The Human Abstract [Courtney]

[Jaxon]

Jaxon crouched beside the bench at a bus-stop, mostly to take advantage of the enclosure - specifically the dodgy excuse for a roof. It wasn't raining, but it was misting. And as cold as it was, that was just about as bad for him. He was rifling through the beat-up messenger bag he never left home without, searching for a -

"A-ha!" He grinned proudly and plucked the wrinkled box of bandaids out from within the black hole of his bag, leaning his side against the wall of the bus-stop to wrestle the box open with his good hand. Inside, the half-used tube of neosporin called to him like angels in a choir. It wouldn't stop the sting of the cuts he'd gotten, but it would soothe the nagging voice of his grandmother in the back of his mind telling him that every injury would be healed by using the stuff. Carefully, Jax squeezed a dollop first on the split open skin of his left hand knuckles. Despite the gloves he'd recently purchased, he'd still managed to bust open the skin that maybe hadn't quite healed to begin with. Next, he hitched up his bloodied t-shirt to swipe the gooey stuff onto a cut across his abdomen. It was shallow he told himself. It didn't need stitches. He squinted down at the still-oozing wound and let out a sigh.

It definitely needed stitches. But the big butterfly bandaid would do for now. The hospital gave him the creeps for reasons as yet determined. Small round bandaids went on each of his knuckles, allowing him to still use the hand without pulling at his skin, and he flexed his fist just to be sure. It would do. Jax stuffed the box back into his bag and it immediately disappeared between loose papers, tattered binders, scarves and a couple shady decks of cards, his wallet, a spare knife, a dozen rounds of ammo for his gun, three boxes of colored pencils, and enough other junk that he still needed to toss. He stood with a grunt and wiped sweat from his brow, glad that he wasn't coated with the muck of the catacombs and sewers he'd only recently dragged himself free of. A surreptitious sniff under his right arm said he didn't stink either - maybe there was more to this Sorcery than he knew about.

He spotted a cafe across the street and decided there and then that he would kill another zombie for a cup of coffee. Jogging across the street, he only managed to skirt in front of one car, earning a honk and a middle finger. He waved to the driver with a tired grin and ducked into the tiny shop. He drew in a grateful lungful of the smell of heavenly java-beans. Sidling up to the counter, he laid down a fiver and cheerily requested a mocha. Definitely a day for chocolate in coffee. Then again, what sort of day wasn't? He plucked up the paper cup and turned to leave, bumping into a stranger and nearly staggering as his instinct was to backpedal - the motion caused his bandaged stomach to flare in pain. He grimaced, but covered it up with a lopsided grin to the stranger. At least he hadn't spilled his hot drink on the man. "Sorry about that. Long night." He gestured mildly, hoping he didn't look as crazy as he felt. Endorphins - have to love them.

Outfit
Theme song

[Courtney]

Courtney parked his car, outside, killed the engine. He'd just picked the Pacer up from Dominique, who had fixed the air conditioner and whatever was causing the vehicle to stall. Courtney wasn't an expert, when it came to cars, so he couldn't tell you exactly what the issue had been, only that it was better,now -- that his car didn't die at stop lights, anymore, didn't whinny like a dying horse that had to be beaten into getting back on its feet.

The very same man whose car Jaxon nearly ran into (or the very same man who had nearly run over Jaxon)? Was the very same man he actually did run into (or who actually did run into him), in the cafe.

The universe danced, like that. The commotion before the meeting, climax, explosion.

Courtney didn't typically flip people off. He didn't typically honk his horn and curse, or blame other people for his lack of attention. He blamed himself, internalized his rage. The mark of the compliant.

But he was having a rough night, too.

He'd been sitting in his trailer, pouring over files, half-showered, running low on coffee, running low on attention, running low on food, his cat mewling plaintively for him as it rolled around at his feet and rubbed its face against his ankles.

Imagine his embarrassment when he was confronted with the same person who he'd thrown a fit at, on the street, and that person was apologetic, that person was having a rough night, too.

Everybody we meet is a mirror, a reflection of ourselves.

Courtney tried to quell his swelling empathy, tried to choke it back the way people choke back vomit. He tried to keep himself inside himself, tried to construct rigid boundaries.

