2013-02-23 Housecall

It's a gloomy day in New York City, and that atmosphere seems to have traveled into a small studio apartment in Harlem. It's not a great neighborhood, but Fern has lived here for a couple months now and has adjusted somewhat to the nightly noises and comings and going of her neighbors. After a rough couple days, she skipped her usual trip to Anita Bella yesterday to pick up her paycheck, an anomaly that hasn't gone unnoticed by Anita and Julius. Her apartment, all one room of it, looks empty, with only a pile of blankets on the futon/bed looking out of place in the tidy space. Although, soft music does play from an outdated boombox on the floor near the lump of linens.

One has survived for a long time in the midst of dangerous situations by being cautious to the point of paranoia. When he visited Anita's for his usual Saturday brunch, he was alarmed to find that Fern hadn't been in, nor had she been in contact. It didn't take much plying or prying for One to get his hands on the address to Fern's place, but it came with his promise that he'd return and deliver any news personally.

Which brings us to his current location. Brow furrowed, lips pressed together into a flat line, he's perched on the fire escape and is observing the interior of the apartment with wary eyes. Like a wild animal, he cocks his ear to the side and listens, then lifts his nose to snuffle at the air. When no clues are forthcoming, he gives the window a quick TAP-TAP-TAP, then ducks to the side and out of sight.

It takes a second after the tapping, but a head pops up from amidst the tumble of blankets, the red hair unmistakable even in it's ruffled state. Fern looks toward the door automatically, not expecting that the noise came from elsewhere. Six locks line the door, along with a chain and a metal rod that props against a metal plate in the floor and snugs into a metal plate into the center of the door. The head disappears as Fern leans forward, hitting stop on the cd and pressing a button on the tape player. At once there's the sound of a large barking dog, and she slides the volume up. Straightening, she raises her voice. "Down, Killer... good boy!" She doesn't move yet from her little nest.

On the other side of his window, One is watching via a very old observation technique. He's used a piece of chewed gum to stick a small shaving mirror to the end of his field knife, and has peeked the assembly just around the edge of the sill. Once he's reassured himself that there's no immediate danger, he pulls the mirror free and pockets it, discards the gum, and tucks the folding knife into one of his jacket pockets. Then he steps out to reveal himself, smiling crookedly as he balances on the rickety fire escape's landing. There's another knock, along with a wave now that he's in plain sight.

At the second knock, clearly coming from the window and not the door, Fern's head turns quickly, eyes wide and frightened. As soon as she sees the familiar form, and that welcome smile, the expression changes. "One!" She leans down to slap the dog barking quiet, and bounds up, nearly vaulting the futon to get to the window. A lock is twisted, a metal rod removed from the window's track, and she pushes it up and steps back to allow him room to come in.

Along with the ruffled hair, she just looks generally ruffled. She's not in her uniform, perhaps the first time One's seen her in 'civilian' clothes, and wears flannel pants in red and blue plaid, a black v-neck t-shirt, and a well worn hoodie flaps around her. She looks at him curiously. "Most people come to doors."

"I'm not most people," One points out cheerfully. "And I... Anita was worried. I figured I'd take a look around first, just to be safe."

Visibly relieved now that he knows Fern isn't in any danger, he shifts his feet and tugs his coat a little tighter around himself. Though he's not wearing his armored vest, his Webley is holstered under one arm. The big revolver isn't exactly a subtle weapon, but he keeps smiling as he shifts a lapel to better conceal it. "Ahem. I like your dog. Um. Anyway, I'm glad you're okay. You are okay, right?"

Bare feet pad lightly on the bare floor as Fern steps forward almost before One's finished speaking, boldly wrapping her arms around his waist, and the man suddenly finds himself with a red headed barnacle clinging to him. She's short enough that her hug lands below the holstered gun, so she remains oblivious for the moment. "I'm not ok, but I'm not so bad now," she says, cheek pressed to the center of his chest.

Caught thoroughly unprepared, One's mouth drops open slightly and he instinctively holds his arms out to his sides. After a few seconds, though, he curls them around Fern and cradles her gently against his torso. A hand reaches up to trail through her tousled locks. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Let me help."

