alone in sleeping bodies

canon (ish) multimuse ; building a burning house

[rvolving]

rvolving; a canon divergent multimuse, written by nat (she/her, 30+, on central european time; used to hang around @perdefinitio).

>>> google doc for more info

current roster under the cut

primary

* jack abbot (hbo the pitt): boomer medic with surprising amounts of rizz * yusuf/joe (netflix the old guard): wife-coded immortal assassin

secondary

* meechum (netflix house of cards): repressed ex-cop/bodyguard * quartermaster (craig!verse james bond): self-sacrificing smarty pants * roman roy (hbo succession): neurotic nepo baby

originals

* parvaneh: new-ish vampire desperate to cleanse herself * severin: explosives expert, black sheep of the family, loveable jerk

testing

* trinity santos (hbo the pitt): bully emergency doc with a gooey-soft core * halsin (baldur’s gate 3): himbo hippie * raphael (baldur’s gate 3): theatre kid but he’s the literal devil

on request

* prof. moriarty (sherlock holmes): misanthropic mastermind * stewy hosseini (hbo succession): fashionable finance bro

currently retired

* logan roy (hbo succession): worst father of the century but he rich though * nate sofrelli (hbo succession): most likeable fuckboi * shinwell johnson (sherlock holmes): snitch with a moral code

>> here’s a little wishlist i’ll keep updating

[jackabbot]

a very big fan of whatever their deal is...

[topshelfperverts]

@rvolving

[rvolving]

@topshelfperverts (robby): ‘ you used to be fun, you know. ’ for abbot ( "the other side of midnight" prompts; accepting )

matter of perspective, abbot would argue. no point being offended when the guy decrying your middling zest for life's the very poster boy for a midlife crisis.

                   ❝ that right? coming from the guy who hasn't had a single hobby since 1996? ❞

                   alright, so what if he's a little offended. every doctor's got an ego.

                   besides, he's finally retrieving something of a personal life, a semblance of sanity outside of the pitt's maelstrom of human suffering. give him a break if he doesn't wanna join in on robby's grumbling for once.

                   abbot sniffs without looking at him. ❝ i'm plenty fun. ask anyone. ❞

[goalofthecentury]

pov its pride month in the succession universe

[forjanus]

THE expected outliers aside, Alec was -- if reckless -- a safe driver. Sitting in the passenger seat beside him wasn't always an enjoyable experience, but it was virtually a guarantee that he'd get to his destination in one piece.

Virtually was doing a lot of heavy lifting, today, courtesy of someone who would later turn out to be a bogeyman from Alec's last assignment.

"please wake up. please."

When he comes to, the first thing that hits him is the splitting headache. Airbag impact. Normal. Then it's his ribs as he tries to roll over to find the source of @rvolving's voice. Seatbelt. Normal. There's something unpleasant going on with his neck, but his own well-being is entirely unimportant.

"Q-" his voice is rougher than he'd like it to be, smoke-laden as he hacks out a ( visibly painful ) cough. "You're alright." Intended as a question, it comes out as a reassurance, however un-reassuring it might be given his current state. When his eyes focus enough to make out the fuzzy edges of Q's silhouette, he pushes himself up, barks out a grunt of pain when one of his arms gives out under him. Shoulder? Didn't feel like it. Clavicle. Broken, he'd imagine. "Fuck-" A hiss, a second attempt until he's up onto his hands and knees, half-crawling over to where Q's seemingly frozen a few feet away, breathing more laboured than usual as he forces himself into the other's personal space.

"We have to go. Now" not because of the fire licking upwards into the night sky courtesy of their car, but rather because Alec's under no illusion that this is anything other than an intentional attack. "Now, Q" The intent in his voice is undercut by the way his hand grabs so insistently at the younger's thigh rather than hauling the pair of them upright right there and then. A plea, then, that Q help him get them out of this.

* the dramatic sacrifice

[rvolving]

when trevelyan finally moves, q draws in air so sharply it shakes his shoulders like a sob. the hit of relief's momentarily enough to override his rational mind. any frantic thoughts about next steps to be taken, cautionary measures to uphold: wiped for two bright seconds of all-clear confirmation that alec trevelyan has not indeed died.

                   all just a matter of time, of course. generally speaking as well as immediately now.

