Six Weeks to Recovery (part three)
Jan. 18th, 2012 10:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeSix Weeks to Recovery (part three) (part one, part two)
Prompt: ‘Weeks’
Summary: Biff gets shot, M.D. falls apart, and Raige reads a lot of books about princesses. Set a few weeks following ‘After the Fall.’ Warnings for self-harm.
Word Count: 17,777
Notes: This story was supposed to be done a long time ago, but things kept adding themselves. For all his dangerous lifestyle, I’ve never written Biff getting really clobbered, while both Raige and M.D. have taken big-time damage in canon. Obviously, this needed to be remedied. Also, I wrote a lot of this either post-op or sick, can ya tell?
Week Six
It’s three in the morning and Biff has just gone to bed when he hears a rapping at his window. When he sits up, he can see the kid’s silhouette on the windowsill. He rushes over to pull the window up for her, since if she can’t manage the concentration to do it herself…
She isn’t shaking. No, she’s vibrating, her eyes big and wild and the night time shadows are slithering around her like rats and snakes.
“All right,” she pants. Her chest is heaving, like she ran the whole way. “I’m here. Now give me something sharp before something bad happens.”
Biff doesn’t argue. He's been around her enough to tell when she’s in the red zone. He rushes to one of the kitchen drawers, pulls out a jack knife, and gives it to her. She snatches it and runs to the bathroom.
“It ain’t sterile.”
“Okay.”
“Rubbing alcohol’s under the sink.”
“Okay.”
“You want me there?”
“No.”
Just as well. Biff isn’t squeamish, but he’s not sure he can handle watching. He grabs his smokes and his lighter, stumps to the window, lights up, and waits.
After a moment, he hears her from the bathroom. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs and rolls the cigarette between his fingers. “You made it. That’s the important thing.”
After another minute, he hears her say, “Biff?”
“Enh?”
“I think I went too deep.”
The cigarette sears into Biff’s skin and he rushes for bandages.
It goes quietly. He still has a bunch from when he got shot, and they’ve both been hurt enough that they know the drill. She keeps her head down so she doesn’t faint, applies pressure. Her skin is pale, and her voice is wan, but she seems calm and the shadows have stopped clinging to her—after all, she wouldn’t do this if it didn’t work.
“All right, it’s all right,” she keeps saying in a glassy voice. “I’m not in any immediate danger, I just… I need a doctor.”
“Your bosses?”
“Jaunting right now is a very bad idea, Biff.”
He jumps to his feet. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call my patcher.”
“The drug dealer?”
“Uh huh. You gonna pass out on me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Biff leaves her bandaged and bloodsick and hurries across the hall. It takes some pounding, but the bag lady finally answers the door.
“What now?”
He holds out his hand. “Phone.”
She looks at the blood on his hand. She gives him the phone.
It takes four rings for Med School to pick up, but her voice sounds only slightly blurry. She’s used to being called out in the middle of the night. “Mandy Rosenthal speaking.”
“’S me. I need you.”
“So soon? Can you pay me?”
Biff bites his tongue, his fingers twitch for a cigarette that isn’t there, and he makes a quick decision. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
“What is it?”
“Knife. Hand.” The words aren’t putting themselves together for him.
“Does it need stitches?”
Biff covers the receiver. “Kid, you need stitches?”
After a moment, she goes, “Maybe?” Her voice is slurred.
He uncovers the receiver. “Yeah.”
“Oh, so it’s not you.” She sounds intrigued. “I’ll be there. Keep pressure on it.”
He hangs up. Then he rushes to the kid to get Raige’s phone number.
The first time, it goes to the answering machine, so Biff hangs up and tries again. If he can’t get the money from Fagboy, they’re fucked; M.D. could never afford it, and Biff can’t pound a free patch job out of Med School right now because of his damn shoulder. He’s about to hang up and try again when the line picks up, but the voice isn’t Raige’s.
“What the hell do you want?” The voice snarls.
Huh. Old man Unnigrutt. “Can I talk to—” no, no, can’t call him Fagboy, “Raige?”
“It is three thirty in the goddamn morning!”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Who is this? What do you want with my son?”
Biff wishes he could punch people through the phone. Punching always works in person, and words aren’t fucking working right now, and he has to force his hand to relax because he can’t afford to break the phone. All he can say is, “It’s an emergency.”
“Eat shit and die, you—”
There’s a click. “I got it, Dad.” Raige’s voice is muzzy and groggy. “Go back to sleep.”
A grumble, then a click. Raige says, “Can I help you?”
“It’s the kid.”
Raige’s voice goes immediately clear. “Oh god. Is she okay?”
Biff glances back at his apartment. “Uh…”
“Okay, okay, what happened? What does she need from me?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“I—” It’s stupid, he’s worked with Med School before, he knows her price range, and he can’t remember. “I dunno, money!”
“What happened?”
Words. Fucking words. Why does everyone need words out of him right now, Jesus Christ. “She cut too deep—”
“Oh god.”
“Naw, naw, I got someone coming—” Down the stairwell, he hears the door slam. One of the reasons he uses Rosenthal; for all her airs, she still lives on south side, and she’s fast. “She’s coming now, but I can’t pay her.”
“I’ll be right there. Does she take checks?”
“I don’t know! I don’t got a checkbook!”
Mandy Rosenthal is rushing up the stairs. She has a small black luggage case under her arm. “Where?”
Biff points to his apartment. “Checks. You take ‘em?”
“From someone reputable.” She forges up the stairs towards his apartment.
“She takes checks,” Biff says to Raige.
Raige’s voice is muffled and there’s background noise, like he’s getting dressed as he talks. “Okay, okay, I’m headed for the car now, I’ll—”
“No! Don’t drive. Take the C line, it’ll take you longer, but ain’t nobody gonna steal it out from under you.”
“But—”
“You wanna lose your daddy’s Lexus? Fine. You don’t? Take the goddamn C line.”
“Okay, fine. I’m on my way.” Click.
Biff doesn’t have time to feel relieved. He’s running back to his apartment.
M.D.’s out cold on his bathroom floor. Biff freezes, but Mandy Rosenthal just looks at him over her mask and says, “You didn’t say he was a fainter.”
And he knows that, he should know that, he knows how much blood loss it takes to really get sick, but all he can say is, “She.”
“Whatever.” She’s laying down a sheet now, since the floor isn’t too clean. “Help me move him.”
Biff’s shoulder burns at the effort, but fuck, the kid doesn’t weigh squat, he’ll be fine, so he takes her legs, Rosenthal takes her shoulders, and they get her onto the sheet. Rosenthal is already gloved up and has her luggage bag open, pulling out sharp things and stuff Biff can’t even guess at.
“Can I do anything?” He asks.
