lucetilogs | I've cost you a lot of trouble.

I've cost you a lot of trouble.

Who: Peeta Mellark, Adele LeBlanc, Hiccup Haddock, Sabriel, Helios Sprensonne, Katniss Everdeen, and probably Rue.
What: Peeta arrives in Luceti and gives everyone the wrong impression.
When: Evening of May 3rd.
Where: The Barracks and around it.
Summary: A second ago, Peeta was entering the arena. Now, he believes he's there already.
Rating: Let's say R for violence. Blood does make it an R-rating automatically, right? Won't be too bad, though. More like PG-13. Or something. There's a reason I don't do this professionally. More than one reason.

Portia stands with hands at her sides, a muscle in her jaw working to keep her face even despite the moisture already glinting in her eyes. Peeta, in his last moment outside the arena, touches his fingertips to the soundproof glass of the tube. In a fit of sentimentality, Portia touches her own fingertips to her lips and sends the kiss his way.

With three fingers.

Peeta has exactly enough time to see the color drain from his reflection’s face before he begins to rise.

Between the dressing room and the pedestal, there’s a brief moment of utter blackness. Peeta has, both times he has been a tribute, resolved never to close his eyes going into the arena. But that moment of blackness comes, when the only light is that being blocked by the platform he’s standing on, and the next time he sees light, he’s not standing on a pedestal, but lying down on a cold floor without knowing he ever went horizontal.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings. Did I pass out? he asks the ceiling. The ceiling does not give any clues. Peeta sits up, and wonders for a moment if he is inside the Cornucopia, dragged there for his own safety after being clocked on the head during the bloodbath. But if that were the case, whoever cared so much for his life wouldn’t have left him. Not unless they were already dead. And shouldn't he have an enormous headache? Besides, there’s a door, and the Cornucopia doesn’t have a door. It’s also, well, cornucopia-shaped, whereas this building is as rectangular as they come. Still, maybe it’s different this year. The weapons hanging on the walls would certainly indicate a temporary residence in the Cornucopia.

His old instincts take over and urge him to make haste. First goal: arm yourself. Second goal: find Katniss. He doesn’t note his half-nakedness until he tries strapping a knife to his belt. One of the other tributes must have stolen his clothes while he was out. Smart. He carefully examines the knife, keeping one eye on not only the door, but the shadows of the room. Anything could come out of those.

The knives look normal. He sniffs, making sure there’s no toxin on them that can absorb through the skin. Quickly, he chooses one, unsheathes it, and slowly approaches the door. When he cracks it open, he sees cobblestone streets being walked by people.

People. Streets.

The Gamemakers are sick. Setting the Quarter Quell in a town, with innocents being caught in the crossfire. Is this a way to create obstacles for the tributes who care about sparing lives? The Careers will take advantage of that.

As one person walks by, Peeta glimpses something that makes his eyes go wide. Wings. Another weird Capitol fashion, maybe, except that everyone has these things. Some of the people outside don’t even look like people.

Mutts. All of them mutts, maybe made to look like terrifying monsters, maybe made to look like someone you love. And there are lots of them. He can’t possibly fight his way past that many, not when he’s as exposed as he is. He has to wait till this street is clear, then sneak out and find Katniss—if she’s still alive. He ducks behind the door, eyes squeezed shut, trying to breathe slowly and quietly in spite of his hammering heart.

The person passes. Everyone else seems to linger in the distance. Peeta slips out, knife in hand. The moment the door is closed and he starts in the opposite direction of the crowd, he nearly runs right into the arms of a thin French woman.

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She's... laughing? Nevertheless, John knows his job. Once the nod is given, he fits himself against her open side, bending at the knee to loop arms around her back and legs. Recognition comes shortly after her response, simultaneous to the fall of her weight against John's chest. It's her. His first serious injury in months and of course it's her - the woman who aided Moriarty the night that Sherlock Holmes came back to life. For a moment, the doctor's grip shifts dangerously, but then it tightens, and he's got her, secure as can be afforded.