His hand was against the mocha, keeping it back, making sure it didn't go anywhere, especially not all over him. Courtney took a breath, held it, released it, went red with the embarrassment of recognition, "Yeah. Tell me about it," he moved his hand away from the other man's coffee, "You good?"

[Jaxon]

Jaxon glanced up at the stranger, and how he hadn't really noticed anything about the man the first - or was it second? - time he'd seen him he wasn't really sure. He hadn't even had a sip of the coffee that had been nearly sacrificed to the strangers shirt. Jax wasn't exactly the sort of person to stare, but he also wasn't so self-aware that he would notice if he was doing that. And he was. There was definitely a moment of uncomfortable silence as he peered at the other male curiously. Dark smudges under eyes that looked like they'd been rubbed more than a few times. Scruffy, though that could just be because the man didn't bother to shave on purpose. When the mans eyebrows raised just slightly - perception, Jax, he firmly reminded himself - he flashed another small smile.

"I'm alright." He said, and only then realized that the jarring motion a few moments prior had caused the bandaid on his abdomen to lose it's valiant battle with the still-bleeding wound. He looked down, and maybe had a guilty expression cross his features, as the t-shirt he had on grew wet directly over the spot. Turning slightly, he snatched a handful of napkins from the pile on the counter and pushed them against his wound through his t-shirt in what he figured was pretty convincing nonchalance.

"You, uhm. You okay?" He asked, inching a little out of the way as he belatedly realizing he was blocking the stranger from the chirpy coffee-making-goddess behind the counter. Jax would never stand between a man and java, that was tantamount to a call for war so far as he was concerned. He surreptitiously peeked over the mans shoulder and made the immediate deduction the stranger had come alone. He might be wrong, but what was life if not lived on the proverbial edge?

"I'm gonna go sit. You can join me, if you want." He paused, and finally took a greedy sip of the mocha. When he looked up again it was a bright smile. "I'm Jaxon. Friends call me Jax." He added, and maybe the caffeine was hitting him super quick. Or the blood loss was making it travel quicker. Whatever it was, he was a man of no shame. And the man really did look run down. Maybe he'd been picked up by the aliens recently, dropped off here, and had no idea how he got here. Jax could relate.

Before the man could answer, Jax took possibly the cowards way out and waded to one of the few actual tables in the tiny cafe. He eyed the giant ottomans with disinterest, didn't think he could really hold himself up in his condition anyways, and settled down on the ridiculously uncomfortable wooden chair instead. There was another chair, right across the table from him. And the chosen table was tucked in a corner near the window. He liked to look out windows.

[Courtney]

The man was, obviously, crazy. Courtney was over-worked, under-fed, the victim of minor self-negligence, but the man -- Jaxon, Courtney found out -- was above and beyond the depressive's cry for help. His level of self-neglect seemed so strongly ingrained that Courtney viddied himself as something of a god-send. He wasn't sure if the other man was on drugs, or just 'high on life', but he was obviously physically deteriorating, at least from Courtney's perspective.

Who ran around bleeding, then invited other people to have coffee with them, after they wadded up napkins and blotted their blood?

Courtney went into protective over-drive, got more flushed, more frustrated, more red, even as he wadded up a handful of his own napkins and followed the other man across the room, angrily wiping at his shirt.

He assumed Jaxon was drunk, and started treating him like he was drunk.

"I'm going to take you to a hospital."

Courtney's previous need for coffee dwindled as his adrenaline spiked.

[Jaxon]

Jaxon was pleased that the man was coming on over, though he'd forgotten to get himself a coffee. Jax tightened his grip on his own cup protectively - the man seemed like a good sort, wasn't pinging any psycho-killer vibes with Jax's arguably less-than-stellar radar, but Jax wasn't up for sharing his coffee. And giving it away might bring him to tears. He needed the precious. He did. He lifted his other hand up to wave the man over, only belated realizing there was at least the start of a scowl crossing the strangers face.

"Tis but a scratch," He retorted, lips twitching in a pent-in laugh. The man seemed haggard now that he was close, and maybe didn't know who Monty Python was and why they were the funniest thing since the knock-knock joke about oranges and bananas. Still, he stood and let out a small sigh, eyeing the stranger once more.