“Yes. Get out of the way.” She pulls out a bottle.
Biff gets out of the way.
M.D. starts regaining consciousness when she hits the sheet. And she’s dopey and pale, too dopey to do much, but she sees the needle and Med School and her whole body gives a violent jerk.
“N-no. Get off me.” Her voice is shrill, slurred, and panicked, and when she tries to raise her arms, Med School just pins them down. The patcher’s just doing the job she’s used to, but M.D.’s eyes are starting to snap back into wild, white-eyed focus again, and she keeps this up, the fainting haze isn’t going to keep her down and she’ll go berserk anyway. Biff doesn’t know what to do or how to do it, so since Med School has her arms out of reach, he puts a hand on her forehead, because it’s the only skin he can reach.
The kid’s skin is cold and clammy, and her body jerks again, but she’s never been able to control the psychic shit, definitely not now, and he feels her in his head, sick, confused, and hemorrhaging fear because she’s been on a table with strangers and needles before, and she can’t remember how or why and—
Biff wraps around the adrenaline, tries to tamp it down, forces her attention. He can’t tell how much he’s talking with his mouth and how much his mind, but long as she hears it, he doesn’t care. “Easy. Easy, easy. That’s my patcher. You don’t want to look at her, she’s ugly as fuck, over here, huh?”
Rosenthal makes a derisive noise. The kid says, “the drug dealer?” Her voice is all sorts of fractured, and he can feel the tense ball in her chest like it’s his, but at least she’s looking at him with eyes going something close to human again.
“Yup. That’s her. S’okay, she’s good at what she does.”
He can tell when the needle goes in, because the kid lurches again. And shit, she needs a distraction, but Biff can’t talk right now, M.D. usually does all the talking, so he pulls the first thing out of his head he can think of, says, “Tell me how you met Fagboy.”
And she can’t laugh, not like this, but she gives it a try. “Jeez. You must be desperate.”
“Uh huh. Just shut up and tell me.”
“Th… that’s a contradiction in terms…” But she starts talking, and fuck all if Biff can understand anything she says, something about a plane and ferrets and the forest up north, God knows what, but as long as she’s talking and paying attention to that, she’s still here.
Rosenthal moves fast. She finishes the job right as M.D. winds down with something about wild boars or bears—he can’t tell which, and doesn’t much care.
“You’ll be fine,” Rosenthal says, swabbing M.D.’s hand down. “Just some bandages, and you’re done.”
“Yippee,” M.D. slurs, and tries to reach for the bandages herself.
“Let her finish,” Biff tells her, and M.D. goes limp, too sick to put up a fight.
Rosenthal eyes the two of them with curiosity. “You two family or something?”
“Why,” M.D. mumbles, “does everyone think we’re related?”
“Cuz we’re both mutts,” Biff tells her, and goes back to Rosenthal. “Kid be okay?”
“Fine, he’s fine.” Rosenthal tapes the bandages neatly and starts packing away her gear. “He’s tough; he’ll be on his feet in no time.”
“She,” Biff says.
“Whatever,” M.D. says.
“Whatever.” Rosenthal stands up, stripping off her gloves. “There, patched. Now where’s my money, MacGilligan?”
“It’s coming.”
M.D. looks up at him. “You called Raige. Didn’t you?”
He realizes that his bad leg is starting to ache from squatting, and he shifts his weight to take the pressure off it. “Yup.”
Her voice is plaintive. “It’s a school night.”
“He’ll live.”
“Who?” Rosenthal asks.
A patcher is not someone to stiff, and Rosenthal looks impatient to get going back to bed, so it’s just as well that Raige surges through the door in an undershirt and pants with the belt undone and his shoes untied. Biff hastily pulls his hand from the kid’s skin.
“Hey! Are you okay? I brought—”
M.D. just covers her face and groans. Her voice is still slurred. “Fine. I’m fine. I had a minor incident and Biff panicked.”
“Yeah, because, you know, that’s exactly what you two are known for: minor incidents and panicking. Thank you,” he adds to Biff.
Biff mutters and rubs the back of his neck.
Rosenthal clears her throat and makes her way out of the overcrowded bathroom to hold out her hand.
“Right!” Raige pulls his check book out of his pocket. “How much?”
“I’ll pay you back,” M.D. slurs.
“No, you won’t, kid. How much?”
Rosenthal and Raige get payment hashed out. Turns out that Rosenthal knows the Unnigrutt family name, and is business associates with a friend of the family, and she starts talking fancy business while Raige looks steadily more and more uncomfortable. Biff takes the time to get M.D. moved to the couch. The bed is closer, but he doesn’t want anyone in it but him, and she’s still too wobbly to walk by herself.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Enh.” He finds his smokes and lighter and lights up.
“You’re not supposed to smoke around open wounds, you know.”
He moves to the fire escape, close enough to still keep an eye on her.
“I meant yours.”
His shoulder and leg hurt, but Biff barely feels them. He grunts, inhales smoke, and waits for the nicotine to calm him down. He doesn’t hear the kid move, but he knows she’s watching him.
“Are you all right?” She asks finally.
He grunts.
Rosenthal walks by, looking oddly cheery, and Raige closes the door after her. “Jesus. Two degrees of separation,” he mutters, and starts bustling and wrapping M.D. in a blanket. She hardly manages even token protest. Biff lets Fagboy do his thing and proceeds to chain smoke his way through half a pack of cigarettes, using the dying butts of the old to light the new, letting their voices wash over him. After a while, he calms down enough to listen.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“It’s Thursday. You have school.”
“Not the highest priority in my life at this second, sorry.”
“Didn’t want to bug you.”
“What’s bugging me is that apparently Biff is more worthy of bugging. He had to call me. Jesus, kid…”
“Oh come on, it’s not like he’s got anything better to do with his time.”
“He’s shot! Look at him, I think you broke him.”
Biff puts another butt in the beer can and gives them the finger over his shoulder.
“What I mean is, I’m not hurt, all I’ve got on my plate is my Calculus test and marching regionals, and you know what? I don’t plan to be a mathematician, and I know the show, so it’s really not that important in the scheme of things. So I have a full tank—do you have any tea?”
It takes a second for Biff to realize Raige is talking to him. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and goes, “Huh?”
“Tea. Do you have any?”
Biff stares at him for a moment, trying to find out if Raige is kidding. He’s not.
“No,” he finally says.
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“Non-alcoholic,” M.D. clarifies.
For the life of him, Biff can’t remember, so he shuffles to the fridge to go check. Both M.D. and Raige’s eyes follow him with far too much attention.
“Broke him,” Raige says with finality.
“I did not—”
“Shaddap!” Biff whines. God in Heaven, the two of them are even worse when they’re together. “I got milk, water, and Gatorade, okay?”