He thinks she's talking about that night for a second. New Feather with a knife - wings and flesh tattered up by the cruel edge of broken glass. John is rigid.

Hiccup's voice cues him to move before John actually understands what is being said.

"Alright. Come on."

He strides down the hall, carrying the woman along in his arms. He can't afford to stop and chat when he's got work to be done.

"You did the right thing. Go and get me one of the nurses, will you?"

Stop the bleeding - that's first in line. Get rid of the negative space in the wound bed.

Hysteria coupled with blood loss and the last lingering vestiges of a panic attack is a terrible cocktail, one Adele truly never wishes to try again. Because this was just her luck, really. The one physician she knows nothing of, cannot think to trust beyond Willock's word, and is friendly with the tall, meddling ass. Were it not for the situation she might think to request a different surgeon. But. Begging, choosing, she can't.

Even warned, she's tense at the grip- an unfamiliar man with unfamiliar intentions, alliances, but she does not have time to speak or flinch away before she's swung up into his arms. The moment he recognizes her isn't that hard to pick out- for a moment she feels as though he's about to drop her. Considering how they met? She wouldn't blame him.

Actually she would. For a long, long while. But that's beside the point- he's moving and she's trying to keep the shirt bunched up against the cut in place to staunch the flow of blood. It's as successful as it had been earlier- which is to say. Not terribly successful at all.

"Merde."

"Right." Hiccup swallows, making a concerted effort to keep his voice as balanced as he can. "I-I'm on it."

And he's off looking for a nurse without another word. And without looking back. Listening to her pained sounds wrecked his nerves enough.

Good lad. A bit on the scraggly side, but clearly earnest enough if he ran to the rescue of someone who'd just been cut by some psychotic New Feather. Maybe this would excite Sherlock... Unless the aforementioned attacker had some sort of vendetta against the Frenchwoman herself, in which case, it would probably be boring. Depending on how spiteful the detective was feeling about having his own new feathers twisted by the woman in question (John would wager the grudge was still in place), almost any assault would have been below a 7.

Left alone with Adele, John pushed his way into one of the trauma rooms and laid the woman on the singular table within it.

"Take off your shirt and bra, please, and lie back." He directed, twisting on the nearby sink to soak his hands before he pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. After he was up to his elbows in antibiotics, he pulled on a set of gloves and pulled over the wheeled supply drawer itself. There was a drape for modesty (in fact, one of the reasons he sent the young boy along) as one of the things first out, along with gauze and surgical wipes. If she hadn't done away with entirely, John would be getting rid of that shirt and trying to quickly work at wiping away the blood to see the wound he was dealing with.

"You're going to be alright," He told her, because having her panic all over his operating table was not something he wanted to deal with. "Never did catch your name."

"I liked this shirt too-" A muted grumble, now that she can breathe. Speak. Competent, more than competent. Respectable. At least from what she has heard from Will, though that was terribly little. It wasn't as though she has a choice in the matter, really. Deal or bleed all over herself. She's a bit tired of bleeding.

It's awkward, tense, and painful, peeling away the makeshift bandage and tugging at her undershirt. Cotton made thick and sticky with blood, swollen from it, catching here and there against the skin around the edge of the cut where it was pressed tight from the knot; it comes off in time. The plain lace bra below is ruined. The one day she wears nice undergarments and she bleeds all over it. Just her luck, really. Fortunate, however, that the catch is in the front. Shrugging out of it isn't difficult, and she's red from the cut to her abdomen in a long smear, thicker lines where the fabric caught and held for the duration of the ride.

Breathing comes easy now. The blind panic is receding bit by bit. Being inside, somewhere she's more comfortable, somewhere she knows she cannot fall helps. More than she knew. After this she just might have to vomit, though. Definitely will have to vomit. Just. After she's not bleeding anymore. "Adele. Adele LeBlanc."

