Oxytocin [ Aleksei ]

[Kendal]

Everything had a limit. Save for the idea of infinity, everything had a breaking point. An end, so to speak. A woodpecker that chipped away at the side of an oak tree may eventually find he'd broken through the tough bark. If ambitious enough, he'll have eventually reached the core of the sturdy oak. A bit more, once he bordered on the edge of gluttony, he'd have eroded enough of the diameter of the tree to have weakened it. And that would be the limit of that particular tree against the beak of a determined woodpecker. Everything had a weakness.

In the case of the tree, it was the inability to withstand the forceful little taps from the beak of a bird. How much torture could an average person take before they snapped entirely? That answer likely would depend on the type of torture and the type of person it was dealt on. But more importantly, it would depend on the person dealing out the infliction. After all, if the woodpecker was a lazy bird, it would never be able to take down a tree fifty times its size.

Shortly after his bizarre, self-inflicted accident, Aleksei Vovk had been moved temporarily to Baxter's room, the next most secure bedroom after the holding chamber in the attic. It wasn't out of choice. Baxter was less than thrilled to have to sleep on the pull-out couch. But clearly alterations needed to happen in the attic before Aleksei was put back. And that was more of a pressing matter than his own comfort or the fact that a thief was locked up in his lair, where all his good hiding spots were. The natural course of action had been to set up security cameras and rigged cameras wherever possible, both exposed and hidden from sight. It would take at least a couple of days for the man's broken ribs to heal, which was ample time to renovate.

"Maybe we should just pad the entire room and get him a straitjacket," Baxter had suggested at the beginning. "Or maybe we can tape his fingers together. Tape some mittens to his hands. A straitjacket and mittens." But the plan had never been to impair Aleksei or harm him or really change him in any way than how he was when Kendal Baxter had originally found him in the vault. In some ways, he was like a piece of art on display. Or maybe a specimen to be observed was more on the nose.

But for now, Aleksei was stuck in bed, migrated from one cage to another.

[Aleksei Vovk (DELETED 10076)]

There was something almost biblical in his return to consciousness. He’d slept two full days, anchored in his unconscious state with the aid of the needle burrowed beneath a thin layer of gauze. The gauze circled the back of his hand, the pressure of the layers securing its tenuous grasp. By mid-evening of the third day, he woke. His first impression was a vague sense of deja vu, his gaze taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with idle curiosity. Any attempt to commit the details to memory, however, was met with resistance; his thoughts recoiling. There was a curious static to them; a scattered blankness. The fog of the sedative was slow to abate. It would seem his body had reached an impasse; incapable of holding the effects of the sedative at bay. Typically, his metabolism would have dispatched the foreign bodies within a matter of hours, altered cells accelerating to counter the insidious, methodical advance. As it was, it had grown sluggish with blood loss. The end result was a persistent, dull buzz. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It wasn’t entirely welcome, either.

It was, at best, a necessary evil; it held the pain at bay, though the edges of it were still keen. It was a rusty knife, dulled over the years, still capable of biting into every knot of vertebrae. His gaze followed the coil of tubing that lead from his heavily bandaged wrist to the IV stand tucked into the corner. His fingers flexed, gradually working the tension from the joints. The skin had bruised beneath the needle, taking on a slightly sunken appearance, shading to a mottled pattern of dark plum and sickly greens.

His breathing was even, but shallow; sides expanding gingerly against the brace that sheltered his ribs. Gauze - stained a vibrant shade of red - cushioned the worst of the pressure, an echoing taut feeling matching the one that graced his hip. It would take the better part of a week - perhaps longer - for his body to even begin to knit such extensive damage. The fatigue that settled along every line of him - seeping into his marrow - was, in part, a consequence of his body’s attempt to address the horrors he’d inflicted upon it. He drew in a slow, steadying breath, before the fingers of his left hand lowered to the back of his right hand. He tensed, bracing for the sting even as his fingers curled around the thin body of the needle. The pain would be momentary. Clarity was imperative.

Distantly, as the cage of his fingers tightened in its grip, some miles away - his phone vibrated twice.

Leks, goddamnit.