“Don’t drink the water,” M.D. advises. “You might get cholera.”
“It’s fine,” Biff says. “It ain’t from the sink.”
“Milk, please,” Raige says.
Biff doesn’t even think to say something sarcastic, just dumps it on the counter with a muttered, “It’s organic.”
“I know,” Raige says. “I’m the one who bought it. You want any?”
Biff grunts because he doesn’t know or care. M.D. takes water, and Raige goes and finds the cups himself, because Biff is having trouble focusing. And Biff will never admit it, not under torture, but he is relieved Raige is around, because even if he’s a fag and a pain, he’s got more juice in him. Biff might’ve signed up for this, but still, he chose one hell of a time to quit drinking.
“Why didn’t you come to me right away?” Raige asks as he sets the cups down. “And don’t give me the ‘Thursday’ explanation again, the real reason.”
Apparently M.D.’s as sick of everything as Biff is, because she snaps, “Because I worry about burdening you.”
That makes Raige hesitate, and his voice quiets as he pours the milk. “I thought we got through this before. You don’t burden me.”
“Yes, I do. And I hurt you.”
“But not Biff.”
“Oh, no, I hurt him all the time. I’m just relieved of the burden of caring.”
Raige looks up at Biff like he’s expecting some kind of freak-out. When that’s not what he gets, he asks, “And you’re okay with this?”
Biff blinks at him. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Why you think I hang ‘round her all the time?”
Raige looks like he’s in pain for a second, then passes Biff a glass of water. “I really should know better by now than to ask questions when I won’t understand the answer. Anyway, though I appreciate the input, because it means we’ll have to talk more,” now M.D. looks like she’s in pain, “that actually wasn’t what I meant. I meant that you called me later, but not immediately. Why?”
“Uh…” And M.D. gives Biff an uneasy look. And Raige is a fag, not an idiot, so he sets down the water very gently, and his voice gets very serious.
“What happened?”
M.D. goes, “Uh…” again, and Biff knows now that he should never have agreed to quit drinking, because this going to go over like—
“What. Happened.”
“She wasn’t done,” Biff says, and tosses the empty cigarette pack in the trash.
At first, Raige doesn’t seem to get it, just stands there with a confused look. Then he goes very still. He picks up the water and the milk again. Puts them back in the fridge. Picks up a rag and starts cleaning up loose spills. All without saying a word. M.D. alternates between watching him nervously and glaring at Biff like she wants to kill him. Biff just smokes his last cigarette and waits for the inevitable explosion.
When he finishes cleaning up, Raige says calmly, “I’m going to go buy some tea,” and leaves. He doesn’t even slam the door.
M.D. and Biff watch him go.
“Nice going,” M.D. says.
“Shut up. Thought you was some good liar.”
“I’m having an off day.”
“Yeah, well, so am I. Get off my ass already.” And he goes to find a new pack of cigarettes.
She watches him smoke on the fire escape.
“Are you all right?”
He grunts.
“It’s just, I’ve never seen you inhale tar so… emphatically.”
“I stopped drinking, ‘member?”
She rolls her eyes and holds up her hand, swathed in gauze. “Kinda blew my end of that deal.”
“The bet ain’t over.”
He smokes for a while, then straightens up against the railing. He holds up his left wrist, point to the armband without facing her.
“I cut too deep by accident.”
“Oh. I—”
He lowers his arm, waves a hand. “It was a long time ago.”
She’s silent for a while, then says, “I thought it wasn’t an accident.”
Biff shrugs, even though it hurts. “It was a long time ago.” Who knows anymore.
A few minutes later, Raige comes back with a shopping bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t look any happier, but at least he didn’t get mugged. He stands in the doorway with the bag and says to Biff, “May I talk to you for a second?”
Great. Biff looks at M.D. “Don’t burn the place down,” he tells her.
“What, and leave the rats homeless?”
Biff sighs, flicks ash off his cigarette, and limps out into the hall. This time, Raige doesn’t manage to keep from slamming the door. When he speaks, it’s at a strained, high-pitched whisper/shriek.
“You didn’t stop her?”
“No.”
“The hell is wrong with you?”
But Biff has had enough. He hasn’t shouted all night, and now is as good a time as any to start. It feels damn good. “Fuck you, Fagboy, it’s five in the fucking morning. I am tired, I been shot twice, and she was on my fucking fire escape about to go berserk. You wanna take her on like that, you go ahead, see how good it works out for you this time. So yeah, I gave her a jack knife, let her finish, got the patcher, called you. Better here with us than in the rubber room. Why, what would you do, Fagboy, talk her better?”
And Raige goes white, blue eyes burning, and thank Jesus, it’s been six weeks since Biff had a fight and he’s never seen Raige snap before. He wants to see how it turns out. But no, Raige takes a few deep breaths, and relaxes his shoulders and hands like it hurts and after a long moment, he goes, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The fuck?
He keeps going. “I’m tired, I’m worried, I’m upset, and I’m taking it out on you. I didn’t realize she was doing this poorly, I’m kind of freaked out right now, and I’m jealous that she seems to be more okay with going to you for this than me, but none of that is your fault. I’m not sure I agree with your methods, but you know what, right now, they work and mine don’t. Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about that now. The important thing is, she’s okay.” Deep breath. “Sort of.”
“Sorta. And she ain’t alone.”
Deep sigh. “No. She’s not alone. I’m sorry for taking this out on you.”
Biff stares at him. “Does this mean you ain’t going to hit me?”
“Yes, it does.”
“This mean I can’t hit you?”
Raige shrugs. “I suppose you can if you really want to, but I don’t think you’d find it very satisfying. You haven’t in the past.”
“How d’you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Not hit people when you’re pissed at ‘em.”
Raige shakes his head, and laughs wearily, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll tell you when I have more than four hours sleep and get over the fact that we agree on something.”
The door opens and M.D. looks at them sardonically. “Hey, are you two done pretending I can’t hear you? The walls here are insulated with sawdust or something, and Biff’s voice carries like a foghorn.”
Raige holds up the shopping bag. “I got us tea.”
“What kind?”
“Chamomile and yerba mate.”
“Freak.” But she takes the chamomile from him. “The heck is yerba mate?”
“It’s like coffee, only it’s tea. I’m going to need it tonight.”
“Give me some.” Biff has no idea what yerba mate is, but caffeine sounds good, and it can’t taste worse than instant coffee.
Raige gets to work, and M.D. returns to the couch with a sigh.
“You two do realize I’m capable of dealing with the consequences of my own actions, right?”
If he isn’t careful, Raige might actually turn into a normal human being. He drones, “Yes, I do,” in the same tone Biff says, “Uh huh.”
“You do realize you are not responsible for self-destructive acts I choose to enact upon myself, right?”