A thick swallow. Best get this out of the way quickly. "I am. Sorry for twisting your friend's wing."

One side of John's mouth twitches, reluctantly, at the grumbling. Still in a decent state of mind, then. Stubborn enough to be dismissive - that was good. The task ahead would be a bit gruesome for her, but luckily, there were local anaesthetics here.

She's become an open wound and a voice until she mentions the incident from earlier. John doesn't look up from the gash in her chest -gauging the depth of the cut- or miss a beat in unraveling a packaged roll of gauze, but his brows may have jumped a little. He expected some comment about it; not so soon, perhaps, but sometime.

"You did what you thought was right, Adele. Didn't blame you then and I don't now," His response is quick, as is another swipe of the cloth to take away the welling blood in the cut. Without further delay, he begins packing the gauze into the opening, tight and precise. He's dealt with far worse - likely she has too. "You picked wrong, but I think your intentions were in the right place. Just so it's sorted - I'm going to do the best I can for you. Looking at it now, your clavicles and ribs took most of the damage. I'm going to administer a local anesthetic and stitch you up after some of the bleeding has slowed a bit. Are you allergic to any medications?"

The one thing she continues to remind herself is that she has, in fact, endured worse than this. A low, ragged curve of a scar down the right side of her abdomen is proof enough of that- as are the injuries she arrived without in January.

...

It'd just be easier to remember if it didn't sting quite so much. Mentally she gauges her level of discomfort on a scale of strange vascular throbbing to flaming ground glass under her fingernails. This comes up roughly around a live wire shoved in her ear. So. It stings. Like a bitch. Enough that speaking is not her first priority, but some things needed to be said, questions asked, answered, etc. So she forces the words through tightly grit teeth.

"Some elaboration on exactly how much I apparently fucked up-" She cuts herself off with a hiss, watching him pack the wound. "...I forgot how much that itches."

More than an itch, it's supremely uncomfortable. Better than bleeding out, however. She swallows past another low, terribly virulent string of obscenities to continue her earlier thought. "Would be pleasant. Especially if you could manage something beyond 'you chose wrong so you are an idiot'. I got that enough during the divorce."

A beat.

"None that we have in this clinic."

He'd have anesthetized first, had the bleeding not seemed worth stopping first. As soon as the wound is properly packed, the real fun begins as John puts pressure on it.

"I assumed you'd rather not have that talk right about now," Turning his head away a moment, he opens a drawer and removes a syringe made just for the occasion. "Actually, I'd rather not talk about it right now, if you don't mind. Let's just say you're not the first person to make the mistake and leave it at that. Bit of a pinch coming up. Stay with me."

Here comes the aeroplane, Adele. Luckily, it's going to be the injection that burns the worst, and not so much the dip of the needle.

"Instances where I've shot myself in the foot distract me from the fact that I am bleeding." Less now, but still. It doesn't help much to prevent her close mouthed yell at the press. Required but. Painful. Nothing he says is a comfort, other than the rather welcome offer of something to dull the pain. Were it not for the unfortunate circumstances under which they met, and her own lack of religious leanings, she'd bless the man for it.

Not the first? Lovely. It makes her lock up all the more in the back of her mind. On the one hand, remain uninvolved. Distance herself. On the other- poke at it. Because that turned out so well with Unger. "I've taken a bullet to the knee- a pinch won't bother me overmuch."

Calmer now. Breathing steady. Pulse leveling out. Having someone and something to be caustic to and about helps- even if there's the slightest flinch at the initial injection.

John can coddle, but Adele, with her concerns for clothing and 'itching', doesn't seem the type to want or appreciate it. She reminds him of the army, where he'd be accused of tickling and scratching the itches of men who were, to say the least, in much worse condition than she. He ignores the sounds she makes, more than likely against her will, as a courtesy. He does check her pulse while he waits for the anesthetic to set in.