There's a sigh, and Fern seems in no hurry at all to release One. It's the most secure she's felt in two days and she just wants to take a moment and gather herself. Actually, it might really be the most secure she's felt since leaving Ohio, truth be told. Finally, without releasing her hold, she tilts her head to look up, and the words just spill out. "Some lady got shot, and this guy grabbed me, but there was another guy there who grabbed him, and I wanted to help the lady but she took off, and then the other guy's eyes went all red, and I ran." She doesn't bother to try and make sense yet, just needing to get that burden off her soul.

It's the kind of tumbling, confused story that's guaranteed to take a bit of sorting. Rather than try to figure it all out at once, One gives Fern a reassuring little squeeze and whispers, "Don't worry. I've got you. As long as I'm here, it'll take a lot more than some angry guy to put you in harm's way."

As warm and calm as his words are, there's a set to his jaw and a hardness to his eyes. He'll be going hunting tonight. And the next night, and the next, until he's found whatever problem this is and solved it.

The soothing words visibly ease Fern's face, although it takes another minute for her grip on him to loosen. "I've never seen anyone shot before. I think she was one of those special people, because she jumped a fence and took off." There was a lot Fern didn't notice in those moments, thankfully, like the guy with the gun that got him arm ripped off by something.

Finally, she moves to step back but reaches one hand, still bandaged, to take his hand softly. "Come sit down? I can make you some coffee or something?" The bandage looks a little worse for wear, smudged with dirt from the alley, and a rusty spot not quite showing all the way through from where it bled fresh. "I have a box of macaroni and cheese I can make, if you're hungry."

She turns to lead him away from the window, toward the single piece of furniture to sit on. The apartment is sparse but clean, freshly painted when she moved in to make it less dingy and depressing. The kitchen is so only in name, consisting of sink, a small refrigerator, and an oven that looks at old as Fern herself. The only thing causing clutter, aside from her nest of blankets, are paperback books stacked on the battered coffee table.

"I'm okay," One says absently. "I can go several days without eating or sleeping before it starts to slow me down."

He's pacing the confines of the small apartment thoughtfully. Already, he's mentally wired a shotgun to the door and a claymore mine to the window, just as he's done at his own apartment. Not something that's likely to go over well with a civilian. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small metal disc. It's about the size of a half dollar, but is twice as thick and has a tiny speaker on one side. "It'd make me feel better if you take this," he says, offering it to Fern. "It's a GPS and radio unit. Pinch it like this..." he pauses to demonstrate. "...and I'll know where you are and that you need help. Okay?"

The comment about his need to eat and sleep stops Fern as she's backing toward the kitchen, and she watches him. She can almost hear the gears turning in his head as he looks around her small living space. Or the whir of the hard drive, as it were.

She steps forward again, hand out to accept the disc, watching as he shows her how to pinch it before he releases it to her. She turns it in her fingers, studying it, then looks up again to study him. "Okay," she says, a touch of uncertainty in her tone.

"I just don't want anything to happen to you," One says in an attempt to explain his behavior. The right side of his mouth tugs upward into a small, crooked smile as he reaches out to brush the backs of two fingers against Fern's cheek. His hand trails down her arm and ends up toying with the bandage around her hand. The wrappings around his own palms are gone, and there's no sign of whatever injury they may have concealed. "We should change this. Got to keep it clean or it'll never heal."

Fern tilts her head, accepting the brush of his fingers, and she doesn't pull away as the touch travels down to her bandaged hand. She does notice his own lack of matching bandages, and that there is no bruise lingering at his cheek, no bandaids on his forehead. Her eyes drop and she makes a face at her battered bandage.

"I fell in the alley.  Tripped on some garbage when I tried to run before the guy grabbed me. Stupid." She sighs and looks back up to One's face. "I bought some stuff, lemme get it."