Biff goes, “Uh huh,” again. Raige goes, “But—”
“Not. Responsible. Now, if you can’t handle it, that’s fine. I’m not exactly a prizewinner when I’m like this, it’s why I’ve got my own personal padded rumpus room. But until I go berserk, I am still in control of my actions; it’s my job to keep it together, my job to deal with the fallout. Not yours. Your job is to take on only as much as you want to, all right? At any time, you tell me when you can’t take it. You definitely don’t blame each other, all right?”
Raige doesn’t look happy about it and mutters something that doesn’t sound like anything. Biff just dunks the mug in front of her and says, “Drink your frou-frou shit.”
“Aw, you remembered the R this time, you’re learning…”
Yerba mate, it turns out, tastes like tea. Biff still isn’t used to the idea of drinking it hot, but whatever, he’s not in the mood for bitching.
Biff and Raige take the chairs and sit with their mugs of tea and yerba mate. The kid lies limp on the couch, obviously too exhausted for anything, and Raige doesn’t look much better. Biff would put on the TV, if he had one, just to cover up the silence. By his elbow is the Jungle where they left it on the table the week before. For a moment, he’s tempted to pick it up, find her place, and try reading to her. But no way. Even if Fagboy weren’t here, he’s a shitty reader. He’s used to fancy words coming out of the kid’s mouth, but he’d have to sound them out as he reads them, and he’s slow as hell. And that’s not even including the Lithuanian bits.
“You up for cards?” He asks her.
M.D. snorts. “You’d win.”
“I always win.”
“No thanks.”
Everyone sit awkwardly for a moment.
“You think I’ll ever get better?” M.D. asks, leaning her head against the arm of the couch.
Raige sighs and pats her shoulder. “Sure. It’ll just take a while is all. This is a lot of stuff, so it takes a long time to go through.”
She sounds sorrowful. “How long?”
“Lot longer than six weeks,” Biff says, and she makes a face at him.
More silence, then Biff clears his throat and reaches for the Jungle. He holds it up for the kid’s inspection, while Raige watches uncomprehending.
“I really can’t read right now, Biff,” she says.
“I know,” he says, a little offended. “I could give it a shot.”
She blinks. Then she smiles. It’s not much, but it’s real. “Ha. I so won that bet.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Wait,” Raige says. “You’ve been having a book club down here?”
“What’s it to you, Fagboy?” Biff snaps, but he can’t put much punch into it.
“Shut up, Biff,” M.D. says. “He just bailed our broke rumps out, so you don’t get to be a bigot this time around.”
Turns out that even bloodsick, exhausted, and broke in the head, the kid still has a pretty good glare. Biff holds it for a bit, then backs down and looks away.
“Yeah, whatever,” he says.
“To answer your question,” she says to Raige, “I’ve been reading to him. We were partway through the Jungle when this happened.”
“Oh yeah?” Raige’s ears prick up. “Abridged or unexpurgated?”
“Unexpurgated, of course, what do you take me for? Turns out Biff enjoys classic Socialist literature from the turn of the century. Who’d’ve thought?”
“Huh. He always struck me as a Chuck Palahniuk kind of guy, myself…”
“Don’t say that name! Don’t you know if you say his name three times after midnight, he’ll appear in the room? Anyway, Fight Club made me feel dirty inside; reading it aloud, I might as well bathe in grease and dirt for a week…”
“Hey, cut the nerd talk, you want me to read this shit or not?” Biff demands, holding up the Jungle.
Raige holds up his hands and bows out, but M.D. says, “Biff, I have a confession to make.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I loathe Sinclair’s writing.”
Biff pauses. “What?”
“I find the Jungle to be one long depressing trudge.”
“And you read,” brief check, “sixty-five goddamn pages of it to me?”
She shrugs and spreads her bandaged hands. She’s smirking. “What can I say? I really wanted to win that bet.”
Raige laughs behind his hand, and Biff throws down the book with annoyance. Out of frustration, he turns to Raige. “You. Nerdboy. What you got?”
Raige gets his face straight and digs into his backpack. “Uh, let’s see, I just grabbed my bag and dashed out the door, so it’s just my homework and what I was reading before…”
“Is it that gay princess book? Cuz I ain’t listening to no gay princess book.”
“‘Gay princess book’?” M.D. echoes.
“It’s not—never mind, it doesn’t matter, I finished that weeks ago. It’s Dealing with Dragons. Four hundred percent more princess,” he adds, “But two hundred percent less gay.”
Biff rolls his eyes. “Don’t you ever read about guys?”
“Oh, never,” Raige deadpans. “That might imply I’m attracted to them. I’ve also got One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but…”
M.D. groans. “No. No books about loony bins until I no longer belong in one.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Other than that, all I’ve got is the poems of Catallus for my Latin homework.”
M.D. and Biff shudder.
“Great,” M.D. says. “A book I can’t stand, a book he can’t stand, and a book neither of us can stand.”
Raige raises an eyebrow. “Do either of you even know who Catallus is?”
“He’s a poet,” Biff says.
“A dead poet,” M.D. adds. “What more do I need to know?”
Raige looks wry. “Well, obviously you guys are the authorities, but poetry is amazing. He wrote poems that discredited Julius Caesar and threatened unspeakably profane acts on people who mocked him.”
“Then read it to Thomas,” M.D. says. “No poetry.”
Raige spreads his hands. “Well, I’m okay with any of the books, so I’ll leave it to the two of you to duke it out whether we read Kesey or Wrede. I’ll just sit here and wait for you to decide.”
And Biff groans, because he already knows how this is going to turn out. Because he’s a dick, but there’s, ‘punch you for your lunch money’ dick, and then there’s, ‘make the crazy kid listen to books about crazy people’ dick, and it’s five in the morning and Biff has limits.
“Fine. Whatever. We’ll read the goddamned princess book.”
“It really isn’t that bad,” Raige says, pulling it out of his bag. “You might like it.”
“Sorry, Raige,” M.D. says, “if he didn’t like the Princess Bride, he’s not going to like this.”
“No shit. I’m just gonna smoke through it, thanks.”
“What? You didn’t like the Princess Bride?” Apparently this is against Fagboy’s religion or something.
“I know, right?” M.D. says from the couch. “No accounting for taste, I guess.”
“I don’t read about princesses, okay?” Biff snaps.
“No accounting for taste,” M.D. repeats. “You okay with doing the reading, Raige?”
“Sure.” Raige pulls out the battered purple paperback, sips his tea, and starts to read, in a clear, even voice. “‘Linderwall was a large kingdom, just east of the Mountains of Morning, where philosophers were highly respected and the number five was fashionable…’”
The book is shit, but they read until M.D. falls asleep.
