Chapter Text
Miles headed back down the hall. He’d really only gone to check on Park because he’d found the place too quiet upon finishing his shower. It shouldn’t have surprised him that he was still freaking out on the floor. He’d left him alone so that he’d get his shit together, but Park’s state seemed to have worsened in the time Miles had spent washing up.
Maybe it was time to take into account that while Park acted more sane than any other individual Miles had encountered in the asylum, he had been a patient there, and he’d been experimented on. Miles wasn’t blind to Park’s flinches, his crazy eyes, the fact that he’d choked on that bottle of water like it had contained sewage instead. There was no reason for a stomach injury to impede on his ability to swallow liquids without choking on them. Something was wrong with Park, Miles just didn’t know to what extent. He’d make the time to dig deeper when the drugs would be gone from Park’s bloodstream.
He stepped into the bathroom, feeling grateful for the fog still covering the mirror. The details of his shape were blurred enough that he didn’t have to face their inhumanity. He locked the door behind him and walked up to the cupboard to rummage around for the first aid kit. He set it down by the sink, then peeled off the clean shirt he’d thrown on for the express purpose of checking on Park. He didn’t think the guy would enjoy the sight of his bullet-riddled chest when he was already having such a hard time accepting that, beneath all of the Walrider’s shitty manifestations, Miles was human. Had been? He still wasn’t sure if he qualified.
Miles looked down on his bare chest. Beneath the dark hairs, the nanobots continued to leak from the holes of his skin in thin, smoky rivulets. It somehow looked even more disturbing with the blood gone. He took in a breath, then exhaled as he dropped down on the closed toilet seat, grabbing the kit on the way. Miles had taken the decision to remove the bullets on his own, in the hopes that the Walrider would repair his body once the obstacles were out of the way. He zipped open the kit and prepped everything he needed, laying out each item on the empty sink, one by one. Once everything was in order, Miles grabbed the pair of tweezers and stared down at himself again. So many bullets. This would take a while. He gritted his teeth and angled the tweezers towards the bullet hole below his left clavicle.
Miles stood in front of the clear mirror an hour later, towering over a bunch of wet, stained toilet paper crumpled in the sink. He ignored his reflection as he busied himself with cleaning the place. He hadn’t bled that much compared to the other times he’d had to do surgery on himself. The Walrider was as useful as he’d hoped in staunching the blood flow. All he’d had to do was to hold a fistful of paper to each bullet hole for the few seconds it took the nanobots to stop the bleeding completely. He imagined them as a swarm of particles coming together just beneath the level of his skin to form a barrage, preventing whatever blood he had left from escaping. It probably wasn’t how the Walrider worked, but Miles was free to hypothesize.
He still felt pain, apparently. Just… less. Blunt instead of sharp.
Miles finished cleaning the bathroom, put away the first-aid kit, checked that he hadn’t bled on his black sweatpants or that it wasn’t visible at least, and threw the white shirt back over his head. He opened the door and walked to the kitchen next. He knew he’d have to get food for his guest soon, but given that he couldn’t exactly walk around in public, he had little choice but to make their meal come to them. Miles yanked open one of the drawers and dug around the papers until he found the thing he was looking for. He fished out the brand new phone and went to sit at the table, cursing under his breath when ripping apart the plastic and cardboard packaging proved to be more difficult with missing fingers. Miles didn’t want to take a chance with the Walrider for this, so he ended up getting the scissors.
He sat down at the table, where he discarded the torn packaging on the floor and focused on setting up the phone. Once the loading interface popped up, Miles set it down on the table and turned on his laptop. His gaze drifted away from the screen to the small piles of documents and files he’d haphazardly dumped on the table earlier. A lot of them were stained with his and Park’s blood. The camera sat in the middle of the papers, small and unassuming. He’d nabbed it before leaving Park on the street for an ambulance to come fetch. If Miles hadn’t been so fucked up in appearance, he wouldn’t have needed to go back to the hospital to pick him back up. He had everything he needed right here. Everything, except a face that people would trust.