"Before you came to Luceti or after, if I might ask?"

"Before." Not by much. Ninety seconds before- or was it more? That last five feet of hallway became a bloody hell so quickly. Though it isn't something she'd mention, or something she expects him to check. The absence of a scar would be somewhat damning. Even she doesn't know how this place managed that- it's still more than a little disturbing to her. Not something she thinks much about now, just. Breathing through the pain. Waiting for it to fade.

"I know I made a shit first impression- but I haven't provoked anyone to violence in the enclosure. Before tonight, at least."

Looking her up? Neither likely nor impossible. Not something crossing his mind at the moment, as he prepares sutures one-handed. A nurse isn't necessary, but it'd be nice right about now.

No, the real concern here was the level of violence one might expect to come across on a daily basis. Adele... sort of answered it for him.

"Yes - what did happen?" Excellent choice for change of subject, Miss LeBlanc.

"A frightened young man ran into me- I put up a hand to steady him. He cut me." She would shrug but that would be painful and she'd really rather avoid aggravating the cut right now. Especially since she remembers all too well how irritating she finds it when she's treating a patient that will not remain still.

"I called for help- he bolted. I'm fairly certain he's a New Feather." That or someone finally had a psychotic break. The former was far more likely.

"Can't rightly blame him, I suppose," John mused, then quickly amended, "For being scared. Might be useful to send a report out to let everyone know he's running about, though."

He reached up, lightly tapping the skin near the cut. "Can you feel that?"

"I think I might. Just a bit." For the fear? No. The attack? That wasn't the best way to starts one's stay in the village. And it hurt. She hasn't bled this much in- well. A long while.

Adele blinks down at the cut, watching him tap and feeling nothing. "...that is always so strange. But no."

"Can't blame you either." John would have certainly held a bit of a grudge if it were him, no matter what the circumstances were. But he also sort of had one for Adele along the same sort of vein, and look what a difference it made.

There's a reluctant little tug at his lips. "Biochemistry is neat," He allows. "I'm going to start the first suture. You might not want to watch."

He pulled away long enough to tie a surgeon's knot to the end of the strand, then got up to wheel the suctioning tool over. If one could afford to have those tools, one might as well put them to use.

Stitching a wound shut, one had to connect live tissue by layers. The depth of the cut suggested he had three layers to do.

"I'd be a poor surgeon indeed if I could not observe this without feeling ill, Doctor." After the man with a penchant for inserting objects easily shattered by the internal pressures of the body in places where they most certainly should not have been inserted; the exploding cadavers in the morgue, and the woman with maggots in her gangrenous back wound; very little would bother her in this regard.

All the same she lets her head loll back against the pillows, letting him work without scrutiny. She knows well enough that were she treating a physician she wouldn't want them bothering her while she works.

"It's different when you're the one on the table, Miss LeBlanc," It's different when it's your own skin, your own meat, and there's no shame in that. "And I think you'll agree I need you to lie with your head flat so that tilting you chin up doesn't tear your stitches later."

John does want to concentrate - she's absolutely right. And when he's moving aside the gauze and stitching up the wound, he's silent, focusing on doing the work as quickly and cleanly as possible while occasionally having to suction blood out of the way.

He does speak, however, when the first line of stitches is done and tied off, because he has to clean the affected area again and apply another treatment against infection.

"Is it Miss or Doctor? Just a surgeon is a 'Miss' in England." And you said you were divorced, so he assumes it's not Missus.

"It most certainly is." Though it isn't something she's experienced often- once was more than enough, at least under another surgeon's hands. Adele lies flat as she's bid, blinking up at the ceiling and trying to remain as still as possible. Though the placement of the cut makes it somewhat awkward with her needing to breathe, and all.

The quiet is familiar, as is his focus, enough for her to start to drift in her own thoughts before he speaks up again. "Mm?"

A beat. "Doctor, really. I worked just as hard as my contemporaries to earn that much."

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