She pulls away gently and turns, opening the door to the claustrophobic bathroom, grabbing a brown bag off the back of the commode. "C'mon," she says as she crosses to flop down onto the futon, pushing the blankets aside to make room for two. She bought cheap supplies, but at least she got some gauze pads and wrap, and a bottle of peroxide, and they're set onto the coffee table in a neat row.

These items are augmented with supplies from inside of One's bulky jacket. A pair of gloves, sealed, and his field surgery kit quickly make an appearance. They're items he never leaves home without.

Once he's donned the gloves, he snip-snips his way through the soiled bandages and inspects Fern's wound. "Mm. Fear can lead us to make strange decisions." He follows the cryptic statement with a small smile. "You seem none the worse for wear. Let's wash it and wrap it back up, yeah?"

As he speaks, he moistens one of the gauze pads with a bit of peroxide, sets another pad off to the side, and digs out a roll of white tape. "Shouldn't take a tick."

Fern nods, acquiescing to One's much greater knowledge. She watches his hands as he tends her, finally relaying the story a bit more sensibly as he works. The story is told of the audition running late, the woman being 'escorted' into an alley by five men and Fern's own poor judgment when she attempted to creep back and was spotted. She wouldn't have been much help, if any (as she clearly wasn't) but she couldn't just walk away from that. Her attempt at flight is winced at again, and she admits a bit reluctantly, "When he reached for me I bit him, but he got me anyway. And then that other guy was there, and he made the guy let go of me. But when I went to help the lady she ran away and told us to run too."

"It's better that you ran. Five guys can be a lot to handle." One swabs the cut carefully, then tapes a fresh square of bandaging over it. "It was brave of you to try and help. A bit overzealous, perhaps, but brave all the same."

The doctor makes no attempt to stifle his smile as he touches his finger to his lips, then brushes his fingertip over the new bandage. "I'm just glad you're safe."

"Psh," Fern breathes, "It wasn't brave, it was stupid, but I just couldn't leave. I saw that guy that looked at me all creepy had a gun in his jacket."

She smiles too, at the kiss as the final step in her treatment. Blue eyes raise, looking to his face with earnest sincerity. "Thank you. I would have stayed under the blankets all day if you hadn't come by."

"I'm just glad Anita likes me," One replies, ducking his head slightly and glancing away. "I think if anyone else showed up asking for your address, she would've showed them the wrong end of her broom."

He balances Fern's injured hand in both of his, his thumb tracing light lines around the edges of the gauze square. "Be careful around guys with guns, okay? They're pretty dangerous if you don't have one, too."

Words of Anita draw a soft laugh, and Fern nods, dislodging a strand of hair to fall into her eyes. "And that would be her in a good mood. I'm so lucky that I found the job there. They're so good to us. And you came in there," she adds, more softly, gaze falling away.

There's a pause, before she notes, "Not all guys with guns are dangerous." It's something of a pointed remark, but delivered gently and without judgment.

"True," One concedes. "But most of us are."

He lets his statement hang in the air for a few moments, then clears his throat. "You'll never have anything to fear from me." As much as he's tried to make that obvious, it still feels like something that needs to be said out loud. "No matter how strange I might seem sometimes. I have few enough friends that I can't afford to lose any. Especially you."

Fern turns her hand so it can lightly grip one of his own, bringing the other to trap it. "I've never felt anything but safe with you, One. How can I not feel safe with a guy that's man enough to play cement mixer with his rootbeer float?" The words hold a playful tease, accompanied by a soft squeeze of her hands. "I'll never be able to repay how kind you are to me. But I'll never stop trying."

One opens his mouth, then closes it again without speaking. A small smile stretches across his face. Rather than argue her claim or her reasoning, he just nods. "Okay. Yeah. I can live with that."

As his smile grows wider, it becomes clear that he's more than happy with this arrangement.

The widening of One's smile bolsters Fern's and she releases his hands to stand. "I'm making you something to eat," she announces. "You might as well get comfortable. Sorry I don't have a TV, but if you want to pick out some music, I have a case of cds under the futon." She pads off to get some water started for macaroni and cheese. It may not be much, but it'll darn sure be made with more love than anything he'll ever get at a restaurant.