                   ❝ fine, i'm fine ❞, vehemently dismissive despite shaking all over. he is not trained to withstand a shock to the system of such magnitude, but he is trained to recognise it when it happens. steadying his breathing, failing, taking stock. in the time it's taken trevelyan to come to, q's already checked himself for injuries. nowhere near as bloody as the agent dragging himself over on his hands and knees. christ, how's q supposed to carry both their weight? the truth is: he was pleading for trevelyan to wake up because q knew he'd have had to abandon him otherwise.

                   the fire's casting long erratic shadows on both their faces, turning all the blood in trevelyan's hair pitch-black like tar. q can't help but wince at his insistent touch. dubiously, he reaches to envelop trevelyan's arm with his own. ❝ frankly i'm not sure you should be doing any running, you look-- ❞

                   with a sharp crack, one of the rubber tires bursts. involuntarily, q yelps and yanks trevelyan up and further away from the car. his alarm's urgent now: ❝ tell me what to do! ❞

[joyousdefunct]

“like you haven't jerked it to my pictures? or my stories? i doubt i even have to be wearing a bikini to set your little gooner brain off.”

battle of the egos. roman’s is pin-balling off the walls; she’s already won. the tip of her heel nudges his ankle— gentle once, then jutting at the tendons. there’s something grossly endearing about his worminess; the power he concedes for nothing. it was probably true that his connections were more formidable than her own in a corpo legalese bullshit sort of way, but there was something to be said for the optics of public opinion. being roman roy’s friend was expensive. the least he could do was indulge her.

“there’s a think piece floating around,” she abandons her phone face-down on the table, “comparing us to katy perry and that canadian guy she’s fucking. do you know how embarrassing that is?” 

[rvolving]

her bad luck's that she's the kinda mean that he enjoys. just cruel enough to put him in his place, but so personalised he's led to believe he's worth the effort. bitchy's how roman makes friends. she's saying she loves him, essentially. and roman, ever the billionaire philanthropist, says it right back: ❝ joke's on you because the newest shit's semen retention actually, so. your pics aren't worth spilling my alpha energy for. ❞ straight out of his ass; try and guess if he's being for real. but think about it: would he even know about the manosphere if he wasn't a man™?

                   some people are thrust into celebrity and have to spend years getting used to the public attention. roman, much like nico, was born straight into the limelight. having think pieces written about him's like having his every meal prepared for him. not worth mentioning. ❝ pfft, take it as a compliment. she's hot. except for all the girlboss bullshit, obviously. ❞ he's served a sleazy line on a silver platter here, about kissing girls and liking it. but they're friends, so he's all about expressing his condolences. neatly sidestepping any implication that this could be a slight on him, too. ❝ the only embarrasing part's that he's canadian. that's basically like they're saying you've been fucking karl marx. commie fucker. you know? bad look. ❞

[pinkman]

the cacophonous soundscape of the ward makes it hard to concentrate. the sudden jolt of pain lancing through his skull makes it even harder. abbot’s condolences fall on deaf ears. crank-sick and shivering like a newborn foal, jesse grinds his teeth. wallows in his self-inflicted misery.

god, he should’ve gotten some of that morphine. he should’ve delivered an award-worthy performance, all downcast eyes and shallow inhales and expertly timed sniffles. (where does it hurt, an imaginary version of abbot asks, guiding him through the usual script. i don’t know, man, an imaginary version of jesse admits — ‘s kinda, like, everywhere.) but becoming a regular at the emergency department has its downsides. as far as any competent medical professional is concerned, he’s nursing a death wish. as far as jesse is concerned, he’s having the time of his life.

or he would be, were it not for the daunting prospect of medical bills. speaking of: “whaddya mean, on the house?” generosity, jesse has come to learn, is seldom unconditional. seldom reliable. “you’re not gonna tell me to fork over more cash for the premium package?”

[rvolving]

❝ this look like the place to go for premium, buddy? ❞

                   if he's compelled to be a little too familiar with jesse, it's not to do with jesse, necessarily. frequent flyer or not, they do not know each other beyond symptom checklists, blood pressure, less and less prickly intake interviews. it's more that abbot's familiar with guys just like him: the type he grew up with, served with.

                   the type he was going to be.

                   boisterous in order not to be seen, competing for who's the loudest at blending in.

                   abbot's professional as can be, often a little too good at detaching himself. but not even the most professional doctor's exempt from projecting occasionally. below the radar of end-of-shift fatigue, with someone who keeps asking for help while at the same time refusing it, it happens faster than abbot can look.