Miles connected his laptop to the neighbor’s shitty wifi–not their fault, they were too far away for him to get a good connection–and ordered some food online. Burgers and fries. If Park didn’t eat it, Miles would. Despite not feeling hunger anymore, he was hoping that he would still enjoy the taste and consistency of hot junk food. He could do with a boost to his morale. It would take about half an hour for it to be delivered at the address he’d given out, further down the street, so he had some time to kill before he had to go there. He decided to research the patient sleeping in the room next door.
Waylon Park, thirty-four years old, dressed like a nerd in every one of his pictures–even the professional ones. His social media indicated that he’d lived in Colorado pretty much all his life, having moved from Boulder to Leadville about a month ago. Park hadn’t lied about his profession as a software engineer. Strangely enough, there was no mention of Murkoff anywhere. Even his professional network profile didn't mention that he'd found a job at Mount Massive. Miles saw that he’d graduated cum laude from Berkeley and raised an eyebrow at that. Not so stupid, then… Unless the experiments had fried his brain.
Miles continued digging and noticed that his lifestyle seemed to have undergone some downsizing over the last years: smaller house, smaller yard, no more pool. Pictures of his two sons River and Michael holding expensive electronics while Park continued to wear his ratty Converse and the same weathered coat. His wife Lisa, carrying the same handbag every time it showed up. Financial issues, maybe? Which would explain why Park had jumped on the job offer in Leadville without reading the fine print on his Mount Massive Asylum contract. But it was all purely hypothetical. The main question was how and why Park had gotten himself committed as a Variant. Maybe he hadn’t realized the grave consequences there could be for being too nosy. He’d only been working for them for a short time, after all.
Miles was distracted by his phone lighting up. His gaze flew to the time on his computer. He’d forgotten about the food. Miles unlocked the phone and checked the message, which informed him that the containers had been dropped off where he’d asked. He replied to confirm that he’d received the information and automatically grabbed his jacket from the couch, but then stopped in his tracks when he remembered that it was totally trashed. Miles let it drop back down with a bitter twist of his lips, and went to dig through the near-empty closet behind the entrance. He found a black coat covered in spiderwebs and dust, flapped it around to get rid of the worst part, and shrugged it on.
The neighborhood was not very well illuminated, but Miles still took the precaution of weaving around the few lamp posts that were in the street, just in case. His feet led him to the abandoned building site at the end of the road. He went to open the rusty mailbox behind the dilapidated picket fence and pulled out the bag of food, pushed the small door closed with a long, high-pitched squeak, and spun back around. The smell was delicious and familiar, and Miles allowed himself the false reprieve of imagining that it was synonymous with a return to normalcy. His appetite remained a no-show, but it felt nice to hold the warm bag against his chest, supported by his arm so that he wouldn’t have to feel his missing fingers.
Miles returned to the hideout and shucked off his shoes and coat at the entrance. He padded into the living room and heavily fell on the couch, then leaned forward and set the bag down on the small table in front of his knees. With a weary sigh, Miles opened the crinkling paper bag and pulled out the first box he touched. Inside, he found a thick burger and some golden fries. The burger was more bread than meat, and the fries were less numerous than they’d been in the picture, but it felt like luxury after the asylum’s rot and gore. Miles pushed the image out of his mind and focused on the sensations of biting into the soft warm bun, of the sauce’s tanginess on his tongue, of the charred aftertaste of the meat he was chewing.
Miles stared at the burger, then swallowed his bite with unease and put it back down in the box. Charred didn’t do it for him. Again, Miles tamped down the images and smell of a burning cross, and he reached for the fries instead. They were crispy and greasy, and most importantly, they tasted safe. Miles proceeded to eat all of them. He wasn’t hungry, but the comfort was real. He realized when he was done that he did feel a little better, physically. He remembered Billy Hope’s feeding tubes. Miles figured that it made sense that food was still something his body required. It was also a reassuring sign that his body could possibly heal despite being half-dead.