"Tell you what. We can go to the hospital, if you get your coffee. I'd feel bad if you didn't get it." He offered with a pinch of his brows together. He really didn't want to go to that hospital, though. Then another thought occurred. "And I'm not going anywhere with you unless you tell me your name. At least." He added, proud that he'd remembered that much. He wasn't a child, but he was a little dazed still. The adrenaline was wearing off, and it was getting harder to maintain his cheery disposition while in pain.

[Courtney]

Coffee was at the bottom of Courtney's list of priorities. He wasn't about to stand in line and wait for a coffee, while some guy was bleeding. Maybe he needed to calm down. Maybe he was dramatizing the situation. Maybe the guy really was fine, but he...

Courtney added, 'Failure to prioritize,' to his list of things he knew about Jaxon, which, admittedly, wasn't much.

Was Jaxon bargaining with him? 'I'll let you, if you....'? Another spike of adrenaline hurled through Courtney's veins, pinged around. All kinds of bells rang in his head, even if none rang in Jaxon's. Warning bells, maybe, some type of intuitive, 'Don't go here,' but different from the intuitive, 'Don't go here,' that rang out, when he was near Jesse Fforde.

'Tell you what,' Jaxon had said. Tell you what. I'm going to tell you what. Yeah. He was definitely bargaining. Courtney let out a bark of incredulous laughter. Tell him what?! They weren't going anywhere?!

He wasn't sure where the other man kept all that optimism and good humor, but...

"How about I just wait until you pass out, then take you?"

[Jaxon]

Jaxon wasn't really prepared for the other mans response, and when he did hear it it managed to startle a laugh out of him. Now they were both laughing, though probably at different things altogether. The mans humor was a little dark, maybe a little morbid, but in a town where Jax had managed to stumble on re-animated corpses it was oddly endearing and familiar to him. Though Jax hadn't quite gotten to the point of morbidity himself. He dealt in death enough that he didn't want it infecting his day-to-day life. He tilted his cup again, giving it a baleful glance.

"That's probably not the lamest pick-up line I've ever heard." He replied with a shake of his head, crooked smile back in place. "But you still haven't told me your name." He reitterated. Why that little detail was important he didn't know - probably just something his throbbing brain was stuck on. But it did matter, and he wasn't going to let it go.

In a town of people that kept their heads down and avoided eye-contact seemingly at all costs, it was refreshing to meet someone who did the opposite. Even if Jax was still positive he didn't want to go to that damned hospital. He tilted his weight from one foot to the other anxiously. He hadn't planned on this - meeting anybody - had only really planned to come in, grab a coffee, wait for his blood to stop rushing in his ears, and then return home. Maybe call Whit and ask if he knew anybody who could do stitches no questions asked. With a jolt, Jax realized exactly why he'd said hello, and why it was so important the other man say it back. Jaxon Silver was lonely. He frowned to himself. That was definitely no excuse to drag the stranger into his world, and the pang of pain radiating from his tightened abdomen seemed to be singing out a harsh reprimand that he'd done so to begin with.

"I'm sorry." He said suddenly, letting the smile droop. He probably had that kicked-puppy expression his grandma had always chided him for, but Jax was never very good at forcing false impressions of himself. He was who he was, and there was really no point in hiding it. He tilted the cup to his lips suddenly and guzzled what remained, then turned carefully and tossed the empty thing in a trash bin. "I'd appreciate the ride, thanks." He offered, blandly. Maybe he was moping now, or blaming himself for a thing he'd almost let himself do. His shoulders even hunched a little. He'd let the stranger - who was seemingly intent on staying a stranger, and had every right to do so Jax firmly reminded himself - drop him off outside the hospital. He'd wave goodbye. He'd walk back home. Easy. His cat was probably getting hungry anyways.

[Courtney]

Death had already crept in and infected Courtney Apple's day-to-day life.

He had his breakfast with death -- a stack of yellow, cardstock files, filled with photographs and notations -- sitting across the table. Courtney ate his pancakes while he flipped through photos, while his cat ate breakfast. Some of the files had cat hair in them, like some of his clothes.