Prompt: ‘Weeks’
Summary: Biff gets shot, M.D. falls apart, and Raige reads a lot of books about princesses. Set a few weeks following ‘After the Fall.’ Warnings for self-harm.
Word Count: 17,777
Notes: This story was supposed to be done a long time ago, but things kept adding themselves. For all his dangerous lifestyle, I’ve never written Biff getting really clobbered, while both Raige and M.D. have taken big-time damage in canon. Obviously, this needed to be remedied. Also, I wrote a lot of this either post-op or sick, can ya tell?
Week Six
It’s three in the morning and Biff has just gone to bed when he hears a rapping at his window. When he sits up, he can see the kid’s silhouette on the windowsill. He rushes over to pull the window up for her, since if she can’t manage the concentration to do it herself…
She isn’t shaking. No, she’s vibrating, her eyes big and wild and the night time shadows are slithering around her like rats and snakes.
“All right,” she pants. Her chest is heaving, like she ran the whole way. “I’m here. Now give me something sharp before something bad happens.”
Biff doesn’t argue. He's been around her enough to tell when she’s in the red zone. He rushes to one of the kitchen drawers, pulls out a jack knife, and gives it to her. She snatches it and runs to the bathroom.
“It ain’t sterile.”
“Okay.”
“Rubbing alcohol’s under the sink.”
“Okay.”
“You want me there?”
“No.”
Just as well. Biff isn’t squeamish, but he’s not sure he can handle watching. He grabs his smokes and his lighter, stumps to the window, lights up, and waits.
After a moment, he hears her from the bathroom. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs and rolls the cigarette between his fingers. “You made it. That’s the important thing.”
After another minute, he hears her say, “Biff?”
“Enh?”
“I think I went too deep.”
The cigarette sears into Biff’s skin and he rushes for bandages.
It goes quietly. He still has a bunch from when he got shot, and they’ve both been hurt enough that they know the drill. She keeps her head down so she doesn’t faint, applies pressure. Her skin is pale, and her voice is wan, but she seems calm and the shadows have stopped clinging to her—after all, she wouldn’t do this if it didn’t work.
“All right, it’s all right,” she keeps saying in a glassy voice. “I’m not in any immediate danger, I just… I need a doctor.”
“Your bosses?”
“Jaunting right now is a very bad idea, Biff.”
He jumps to his feet. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call my patcher.”
“The drug dealer?”
“Uh huh. You gonna pass out on me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Biff leaves her bandaged and bloodsick and hurries across the hall. It takes some pounding, but the bag lady finally answers the door.
“What now?”
He holds out his hand. “Phone.”
She looks at the blood on his hand. She gives him the phone.
It takes four rings for Med School to pick up, but her voice sounds only slightly blurry. She’s used to being called out in the middle of the night. “Mandy Rosenthal speaking.”
“’S me. I need you.”
“So soon? Can you pay me?”
Biff bites his tongue, his fingers twitch for a cigarette that isn’t there, and he makes a quick decision. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
“What is it?”
“Knife. Hand.” The words aren’t putting themselves together for him.
“Does it need stitches?”
Biff covers the receiver. “Kid, you need stitches?”
After a moment, she goes, “Maybe?” Her voice is slurred.
He uncovers the receiver. “Yeah.”
“Oh, so it’s not you.” She sounds intrigued. “I’ll be there. Keep pressure on it.”
He hangs up. Then he rushes to the kid to get Raige’s phone number.
The first time, it goes to the answering machine, so Biff hangs up and tries again. If he can’t get the money from Fagboy, they’re fucked; M.D. could never afford it, and Biff can’t pound a free patch job out of Med School right now because of his damn shoulder. He’s about to hang up and try again when the line picks up, but the voice isn’t Raige’s.
“What the hell do you want?” The voice snarls.
Huh. Old man Unnigrutt. “Can I talk to—” no, no, can’t call him Fagboy, “Raige?”
“It is three thirty in the goddamn morning!”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Who is this? What do you want with my son?”
Biff wishes he could punch people through the phone. Punching always works in person, and words aren’t fucking working right now, and he has to force his hand to relax because he can’t afford to break the phone. All he can say is, “It’s an emergency.”
“Eat shit and die, you—”
There’s a click. “I got it, Dad.” Raige’s voice is muzzy and groggy. “Go back to sleep.”
A grumble, then a click. Raige says, “Can I help you?”
“It’s the kid.”
Raige’s voice goes immediately clear. “Oh god. Is she okay?”
Biff glances back at his apartment. “Uh…”
“Okay, okay, what happened? What does she need from me?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“I—” It’s stupid, he’s worked with Med School before, he knows her price range, and he can’t remember. “I dunno, money!”
“What happened?”
Words. Fucking words. Why does everyone need words out of him right now, Jesus Christ. “She cut too deep—”
“Oh god.”
“Naw, naw, I got someone coming—” Down the stairwell, he hears the door slam. One of the reasons he uses Rosenthal; for all her airs, she still lives on south side, and she’s fast. “She’s coming now, but I can’t pay her.”
“I’ll be right there. Does she take checks?”
“I don’t know! I don’t got a checkbook!”
Mandy Rosenthal is rushing up the stairs. She has a small black luggage case under her arm. “Where?”
Biff points to his apartment. “Checks. You take ‘em?”
“From someone reputable.” She forges up the stairs towards his apartment.
“She takes checks,” Biff says to Raige.
Raige’s voice is muffled and there’s background noise, like he’s getting dressed as he talks. “Okay, okay, I’m headed for the car now, I’ll—”
“No! Don’t drive. Take the C line, it’ll take you longer, but ain’t nobody gonna steal it out from under you.”
“But—”
“You wanna lose your daddy’s Lexus? Fine. You don’t? Take the goddamn C line.”
“Okay, fine. I’m on my way.” Click.
Biff doesn’t have time to feel relieved. He’s running back to his apartment.
M.D.’s out cold on his bathroom floor. Biff freezes, but Mandy Rosenthal just looks at him over her mask and says, “You didn’t say he was a fainter.”
And he knows that, he should know that, he knows how much blood loss it takes to really get sick, but all he can say is, “She.”
“Whatever.” She’s laying down a sheet now, since the floor isn’t too clean. “Help me move him.”
Biff’s shoulder burns at the effort, but fuck, the kid doesn’t weigh squat, he’ll be fine, so he takes her legs, Rosenthal takes her shoulders, and they get her onto the sheet. Rosenthal is already gloved up and has her luggage bag open, pulling out sharp things and stuff Biff can’t even guess at.
“Can I do anything?” He asks.
“Yes. Get out of the way.” She pulls out a bottle.
Biff gets out of the way.
M.D. starts regaining consciousness when she hits the sheet. And she’s dopey and pale, too dopey to do much, but she sees the needle and Med School and her whole body gives a violent jerk.
