Your Name is Mud

[[Rowan is a thirty-year-old, now approaching thirty-one, who lives his life as any normal man would. The bodyguard of young Quillan Albright, going grey early.]]

[rowan-tow]

"Okay. But you HAVE eaten?" Hermes pressed lightly, shifting to stare at Rowan, one hand under his jaw and his elbow propped against the small hospital waiting room chair. The bustle continued, dull, however, compared to the soft, yet pointed focus that was Rowan "no-name"; mortal, leader-follower, guardian and--whatever else he was. "And showered. Hopefully. And maybe slept; though, knowing you and the fact I brought you coffee, I'd put money down for the opposite option."

He paused to think about that, retracing his steps. Breakfast had comprised of exactly two eggs, two sausage links, a grapefruit, and water. Lunch had been...Lunch....Lunch had been Q being prepped at the hospital, and the boy named Haymitch standing by to ave that done as well. Lunch had been Q being uneasy around another ‘wolf, shifting uncomfortably and looking to Rowan and Lorie for support. Lunch had been awkward silences between him and Yvan, between waiting for Hermes and finding him.

Dinner had gone out the window as well. 

He shook his head. “I’ve showered. I had breakfast.”

[rowan-tow]

"You know, you're wise for a man with a shockingly few amount of gray hairs," Hermes pointed out, leaning into the touch to his shoulder; just enough to let Rowan know he was there, and that he wanted to be there. "Gremlins can be reasoned with, though, provided you don't feed them after midnight. Lovers, too, for the record, the trick is to starve them till morning." His eyes flickered good-naturedly up to Rowan's, then away again. "Speaking of--vending machines. Need a snack?" He grinned.

Rowan reached his free hand to his hair, testing the locks with an upward glance, as though to say he couldn’t believe there weren’t any - and to be fair, he couldn’t. It was a fact that still surprised him. 

He shook his head at Hermes’s comments, letting his hand slip from his shoulder. Not from disgust or other indifference, but just to rest his hand back at his side. “I’m not hungry,” he said softly.

[rowan-tow]

"Oh yes, the whozits and whatsits of the paranormal continue to amaze," Hermes said dryly, thumb brushing Rowan's knuckles as he slouched in his chair, half-lounging against his pseudo-devoted follower. "But you know what amazes me more?" Hermes wracked his brain, trying to think of something to distract Rowan with. "Vending machines," he said finally, looking sidelong at Rowan. "To think human mechanics could replace the work performed by gremlins for centuries. Remarkable."

Somehow, that fraction of humor, that tiny ray of sunlight that Hermes seemed to store inside and dispense like the vending machines he himself claimed to be marveled by, it all settled warmly against an otherwise cold man’s heart. He tilted his head, trying to determine if Hermes was serious, before he just smiled and reached out a hand to rest in on Hermes’s shoulder with light massaging of his finger. “You’re more likely to actually get the soda then.”

[rowan-tow]

His hand entangled with Rowan's free one, Hermes studied the figures in the halls as if looking for something in particular. Whatever it was, he didn't voice it--he merely tightened his hand in Rowan's own a little more and hummed under his breath. "They heal even quicker," he pointed out, shrugging his brows and just one shoulder. "And, believe it or not--" he pointed with his free hand. "These doctors?" Hermes's voice lowered conspiratorially. "Might just know what they're doing. Possibly."

Rowan had half-expected Hermes to relinquish his hold, to let Rowan drift back into the sea of laminated floors and sterilized surfaces. He appreciated the lifeline, and gave him the tiniest hint of a squeeze. 

He nodded, a wry smile on his face. “You hope so...with all the supernatural--” He waved his hand in the air. “Everything.”

[rowan-tow]

"Anytime," Hermes responded, looking from Rowan to their hands and back again. His fingers curled in Rowan's own, a little colder, a little shakier. He steadied himself by focusing on the pulse under his fingertips; the sensation of skin against his. He tried not to think about the operations of blood and bone; of infection and control. He thought not of burning incense or of power--no. Rowan was, if nothing else, his last devout. And the least a god could do was be there for his followers.

Whereas Hermes might not have thought of it, Rowan had already considered it. Regardless of the outcome, to have Hermes here, the man (or god or whatever he was) appearing like a cat: here when he wants and there when he doesn’t. It was almost a blessing. Better than pacing with worry with Lorie, though that avenue had been staunchly cut away with a sour look from a tall and imposing blast from the past. 

So instead, he stood here, coffee in hand, waiting for the results and trying not to think of the worst that could happen. “The doctors said they could make it as painless as possible, but...werewolves run through anesthesia quickly.”

[rowan-tow]

"Maybe naturally, but you taught him how to hone it. How to focus; how to find a place for all his emotions." Hermes ran a hand through his lank white-gold hair, furrowing his brow anew. "He just--funnels them into music; for example. Your conduit is him," Hermes added, glancing back up from the tiled floor to Rowan with a blink, nodding. "Your conduit became him; is your work, is your life. Your strength, your focus, your roots, Rowan--" he gently tapped his chest. "Are all in protection."