                   ❝ only asking if there's anything else that might help while you're here. get your vaccines up to date, blood panels you've been meaning to get, that kinda thing. stale tuna sandwich, even. no extra charges, promise. ❞ if he's making it sound easier than it is, that's the point. abbot's picked up plenty of bills that weren't his own, this'd barely register. risky, but he's hardly risk-averse: ❝ sure there's someone on call from social services too, could have them stop by if you like. ❞

[widwer]

“yes.” he shields one of his eyes with shaking fingers and closes both. doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe as ordered. his world’s just cracked open and he’s stood on the wrong side of the chasm.

he taps his heel against the floor like he needs a physical restart.

“since he started treatment. and his blood pressure’s always been a bit high, but—” he waves it off—tangential. the blood thinners came with the chemotherapy, not the genetic trouble. in any case, it’s nothing to his own. “new antidepressants as well. can’t remember the name.”

the script is still in his bag, is how new. he looks over in its direction and is briefly gone again, traumatized but trying to be useful: wondering if he ought to go grab it. then wondering, less helpfully, if it would be all right if he squeezed his husband’s hand before they loaded him into a machine.

“ah,” he starts, and just as quickly stops, with the realization that he’s shed a tear. he wipes away the evidence and notices he’s drawn a flickering gaze or two, presumably for acting so starkly against his regular patterns. “sorry. shouldn’t be any jewelry but the wedding ring, unless he’s been keeping secrets.”

[rvolving]

even with beverly's life having crash-landed into the very heart of the er, it remains the same it's always been: well-oiled, efficient. a patient needs treatment and they'll be as methodical about delivering it as with anyone else. nothing's changed.

                   abbot imagines it must chafe something awful, such personal horror against the clinical backdrop of their everyday working environment. he can't think of how he'd cope. instead he'll think himself just another cog, if a crucial one if they want beverly to keep turning.

                   ❝ it's alright. ❞ he's lowered his voice as though to reassure it's just between the two of them, although of course it's not. but sympathetic eyes on him should be the least of beverly's worries. abbot rests a hand on beverly's shoulder, just shy of his neck. grounding as well as in case he'll need handling. ❝ that's great, thank you. ❞

                   richard's been given a cervical collar by now, along with supplemental oxygen and ivs. it all makes him look quite small, an odd match with beverly's hunched attempt to hide behind himself. abbot's as assertive as he thinks beverly can handle right now: ❝ listen, beverly. you know you can't be involved in richard's treatment but i think it'd be good if you went up with him. stick by his side until he's brought back down to us again. good to have a familiar face closeby when he comes to. okay with you? ❞

[vitalphenomena]

IF IT HELPS, SHE'S PRETTY OVERWHELMED, TOO.

Samira's apartment isn't anything to brag about to her coworkers, which she wouldn't do on principle anyways. Also, Jack already knows this about her and hasn't seem put off by it. This is a relief. Every day he chooses her brings small reliefs and earnest joy.

Anyway—she takes his jacket and tosses it over the back of her couch because the storage closet directly perpendicular to her front door is full of junk from her mom's house that she's not quite ready for Jack to see. It is too revealing, in several ways.

"You've been here before," she reminds him, and herself, gently.

Her apartment's not much, but Jack makes Samira feel like she's pre-tty damn impressive—something to brag about to their coworkers.

"I don't host a lot. Or ever. I'm sure you'll be able to tell." Her shoes are finally off.

And, just so he's clear:

"I'm happy to have you. Thrilled, too, actually." She leans against the closet door.

[rvolving]

it's not that he's compelled to map out every inch of every space he's expected to inhabit. his vigilance doesn't extend quite that far, and he's fully aware the greatest danger he'll encounter in samira's apartment is the risk of embarrassing himself. he doesn't need to catalogue every entry and exit point to know this.

                   it's more that they've still got so much familiarising to do. abbot doesn't meet a lot of new people outside of work, let alone people he'd strive to build a relationship with. he's not sure he even remembers how that works. that's how rusty he is.