“N-no. Get off me.” Her voice is shrill, slurred, and panicked, and when she tries to raise her arms, Med School just pins them down. The patcher’s just doing the job she’s used to, but M.D.’s eyes are starting to snap back into wild, white-eyed focus again, and she keeps this up, the fainting haze isn’t going to keep her down and she’ll go berserk anyway. Biff doesn’t know what to do or how to do it, so since Med School has her arms out of reach, he puts a hand on her forehead, because it’s the only skin he can reach.
The kid’s skin is cold and clammy, and her body jerks again, but she’s never been able to control the psychic shit, definitely not now, and he feels her in his head, sick, confused, and hemorrhaging fear because she’s been on a table with strangers and needles before, and she can’t remember how or why and—
Biff wraps around the adrenaline, tries to tamp it down, forces her attention. He can’t tell how much he’s talking with his mouth and how much his mind, but long as she hears it, he doesn’t care. “Easy. Easy, easy. That’s my patcher. You don’t want to look at her, she’s ugly as fuck, over here, huh?”
Rosenthal makes a derisive noise. The kid says, “the drug dealer?” Her voice is all sorts of fractured, and he can feel the tense ball in her chest like it’s his, but at least she’s looking at him with eyes going something close to human again.
“Yup. That’s her. S’okay, she’s good at what she does.”
He can tell when the needle goes in, because the kid lurches again. And shit, she needs a distraction, but Biff can’t talk right now, M.D. usually does all the talking, so he pulls the first thing out of his head he can think of, says, “Tell me how you met Fagboy.”
And she can’t laugh, not like this, but she gives it a try. “Jeez. You must be desperate.”
“Uh huh. Just shut up and tell me.”
“Th… that’s a contradiction in terms…” But she starts talking, and fuck all if Biff can understand anything she says, something about a plane and ferrets and the forest up north, God knows what, but as long as she’s talking and paying attention to that, she’s still here.
Rosenthal moves fast. She finishes the job right as M.D. winds down with something about wild boars or bears—he can’t tell which, and doesn’t much care.
“You’ll be fine,” Rosenthal says, swabbing M.D.’s hand down. “Just some bandages, and you’re done.”
“Yippee,” M.D. slurs, and tries to reach for the bandages herself.
“Let her finish,” Biff tells her, and M.D. goes limp, too sick to put up a fight.
Rosenthal eyes the two of them with curiosity. “You two family or something?”
“Why,” M.D. mumbles, “does everyone think we’re related?”
“Cuz we’re both mutts,” Biff tells her, and goes back to Rosenthal. “Kid be okay?”
“Fine, he’s fine.” Rosenthal tapes the bandages neatly and starts packing away her gear. “He’s tough; he’ll be on his feet in no time.”
“She,” Biff says.
“Whatever,” M.D. says.
“Whatever.” Rosenthal stands up, stripping off her gloves. “There, patched. Now where’s my money, MacGilligan?”
“It’s coming.”
M.D. looks up at him. “You called Raige. Didn’t you?”
He realizes that his bad leg is starting to ache from squatting, and he shifts his weight to take the pressure off it. “Yup.”
Her voice is plaintive. “It’s a school night.”
“He’ll live.”
“Who?” Rosenthal asks.
A patcher is not someone to stiff, and Rosenthal looks impatient to get going back to bed, so it’s just as well that Raige surges through the door in an undershirt and pants with the belt undone and his shoes untied. Biff hastily pulls his hand from the kid’s skin.
“Hey! Are you okay? I brought—”
M.D. just covers her face and groans. Her voice is still slurred. “Fine. I’m fine. I had a minor incident and Biff panicked.”
“Yeah, because, you know, that’s exactly what you two are known for: minor incidents and panicking. Thank you,” he adds to Biff.
Biff mutters and rubs the back of his neck.
Rosenthal clears her throat and makes her way out of the overcrowded bathroom to hold out her hand.
“Right!” Raige pulls his check book out of his pocket. “How much?”
“I’ll pay you back,” M.D. slurs.
“No, you won’t, kid. How much?”
Rosenthal and Raige get payment hashed out. Turns out that Rosenthal knows the Unnigrutt family name, and is business associates with a friend of the family, and she starts talking fancy business while Raige looks steadily more and more uncomfortable. Biff takes the time to get M.D. moved to the couch. The bed is closer, but he doesn’t want anyone in it but him, and she’s still too wobbly to walk by herself.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Enh.” He finds his smokes and lighter and lights up.
“You’re not supposed to smoke around open wounds, you know.”
He moves to the fire escape, close enough to still keep an eye on her.
“I meant yours.”
His shoulder and leg hurt, but Biff barely feels them. He grunts, inhales smoke, and waits for the nicotine to calm him down. He doesn’t hear the kid move, but he knows she’s watching him.
“Are you all right?” She asks finally.
He grunts.
Rosenthal walks by, looking oddly cheery, and Raige closes the door after her. “Jesus. Two degrees of separation,” he mutters, and starts bustling and wrapping M.D. in a blanket. She hardly manages even token protest. Biff lets Fagboy do his thing and proceeds to chain smoke his way through half a pack of cigarettes, using the dying butts of the old to light the new, letting their voices wash over him. After a while, he calms down enough to listen.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“It’s Thursday. You have school.”
“Not the highest priority in my life at this second, sorry.”
“Didn’t want to bug you.”
“What’s bugging me is that apparently Biff is more worthy of bugging. He had to call me. Jesus, kid…”
“Oh come on, it’s not like he’s got anything better to do with his time.”
“He’s shot! Look at him, I think you broke him.”
Biff puts another butt in the beer can and gives them the finger over his shoulder.
“What I mean is, I’m not hurt, all I’ve got on my plate is my Calculus test and marching regionals, and you know what? I don’t plan to be a mathematician, and I know the show, so it’s really not that important in the scheme of things. So I have a full tank—do you have any tea?”
It takes a second for Biff to realize Raige is talking to him. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and goes, “Huh?”
“Tea. Do you have any?”
Biff stares at him for a moment, trying to find out if Raige is kidding. He’s not.
“No,” he finally says.
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“Non-alcoholic,” M.D. clarifies.
For the life of him, Biff can’t remember, so he shuffles to the fridge to go check. Both M.D. and Raige’s eyes follow him with far too much attention.
“Broke him,” Raige says with finality.
“I did not—”
“Shaddap!” Biff whines. God in Heaven, the two of them are even worse when they’re together. “I got milk, water, and Gatorade, okay?”
“Don’t drink the water,” M.D. advises. “You might get cholera.”
“It’s fine,” Biff says. “It ain’t from the sink.”
“Milk, please,” Raige says.