The guardian of sorts furrowed his brow, taking Hermes’s hand in his after it tapped his chest. Brown eyes stared at the connection, puzzled by it and everything after it. He sighed as he lowered their hands, looking at Hermes, allowing the tired and endless nights to finally show, if nowhere else but his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he believed everything Hermes said, but it sure sounded nice right about now. “Hermes...” He paused, words coming hard as they always did. “Thank you.”

[rowan-tow]

"He's very strong," Hermes was telling Rowan, allowing the human to be held; allowing him to lean for as long as he liked against him. His trembling hand reached up to methodically and meticulously brush back Rowan's lengthening locks, eyes elsewhere. He could feel Apollo accept his prayer; the lazy, indifferent burn of the sun on a hot Summer's day soaking into his skin. Blistering, almost. But he'd watch over the doctors and their charges, even from far away. "Learned it from you."

Rowan shook his head at that, the one thing he could not accept. Foster, yes, father, sure, but the belief that he had in some way given Q anything he hadn’t already had...leaving any sort of mark, he couldn’t. Instead, he replied softly, “He’s always been strong.”

[rowan-tow]

"I'd say my pleasure, but it's not exactly Las Vegas up in here," Hermes quipped back lightly, reaching out to take one of Rowan's hands, tugging him toward a chair with quiet insistence that he sit. "But that being said--anything for the little wolf prince," the god said, sincerity in his eyes if not making it to his words--a tone he tried to keep light and melodic; full of nonchalance and breeze. All this he blew at Rowan: the rains from the roads and crushed scent of wildflowers underfoot.

Rowan took the tiny blessings as what they were, blessings. Fresh air in an otherwise stale hospital room, set off by the sound of gurney wheels beginning to roll. 

A doctor, with kind eyes, approached to kindly tell them that Quillan will be in good hands, that they don’t have to worry, and that they will be out soon. And of course they are welcome to wait in the hospital room while they take him on to a surgical room.

Rowan nodded, absorbing the information with crossed arms, tight muscles, and a grim face. And afterwards, he leaned his head against Hermes, as close to falling as he could allow himself to get.

[rowan-tow]

His arms tightened around Rowan subtly. His eyes were fixed on a point behind Rowan: a place on the wall where the symbol of the caduceus hung, brilliantly blue and faintly glowing--a neon interpretation of hope; guidance, healing. Little by little, his mind slipped away from the moment, his power following--a silent line to his brother to the West; pleading, the only way he knew how, for Apollo to see this through. A sacrifice for the greater good--a small good. A family. "What're gods for?"

Rowan laughed at that, actually laughed, though huffed and slipped through tight lips, it was a laugh nonetheless. He shook his head as he pulled back to look at Hermes just a little. “Whatever they want, I suppose.” 

Shakily, Rowan ran a hand over his hair, the brown locks falling out of place. Vague hints of curls had grown into the unkempt hair that had become a staple for Rowan these past two weeks. “Thank you for being here.”

[rowan-tow]

"Hey." The typically icy; aloof god shifted in place, turning to put himself in front of Rowan, doing his best to block out the hubbub of the bustling hospital beyond the two of them. He tried to keep Rowan's eyes fixed on his own; channeling his flickering energy into focus, into anchoring Rowan. Into giving him something to hold onto when, perhaps, the mortal felt himself losing his grip. "Hey," he reiterated softly, and moved to pull Rowan into his arms. "I've got you, Rowan. I've got you."

Rowan, surprising very few, did not move easily. He retained his posture, his rigid back, his squared shoulders, even as he was pulled into an embrace. What little soothing happened did so mostly in his neck, which started to, at least a little, relax. Because, at least this once, someone had him. Even if he had trouble latching onto that. 

He remained otherwise silent, focusing on his breathing, the way it sounded bouncing from Hermes’s chest into his ears, the strange little bubble of safe space that had been created. Even breaths. Even breaths. “Thank you.”

[rowan-tow]

"I wasn't asking about Lorenzo." Hermes's voice was calm, assured, and--gentle, even. Reaching out with a careful hand, Hermes set it atop Rowan's nearest arm, staring up at him with a contemplative gaze, pointed features oddly serious. "It was you," Hermes said simply. "You I was asking about. Now, you don't HAVE to talk about you. Styx knows, nobody can ever force -you- to do anything you don't want to do, but." He wet his lips and furrowed his brow. "You can tell me--if you need anything."

The hand on his arm drew Rowan’s attention. A brief moment of fear shot through him, or perhaps self-consciousness, and he resisted the urge to look around the room; swallowing his first response with a bitter resolve. He looked at Hermes instead, finding those blue eyes like a man looking for safe and familiar ground. 

He shook his head. He shrugged his shoulders. Words refused to come forward, and he stared at Hermes almost helplessly at his loss for them.

[rowan-tow]

Hermes wasn't sure what to say. Or do. Which was an uncomfortable position to be in, especially for a god typically so gilt in tongue. He studied Rowan's dead expression, wondering, not for the first time, regardless of Q making it out of all of his trials alive and well [he would, Hermes told himself sternly], whether or not Rowan would lose himself in the process. "And how is it going out here?" Hermes asked off-handedly, eyeing the half-crushed coffee. "You seem, in a word, chill."