                   ❝ sounds like we're on the same page. ❞ the thrill as well as the reclusive tendencies. used to be liam's thing: dinner parties, movie nights. the only people to stop by his place now are robby and occasionally dana, and not so much for fun but to check he's still alive. in short, samira's got very little to be self-conscious about. he stands by the door for a moment, just looking, before he approaches her. ❝ decent ego boost to know you're making an exception for me, that's a good start. ❞

[da-pitt]

THE NIGHT SHIFT

Season 2 Episode 15, 9:00 PM

[widwer]

@rvolving.

the description of the patient undercut by the sound of rolling stretcher wheels comes in from behind beverly, delivered with only moderate urgency and lacking the detail required to turn him away from the person whose vitals he’s taking. it’s a head wound, he’s overhearing, resulting from a nasty tumble of a man about his age. no wallet and limited lucidity, so they can’t work out what took him down, nor why he seems unable to use his hands.

the bed turns the corner into bev’s line of sight and his vision instantly blackens around the edges. he stands up straight before his body can lock itself down, and with some degree of shame, he casts a glance around the floor for a glint of recognition. this one’s yours, he both does and doesn’t want to see staring back at him. did you think we wouldn’t notice?

the crawl stops. he takes an empty spot at the foot, looking pale and stricken, feeling like he’s going to retch.

“it’s—” he’s met with a reaction like he shouldn’t be where he is, but tellingly soldiers on. “peripheral neuropathy. from cancer medication.”

if he’s left room for doubt with his diagnosis, he snuffs it by removing richard’s shoe, pinching him on the sole of his foot, and keeping his eyes down as he doesn’t react. numb, like his hands.

“his name is richard. could someone—” he chances a look at his face, at the blood, and feels nauseated anew. “—keep me informed?”

[rvolving]

wound's superficial enough, though the amount of blood's worrying him. not to mention the responsiveness, or rather lack thereof. their most likely options are stroke or spinal inury, both of which require following a strict protocol. it's a standardised choreography in which everyone knows their every step.

                   suddenly wedged in between busy hands, beverly's throwing off their rhythm.

                   abbot stares, though his confusion lasts only two seconds. by himself, and as ghostly as he looks, abbot hadn't recognised--…? ❝ richard ❞, repeating the name locks his recognition in place. right.

                   twice the crisis to manage, then. then again: the access to information via immediate family's invaluable.

                   he nods at dana -- he's got this -- and steps out of the way in order to leave the necessary room for everyone else. moving beverly seems out of the question right now.

                   ❝ breathe. he's right where he's gotta be. ❞ many questions he could ask, among them: how long's it been? or, you been a family caregiver alongside working full-time as a nurse and never said a word about it? but beverly's next of kin now, and abbot his spouse's treating physician. his calm's the same he offers to the rest of them: ❝ we gotta get him to ct. does he take blood thinners? any other medication we should know about? ❞

[eyeshone]

At a party, Maximus' singular rule is simple: find the first guy who when asked what castling means is most likely to say 'young castle' and stick with him. Which brings him here.

Patently not apologizing for the sneaky intrusion: "During chess tournaments, they send an arbiter to watch players in the bathroom. I can't pee without an audience now." Semi-true. Maximus slowly moseys next to Roman like a chess hustler discreetly, illegally nudging a pawn a forward while their opponent isn't looking. The gambit (Maximus holds eye contact the way a Chad holds open a door): "I heard three FBI agents were murdered in this house." He plucks a keychain-sized UV flashlight from his pocket and offers it to Roman like a lit joint.

[rvolving]

outwardly, roman doesn't embarrass easily. he's the champion of embarrassing everybody else.

                   so what gives? can a guy not snoop through his psychiatrist's proverbial (and what if he wouldn't mind literal) dirty laundry without some rando getting all up his ass about it?

                   the unsolicited chess talk makes him retreat an extra step, as if wary of getting infected with the board game dweeb virus. ❝ gross. sounds like something that should stay between you and your only-fans girlfriend. ❞ thing is: just because he's repulsed doesn't mean he's not looking. it's a recurring theme. he won't touch, but: ❝ the fuck am i supposed to do with this? light up your stream as you take a piss on the fucking mahogany or what? ❞

[widwer]

not until it’s reversed on him does he recognize his accidental cruelty—the picking at threads for something to follow just to realize they’re nerves, part of abbot and part of him—and question his motive in the first place. had it been to help him feel less alone? they’re standing here, hating this similarly. could that not have sustained him?

it’s a blade he’d placed between abbot’s hands, pointed at his torso, and told him to carve himself open with. now it’s with him again and he’s too ready to fall forward, no matter if only blackness spills out.

“i don’t know that i’m salvageable on my own.” he looks vaguely stunned by himself, sorry for inflicting the torment he now feels it’s only right for him to suffer. “it was possible for others to forgive me because he always did.”

[rvolving]

turns out beverly's much less squeamish than him. abbot's momentarily taken aback not by what he's saying but that he's saying it. appears to be falling out of him of its own accord, a mass to be excised even at the risk of damaging what it's surrounded by.

                   abbot's almost inclined to be impressed, though it doesn't seem to be helping beverly any.