The screen briefly illuminated with the text message. A pause, and the screen darkened once more, eclipsing both the man’s name and whatever momentary urgency possessed its sender.

[Kendal]

"You're not a man who thinks before he leaps, it seems."

His tone was quiet, contemplative. Baxter had been watching Aleksei for the past half hour from the comfort of an armchair by his desk, sat diagonally from his bed. It had been a curious thing of many false alarms where the other man's lashes had fluttered and he made a noise but hadn't broken through the threshold between conscious and unconsciousness. But when Aleksei had finally begun to move, he knew the man was fully awake and aware. His gaze lingered over the resting form before he got up, idly setting his tumbler of bourbon on the desk on his way past it and around the foot of the bed to the Ukrainian's side.

"You chose to tear your body open and now here you are," he began, gaze slowly dropping to watch the way Aleksei's fingers curled around the needle before he reached down and unfurled the fingers, prying them away in order to keep the IV tube intact and attached to his system. "Almost helpless." He smiled. "Are you a man who acts impulsively? Not aware of consequences? Or do you enjoy this sort of thing? The pain that comes with broken bones mending? It's not unheard of." He spoke as he walked back over to the desk, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to the elbows.

"Your body is stitching itself back together again. But it can't happen without a little help." he plucked two latex gloves from a box on the desk and slid them over his hand and then reached out to set his hand over a canister next to the gloves, dragging it closer before unscrewing it. He reached inside and pulled out a thin tube, pushing the lid off before sliding out the syringe that was inside. He uncapped the needle and flicked it to get the bubbles out. (Last thing he wanted was to kill the man through a venous air embolism.) Baxter moved back over to the side of the bed.

"Now I'm not a medical professional… so you'll have to excuse me if it takes some poking around before I find the right vein." he said as he stooped, the pads of his middle and forefingers pressing against the crux of Aleksei's elbow to find the appropriate vein before slipping the tip of the needle through the thin skin.

"Two more minutes and it'll feel like you're on a cloud." he hummed as he injected the Morphine into his bloodstream.

[Aleksei Vovk (DELETED 10076)]

His head turned as Baxter spoke, attempting to pinpoint the man’s location. It was too sharp of a gesture, evidenced by the abrupt onset of dizziness. It was disorienting, the way his vision slid sharply out of focus, unable to center on a single point. His senses were anemic; muted to an alarming degree; no more superior than an ordinary human’s. His gaze settled on Baxter as he drew closer, offering a wry smile in response to his words. His stare was level, reflecting a sense of calm assurance that seemed mildly out of place, given the circumstances. It was not unlike the distant stare of a leopard crouched at the edge of a river, faced with the he conundrum of obeying the necessity of its thirst, and the knowledge that beneath the still waters was an equally pale, reptilian stare. “No.” He replied, relenting as Baxter’s fingers curled over his own, easing the tension from them, forcing them to relax from the fist they’d shaped.

“It’s just that I was prepared to accept the consequences.” The decision had been reckless, but calculated. It’s said that a crow can’t be domesticated. But on rare occasions, it may choose to domesticate itself. The brisk sound of latex caught his attention, and with it, the pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place. The IV feed wasn’t responsible for the overwhelming weakness; the sense of being powerless. Not entirely. It was a potent cocktail of antibiotics and a meager handful of other, less powerful anti-inflammatory agents. It granted a thin sort of mercy, in that it staved off the infection that otherwise would have found a foothold, long before he had the chance to recuperate. It alone wasn’t responsible for suppressing the core of his supernatural nature. For the weakness that coursed through his veins, just present enough to prevent his depleted cells from resisting, instead accepting the mild drowsiness that settled over him like a veil. “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself,” he said dryly, as Baxter approached once more. His instinct was to flinch away as his fingers settled against the crook of his elbow. The warmth of his skin radiated from the thin latex barrier, fingertips pressing the surface of his skin.

Inexplicably, his fingers curled, nails digging lightly into his palm to create surface tension. The sting of the needle was expected - prompting a low, tense exhale as his fingers gradually unfurled. “I want a cigarette,” he muttered in reply, the words half-exhaled.