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. But a part of Rowan had, a long time ago, had decided that Q’s wellbeing was more important than his own. However the chips fell afterwards was something he would deal with when he got to it. Like now. 

Rowan shook his head. “Chill?” He almost laughed at that one. Almost. “Lorie is nervous. He hasn’t stopped pacing.” But he couldn’t answer about himself. It was too close. Too personal. He gripped his cup tighter. “Mmm.”

[rowan-tow]

"What else is a messenger god for?" The deity quipped back sarcastically, throwing himself into the chair beside Rowan with the nonchalance of a boyish ragdoll. Electric eyes slipped fleetingly from orderly to doctor to nurse to gurney; tallying everything and seizing up the hospital with careful consideration. It was not that these houses of healing made him uncomfortable, but rather, the energy of those within them. Like the man beside him. "So," Hermes said at last; mildly. "How goes?"

Rowan normally would have had an answer for that, a small quip, maybe an observation. As it was, he just blinked at Hermes with his unwavering brown eyes that didn’t quite catch the fluorescent light in the right way. He watched Hermes sprawl beside him before he went back to his guardsman’s stance, gripping the coffee cup tighter than need be. 

“They’re prepping him for the procedure,” he said simply. “Lorie and I will have to leave when he goes in for the full dose. They’ve already put him out.”

[rowan-tow]

"Here you go." Amidst the beeping and soft whirs of hospital machinery came a soft, casual voice accompanied by the scent of sea salt caramel and espresso. "Black with a special shot for flavor because life's too short and I make inappropriate commentary when--" He stopped short of saying "nervous", standing there in his shabby hoodie, his band t-shirt; paint-spattered boots and tattered jeans. Awkwardly extending the cup, Hermes shrugged, eyes askance. "Anyway--caffeine. For your mojo, Jojo."

Rowan hardly looked up, at least at first. Sitting there, his back pressed fully against the chair, shoulders exactly level with each other, neck extended, hands clasped in lap with knuckles white, he looked forward without seeing the present. No, he saw the past, a little boy in an elephant onesie handing out candy on Halloween, an adolescent inviting his tutor to his birthday party, a teen getting ink on his fingers from the songs he was writing down. Worse, he saw the future, and an empty chair at the dining room table. 

The smell of coffee drew him out of it, and he looked up at Hermes with tired, black-rimmed eyes as he took the cup. “Thank you. Hermes.” 

[rowan-tow]

There was a laugh--more of a shy giggle, really--caught between their lips at the first initial kiss. Toes curled in battered sneakers as Hermes reciprocated the kiss. Things will be alright. Another kiss. Q would live to fight another day. Another. You're doing the best you can and I and the whole world you know is proud of you. He sighed shakily, head swimming at both the kisses and blessings he'd bestowed, eyes hazily flickering over Rowan's beautiful smile. "As are you, my Rowan."

As if sensing the exchange, at least feeling the current, Rowan lifted a hand to the back of Hermes’s head, fingers kneading there, but offering silent support as well. “You’re flattering me even more,” he whispered back before he kissed his cheek and his chin. “Are you trying to make me swoon?” There was a note of humor in his voice to match his smile.

[rowan-tow]

Hermes pursed his lips and canted his head, golden hair cascading to the side. It was getting a bit long on him, and he had to shake it out of his eyes to better see Rowan, now. "I could stand to see you kneel," he commented idly, fingers curling in Rowan's own. "But I know it isn't in your nature." His smile reappeared; quick and sharply-edged. "That being said, I would welcome your praise and affection. Kiss me?" he added mildly, more question than request, "so that I might better bless you."

Rowan couldn’t help but think that Hermes was the blessing just as he was, but he shook his head and leaned in. So close now, he could practically feel Hermes’s heartbeat - and wondered if Hermes could feel his too. “No, it isn’t in my nature...But kissing you...” He leaned in to press his lips to Hermes’s. “Is.”

He kissed him again, deeper this time, firm and steady as ever Rowan was in his own life. And when he pulled back, he offered Hermes the brightest smile he had thus far and added softly, “You are a blessing.”

[rowan-tow]

"So you've said," Hermes whispered, his lips and eyes quirking with mischief that was more reverence than revelry. His hands outstretched to smoothly adjust the chord around Rowan's neck, an excuse to touch him--an excuse to be close. "I have that effect on people, you know," he added airily. "Mortals always fall at my feet, swooning over me, except--you." Hermes's eyes flicked upward. "You just sort of. Stood rooted." His fingers trailed over Rowan's shoulders. "Fitting, really."

Rowan let Hermes’s fingers trail, reveling in the touch even if his face remained neutral, and eyes remained where they had been. But he soon let his hand drift to capture the fingers, wrapping them up in his own as he smoothed his fingers across the nimble digits. “I tend to do that,” he murmured. But, tilting his head, an almost wicked gleam shining in his eyes, he queried, “Do you dislike it?”