone else was taking care of them, or that they would take care of themselves - that they knew where they were going. In a city as corrupt and violent as Harper Rock, they probably had a lot to keep them occupied.

Whatever might have been going on around them, Jesse paid it no mind - no papers, no colliding doctors or nurses. His focus was upon Clover, telling him stories about her past. It didn’t matter if he could read them, if they were there for him in the tomes of her journals. Did she have just the one, or were there others that he could find, somewhere hidden away? This was where she had met Jersey, because when she was human. When she wore that gown every night and every day - the gown that Jesse had met her in. The gown that he had managed to bleed her out in, rather than the nurses and doctors here in this hospital.

He might have said as much, but managed only to lick his lips at the memory before Clover was denying Jesse’s attempts at stealing a wheelchair. He pouted dramatically, only easing up when he knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with it. Crutches. How unwieldy and dull. He rolled his eyes and sighed, nodding as he tightened his grip around Clover’s midsection. Crutches. Where the hell would they find crutches, anyway? Was there a storage cupboard somewhere? He grunted as his shoes squeaked on the floor, leading them further into the hospital. But really, he had no idea where he was going.

“Where?” He asked, the single word rasped before he swallowed the threatened cough.

“...ask?” He said, nodding toward one of the nurses. Surely, they wouldn’t say no to giving a legless woman a pair of crutches. It was the easy way out, but maybe it would work. Maybe.