Biff doesn’t even think to say something sarcastic, just dumps it on the counter with a muttered, “It’s organic.”
“I know,” Raige says. “I’m the one who bought it. You want any?”
Biff grunts because he doesn’t know or care. M.D. takes water, and Raige goes and finds the cups himself, because Biff is having trouble focusing. And Biff will never admit it, not under torture, but he is relieved Raige is around, because even if he’s a fag and a pain, he’s got more juice in him. Biff might’ve signed up for this, but still, he chose one hell of a time to quit drinking.
“Why didn’t you come to me right away?” Raige asks as he sets the cups down. “And don’t give me the ‘Thursday’ explanation again, the real reason.”
Apparently M.D.’s as sick of everything as Biff is, because she snaps, “Because I worry about burdening you.”
That makes Raige hesitate, and his voice quiets as he pours the milk. “I thought we got through this before. You don’t burden me.”
“Yes, I do. And I hurt you.”
“But not Biff.”
“Oh, no, I hurt him all the time. I’m just relieved of the burden of caring.”
Raige looks up at Biff like he’s expecting some kind of freak-out. When that’s not what he gets, he asks, “And you’re okay with this?”
Biff blinks at him. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Why you think I hang ‘round her all the time?”
Raige looks like he’s in pain for a second, then passes Biff a glass of water. “I really should know better by now than to ask questions when I won’t understand the answer. Anyway, though I appreciate the input, because it means we’ll have to talk more,” now M.D. looks like she’s in pain, “that actually wasn’t what I meant. I meant that you called me later, but not immediately. Why?”
“Uh…” And M.D. gives Biff an uneasy look. And Raige is a fag, not an idiot, so he sets down the water very gently, and his voice gets very serious.
“What happened?”
M.D. goes, “Uh…” again, and Biff knows now that he should never have agreed to quit drinking, because this going to go over like—
“What. Happened.”
“She wasn’t done,” Biff says, and tosses the empty cigarette pack in the trash.
At first, Raige doesn’t seem to get it, just stands there with a confused look. Then he goes very still. He picks up the water and the milk again. Puts them back in the fridge. Picks up a rag and starts cleaning up loose spills. All without saying a word. M.D. alternates between watching him nervously and glaring at Biff like she wants to kill him. Biff just smokes his last cigarette and waits for the inevitable explosion.
When he finishes cleaning up, Raige says calmly, “I’m going to go buy some tea,” and leaves. He doesn’t even slam the door.
M.D. and Biff watch him go.
“Nice going,” M.D. says.
“Shut up. Thought you was some good liar.”
“I’m having an off day.”
“Yeah, well, so am I. Get off my ass already.” And he goes to find a new pack of cigarettes.
She watches him smoke on the fire escape.
“Are you all right?”
He grunts.
“It’s just, I’ve never seen you inhale tar so… emphatically.”
“I stopped drinking, ‘member?”
She rolls her eyes and holds up her hand, swathed in gauze. “Kinda blew my end of that deal.”
“The bet ain’t over.”
He smokes for a while, then straightens up against the railing. He holds up his left wrist, point to the armband without facing her.
“I cut too deep by accident.”
“Oh. I—”
He lowers his arm, waves a hand. “It was a long time ago.”
She’s silent for a while, then says, “I thought it wasn’t an accident.”
Biff shrugs, even though it hurts. “It was a long time ago.” Who knows anymore.
A few minutes later, Raige comes back with a shopping bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t look any happier, but at least he didn’t get mugged. He stands in the doorway with the bag and says to Biff, “May I talk to you for a second?”
Great. Biff looks at M.D. “Don’t burn the place down,” he tells her.
“What, and leave the rats homeless?”
Biff sighs, flicks ash off his cigarette, and limps out into the hall. This time, Raige doesn’t manage to keep from slamming the door. When he speaks, it’s at a strained, high-pitched whisper/shriek.
“You didn’t stop her?”
“No.”
“The hell is wrong with you?”
But Biff has had enough. He hasn’t shouted all night, and now is as good a time as any to start. It feels damn good. “Fuck you, Fagboy, it’s five in the fucking morning. I am tired, I been shot twice, and she was on my fucking fire escape about to go berserk. You wanna take her on like that, you go ahead, see how good it works out for you this time. So yeah, I gave her a jack knife, let her finish, got the patcher, called you. Better here with us than in the rubber room. Why, what would you do, Fagboy, talk her better?”
And Raige goes white, blue eyes burning, and thank Jesus, it’s been six weeks since Biff had a fight and he’s never seen Raige snap before. He wants to see how it turns out. But no, Raige takes a few deep breaths, and relaxes his shoulders and hands like it hurts and after a long moment, he goes, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The fuck?
He keeps going. “I’m tired, I’m worried, I’m upset, and I’m taking it out on you. I didn’t realize she was doing this poorly, I’m kind of freaked out right now, and I’m jealous that she seems to be more okay with going to you for this than me, but none of that is your fault. I’m not sure I agree with your methods, but you know what, right now, they work and mine don’t. Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about that now. The important thing is, she’s okay.” Deep breath. “Sort of.”
“Sorta. And she ain’t alone.”
Deep sigh. “No. She’s not alone. I’m sorry for taking this out on you.”
Biff stares at him. “Does this mean you ain’t going to hit me?”
“Yes, it does.”
“This mean I can’t hit you?”
Raige shrugs. “I suppose you can if you really want to, but I don’t think you’d find it very satisfying. You haven’t in the past.”
“How d’you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Not hit people when you’re pissed at ‘em.”
Raige shakes his head, and laughs wearily, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll tell you when I have more than four hours sleep and get over the fact that we agree on something.”
The door opens and M.D. looks at them sardonically. “Hey, are you two done pretending I can’t hear you? The walls here are insulated with sawdust or something, and Biff’s voice carries like a foghorn.”
Raige holds up the shopping bag. “I got us tea.”
“What kind?”
“Chamomile and yerba mate.”
“Freak.” But she takes the chamomile from him. “The heck is yerba mate?”
“It’s like coffee, only it’s tea. I’m going to need it tonight.”
“Give me some.” Biff has no idea what yerba mate is, but caffeine sounds good, and it can’t taste worse than instant coffee.
Raige gets to work, and M.D. returns to the couch with a sigh.
“You two do realize I’m capable of dealing with the consequences of my own actions, right?”
If he isn’t careful, Raige might actually turn into a normal human being. He drones, “Yes, I do,” in the same tone Biff says, “Uh huh.”
“You do realize you are not responsible for self-destructive acts I choose to enact upon myself, right?”