He had death in files in the back seat of his Pacer. He had death stacked beside his bed, in his trailer. Death was his reading material, for when he went to the bathroom. He had it under his fingernails, on the insides of his cheeks, trapped in his nostrils, tattooed to his skin.

His dirty clothes smelled like it, from wading through homicide after homicide, squatting down beside corpses and taking photographs, depositing bumblebee yellow and black, cardstock markers, helping tape off fresh crime scenes with the same yellow and black tape.

Like the nurses in emergency and intensive care units in hospitals, he'd developed a darker sense of humor, maybe -- not that he'd noticed it -- to help him cope with the striking reality of being faced with death, so often. Being faced with -- exposing himself to -- all the same thing, really.

Courtney's world didn't involve vampirism, sorcerers, or re-animated corpses. It didn't involve aliens or were-creatures or things that went bump in the night. The worst, most frightening, strange thing in his world -- at least at the moment -- was the warped mind of any man who could bring himself to commit an atrocity like, say, murder.

But even that, he'd become desensitized to. Bombardment will do that to a person. Any sensation, when you're hit with it, enough, will become common.

When Jaxon said the pick-up line thing, Courtney could have spat. Instead, he laughed, and went more red.

In the small silence, which followed, Jaxon apologized. Almost hastily.

Jaxon might have been blaming himself for the wrong thing. He'd invited death into his life, when he didn't want the infection. He'd stood in the doorway and waved it right in.

"My name is Courtney." No. He wasn't intent on remaining a stranger. He just felt himself balk, when he was asked to give any shred of himself over. Shreds, like his name, apparently, included.

Maybe Jax wasn't drunk, after all, just a little different.

"I'd love to give you a ride. Do you need help standing? Walking? You sure you're okay?" Courtney Apple -- Harper Rock's new mother hen.

He fished his keys out of his pocket, flipped the collar of his leather jacket up, in preparation for the bitter cold.

[Jaxon]

There was something off about this stranger - Courtney, the man seemed to supply just as Jaxon thought it. He was too quiet, too calculating, and if Jax was honest with himself, the man gave him the literal heebie-jeebies. He might be the king of heebie-jeebie town. Jaxon was suddenly questioning his decision to ask for a ride. Or a name. Or give his own. Had he told Courtney his last name? He was flushed now, and probably looking half-crazy as he just sat there and didn't speak. Not too unlike the stranger - Courtney.

He stood abruptly, managing to turn what could've been a grimace into a simple wince. He didn't even reach for his stomach where he felt the wound still sluggishly drooling out his blood. This whole night was one track-record of screw-Jaxon. Too bad he wasn't getting a reach-around. He hitched the strap of his messenger bag carefully over his shoulder and plastered a smile on his face. "I'm good, thanks. Let's go."

If nothing else, he'd get a free ride across town. The hospital wasn't too far from his home, which would save him the trouble of trudging through the snow-covered streets and huffing through violently cold air. He was already day-dreaming about the excessively hot air he had pumping into his tiny apartment - he kept it on a balmly 78 degrees, and didn't really mind that the rare - incredibly rare - guest had a problem with it. They weren't the ones happily sleeping surrounded by cozy warmness.

Jaxon exited the little shop, the slap of cold air enough to suck away what was left of his cheerful mood. His fake smile even wilted as he shielded his eyes from a gust of wind that made wetness pool in the orbs. He really hated winter, with a strict passion usually reserved for cauliflower and screamo music. He glanced over his shoulder at the stranger - Courtney. "Where's your car?"

[Courtney]

Jaxon went from reluctance to... haste. The same way he'd hastily apologized.

Courtney assessed that Jaxon wanted to 'get this over with', the way that you pull a Band-Aid off or yank a sticker from the dirty sole of a child's foot.

When the cold bit in, Courtney tightened his jacket around his jaw, jerked his thumb toward the red Pacer, and walked with gusto, ready to crawl back into the comfort of familiarity.

Hodge purred on Courtney's pillow, on his bed, in his rented trailer.

"This one," he muttered as he unlocked the Pacer's door, jerked the handle, then leaned through the car's front seat to manually unlock the other door.

The left-over heat from his earlier drive had fogged the windows.