                   ❝ yeah ❞, it comes out so hoarse he clears his throat, tries again, ❝ much harder to do that for yourself. ❞ salvage whatever's left of them. abbot feels it's very little: held together precariously by his own doggedness and other people's good intentions. what he's supposed to say is: no, it'll get easier. or: he still would. forgive him, love him, all the bullshit they're using to paint over the big gaping nothing they've been left with now. abbot's not buying it, and he suspects neither would beverly. inadvertently blunt: ❝ maybe that's all you'll ever get. ❞

[guttersniper]

it leaves a tightness in his chest, breaths coming in and out short and unsteady and all wrong, and he doesn't know. he doesn't know what yusuf's talking about and he feels stupid, like he lost his head somewhere and can't find it. stupid like he should know what yusuf is saying to him, only he doesn't, and if he can't rely on his own head what's the fucking point—

if he can't even trust himself, then how can he ever fully trust him or nicolò or andromache or anyone?

"i have never had that." the admittance feels like throwing up bloody ribbons of intestines. but he holds fast to it all the same, if only to see where it's going. even if it's slippery and gory. "i expected to be killed." again and again and again some more until, maybe, finally, they found a way to make it be the one that lasts forever. "not found."

he rubs at the now-sore spot on his head from where he unceremoniously took down his low ponytail and ripped out a spit of hair in the process. "i never expected to see you again."

[rvolving]

he's taking this too personally too quickly, maybe. has to remind himself: mutt's not learned to trust them yet. it's no slight on yusuf's character, or any of their characters, for mutt to assume they'd abandon him. it's been his reality ever since he can remember, by the sound of it.

                   hurts yusuf all the same, though now on mutt's behalf. he's not so much upset to be accused of caring so little, but upset to see mutt assume the very worst.

                   ❝ i'm sorry you've had to fend for yourself for so long. ❞ it's sincere and carries some remorse: universal rather than personal, the kind that's to do with finding the world falls short of expectation sometimes. these are the things it hurts to unlearn. the growing pains of allowing some hope back into your life. yusuf's familiar, if only through nico's journey alongside his own. mutt deserves more patience from him. ❝ you won't need to any longer. ❞

[rvolving]

@b4ttl3 (nicolò): letting their hand hover before finally touching + holding their face after a close call, for yusuf ( "first touch" prompts; accepting )

funny thing about getting shot from such a distance is that it'll hit you even before the sound of it can reach your ears. it's happened to yusuf plenty, to the point of finding some humour in it. like bad comedic timing: a warning that arrives a second too late.

                   not that he could've avoided the shot if given the chance. bit too busy at the time, and the sniper in question too precise.

                   well. precise given the circumstances.

                   takes only one bullet to cut two strings: both yusuf and the masked assailant he's been grappling with drop to the ground at once, collapsing one atop the other. rooftop to chest to jugular. in the sweltering heat, yusuf barely registers the pool of blood he's drowning in, nor the dead weight he's buried under; only that nico's done well. calculated risk, except in their world collateral's not much of a risk at all. yusuf's staring into the bright blue sky as he goes.

                   suppose it cools you down some, death. though not even yusuf, not even after all this time, could romanticise the pain of it. burns to breathe when he gasps back to life, and his head's spinning something awful.

                   he feels nico's hand before he sees him, now. touch travels faster than light, and yusuf's love outruns nicolò's guilt every time. once he's halfway caught his breath: ❝ nicely done, my love. ❞

[rvolving]

@choicescreen (murdock): ‘ kids and puppies go together like fish'n'chips. ’ for abbot ( "the pitt" prompts; accepting )

he'd wager the little girl in south 18 would agree, without having had fish and chips even once in her short life: four hours she's been here now, and still she's tirelessly working on convincing the nurses she'll need her doggo to make her heart slow down again.

                   it's long melted all the surrounding patients' hearts, and several of the staff's, too. abbot's the least bit surprised to be approached about it -- this one's not his first tonight, and it's not even his patient.

                   ❝ be that as it may ❞, making his way over with both his hands in his pockets and a glance back at the board, ❝ we don't allow dogs in the er. nor anything deep-fried for that matter. ❞ south 22 says murdock, one of ellis', waiting on psych consult.

                   abbot's got a moment. his attention's back on the man sitting upright in his bed. everyone's given up on trying to go to sleep around here. ❝ you got anyone we should call? ❞

[da-pitt]