Biff goes, “Uh huh,” again. Raige goes, “But—”
“Not. Responsible. Now, if you can’t handle it, that’s fine. I’m not exactly a prizewinner when I’m like this, it’s why I’ve got my own personal padded rumpus room. But until I go berserk, I am still in control of my actions; it’s my job to keep it together, my job to deal with the fallout. Not yours. Your job is to take on only as much as you want to, all right? At any time, you tell me when you can’t take it. You definitely don’t blame each other, all right?”
Raige doesn’t look happy about it and mutters something that doesn’t sound like anything. Biff just dunks the mug in front of her and says, “Drink your frou-frou shit.”
“Aw, you remembered the R this time, you’re learning…”
Yerba mate, it turns out, tastes like tea. Biff still isn’t used to the idea of drinking it hot, but whatever, he’s not in the mood for bitching.
Biff and Raige take the chairs and sit with their mugs of tea and yerba mate. The kid lies limp on the couch, obviously too exhausted for anything, and Raige doesn’t look much better. Biff would put on the TV, if he had one, just to cover up the silence. By his elbow is the Jungle where they left it on the table the week before. For a moment, he’s tempted to pick it up, find her place, and try reading to her. But no way. Even if Fagboy weren’t here, he’s a shitty reader. He’s used to fancy words coming out of the kid’s mouth, but he’d have to sound them out as he reads them, and he’s slow as hell. And that’s not even including the Lithuanian bits.
“You up for cards?” He asks her.
M.D. snorts. “You’d win.”
“I always win.”
“No thanks.”
Everyone sit awkwardly for a moment.
“You think I’ll ever get better?” M.D. asks, leaning her head against the arm of the couch.
Raige sighs and pats her shoulder. “Sure. It’ll just take a while is all. This is a lot of stuff, so it takes a long time to go through.”
She sounds sorrowful. “How long?”
“Lot longer than six weeks,” Biff says, and she makes a face at him.
More silence, then Biff clears his throat and reaches for the Jungle. He holds it up for the kid’s inspection, while Raige watches uncomprehending.
“I really can’t read right now, Biff,” she says.
“I know,” he says, a little offended. “I could give it a shot.”
She blinks. Then she smiles. It’s not much, but it’s real. “Ha. I so won that bet.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Wait,” Raige says. “You’ve been having a book club down here?”
“What’s it to you, Fagboy?” Biff snaps, but he can’t put much punch into it.
“Shut up, Biff,” M.D. says. “He just bailed our broke rumps out, so you don’t get to be a bigot this time around.”
Turns out that even bloodsick, exhausted, and broke in the head, the kid still has a pretty good glare. Biff holds it for a bit, then backs down and looks away.
“Yeah, whatever,” he says.
“To answer your question,” she says to Raige, “I’ve been reading to him. We were partway through the Jungle when this happened.”
“Oh yeah?” Raige’s ears prick up. “Abridged or unexpurgated?”
“Unexpurgated, of course, what do you take me for? Turns out Biff enjoys classic Socialist literature from the turn of the century. Who’d’ve thought?”
“Huh. He always struck me as a Chuck Palahniuk kind of guy, myself…”
“Don’t say that name! Don’t you know if you say his name three times after midnight, he’ll appear in the room? Anyway, Fight Club made me feel dirty inside; reading it aloud, I might as well bathe in grease and dirt for a week…”
“Hey, cut the nerd talk, you want me to read this shit or not?” Biff demands, holding up the Jungle.
Raige holds up his hands and bows out, but M.D. says, “Biff, I have a confession to make.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I loathe Sinclair’s writing.”
Biff pauses. “What?”
“I find the Jungle to be one long depressing trudge.”
“And you read,” brief check, “sixty-five goddamn pages of it to me?”
She shrugs and spreads her bandaged hands. She’s smirking. “What can I say? I really wanted to win that bet.”
Raige laughs behind his hand, and Biff throws down the book with annoyance. Out of frustration, he turns to Raige. “You. Nerdboy. What you got?”
Raige gets his face straight and digs into his backpack. “Uh, let’s see, I just grabbed my bag and dashed out the door, so it’s just my homework and what I was reading before…”
“Is it that gay princess book? Cuz I ain’t listening to no gay princess book.”
“‘Gay princess book’?” M.D. echoes.
“It’s not—never mind, it doesn’t matter, I finished that weeks ago. It’s Dealing with Dragons. Four hundred percent more princess,” he adds, “But two hundred percent less gay.”
Biff rolls his eyes. “Don’t you ever read about guys?”
“Oh, never,” Raige deadpans. “That might imply I’m attracted to them. I’ve also got One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but…”
M.D. groans. “No. No books about loony bins until I no longer belong in one.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Other than that, all I’ve got is the poems of Catallus for my Latin homework.”
M.D. and Biff shudder.
“Great,” M.D. says. “A book I can’t stand, a book he can’t stand, and a book neither of us can stand.”
Raige raises an eyebrow. “Do either of you even know who Catallus is?”
“He’s a poet,” Biff says.
“A dead poet,” M.D. adds. “What more do I need to know?”
Raige looks wry. “Well, obviously you guys are the authorities, but poetry is amazing. He wrote poems that discredited Julius Caesar and threatened unspeakably profane acts on people who mocked him.”
“Then read it to Thomas,” M.D. says. “No poetry.”
Raige spreads his hands. “Well, I’m okay with any of the books, so I’ll leave it to the two of you to duke it out whether we read Kesey or Wrede. I’ll just sit here and wait for you to decide.”
And Biff groans, because he already knows how this is going to turn out. Because he’s a dick, but there’s, ‘punch you for your lunch money’ dick, and then there’s, ‘make the crazy kid listen to books about crazy people’ dick, and it’s five in the morning and Biff has limits.
“Fine. Whatever. We’ll read the goddamned princess book.”
“It really isn’t that bad,” Raige says, pulling it out of his bag. “You might like it.”
“Sorry, Raige,” M.D. says, “if he didn’t like the Princess Bride, he’s not going to like this.”
“No shit. I’m just gonna smoke through it, thanks.”
“What? You didn’t like the Princess Bride?” Apparently this is against Fagboy’s religion or something.
“I know, right?” M.D. says from the couch. “No accounting for taste, I guess.”
“I don’t read about princesses, okay?” Biff snaps.
“No accounting for taste,” M.D. repeats. “You okay with doing the reading, Raige?”
“Sure.” Raige pulls out the battered purple paperback, sips his tea, and starts to read, in a clear, even voice. “‘Linderwall was a large kingdom, just east of the Mountains of Morning, where philosophers were highly respected and the number five was fashionable…’”
The book is shit, but they read until M.D. falls asleep.
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Date: 2013-09-26 05:17 am (UTC)But dear God! look at the clock! idiot! (That's Loiosh [see icon] talking to me. Sort of.)
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Date: 2013-09-29 02:18 am (UTC)--Rogan