Miles wiped his hands on one of the paper napkins and got up to throw his trash out. He didn’t go see if Park was hungry. If the man wasn’t waking up from the smell, then sleep was the priority. Miles washed his hands and dried them on his shirt on his way back to the table. Not feeling hunger and still finding a use to eating was one thing, but for Miles, not feeling tired was also coupled with the complete inability to sleep. For all the nights in his life where he’d wished sleep wasn’t necessary in a human being’s capacity to function, he missed not having the choice to pass out on the couch. But it was fine. He had work to do.
The peace lasted for a day straight before sounds of Park waking up reached Miles’ ears. He paused in his typing when he heard a yell. Something hit the floor, and he got up from his chair when Park started gasping and groaning. He yanked the door open and found a sweaty, twitchy Park lying in a heap on the ground. The man shot him a look of pure panic as soon as he realized that Miles had stepped in the room with him. There we go, crazy eyes. Miles felt the beginnings of annoyance flicker inside of him.
“What are you doing?”
Park scrambled backwards on all fours and hit the back of his head against the bed with a solid thunk, followed by pained cringing and a pathetic whimper. Miles clicked his tongue. As if the guy needed any more injuries to add to his tally.
“Stop losing your shit, Park. Did you forget where we are?”
Park frantically shook his head, his breaths coming too quick, too shallow. His voice was a wheeze. “No, no, no… No… No, no, no…”
The drugs, maybe? But it had been more than twenty-four hours, and knowing Murkoff’s sadistic methods, they would’ve wanted him to be conscious of what was happening soon after discharging him from Saint Vincent’s. Maybe it was the after-effects of the sedatives, a rebound effect.
“Park.”
Park looked up at him with eyes so huge they looked like they were going to pop out of his head. A beat passed and his expression only twisted even further in fear. He looked like he was on the verge of puking. Miles realized that Park didn’t recognize him, and then, belatedly, that he wasn’t reigning in the Walrider and that it was probably all Park could see. Before Miles could say another word, Park blanched, doubled over, and then he did throw up all over the floor.
“Oh, fucking great.”
Park gasped and retched two more times until he stopped spewing thin yellow bile, and then it was just dry-heaving. Miles rubbed his face and stared up at the ceiling. This was probably a panic attack. Park did seem like the kind of guy who was prone to anxiety after what had gone down at Mount Massive. Miles let his hand drop back to his side and made the effort to pull the Walrider back beneath his skin, then crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. Miles noticed the way Park’s shoulders relaxed minutely as soon as the shadows receded, even though Park hadn’t yet looked up and seen that the Walrider was gone. Maybe he got more affected by its presence than Miles had originally thought. At any rate, Park’s hyperventilating wasn’t stopping, and it was quickly grinding Miles’ patience down to a nub.
“Park,” he tried again.
Park continued panting, but he did look up in his direction. His gaze quickly darted around the room and then back to Miles’ face. He gasped, swallowed, clenched at his scrubs with white-knuckled hands.
“M-Miles?” he asked, his voice strained and quiet, like he wasn’t sure. His face was pinched in pain.
“Yeah. You know anybody else who’d put up with your shit right now?”
“Where are we?” Park looked around the room again. “Oh, god. Are we back… back to…”
“No,” slowly said Miles. Slow was what Park seemed to be. “We’re in my hideout. The one you think isn’t safe, even though it is.”
Park shook his head and moved to get up, but then made a sound like a hiccup and immediately collapsed against the bed. Miles frowned when he noticed the blood his hand left behind on the covers. Park stared at the imprint with a dazed look of confusion, but Miles quickly put two and two together. He walked over to the other man. Park flinched when he noticed his approach, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid Miles’ hand when he gripped him by the arm.
“Get up, on the bed. You probably ripped your stitches.”
Park made a sound of protest, but Miles manhandled him on the bed anyway. Despite them being the same height, the guy didn’t weigh much, especially with Walrider strength on Miles’ side. He pulled up Park’s scrubs to assess the situation and determined that this would require some damage control.
“Stay here, don’t move,” he ordered, and he left without making sure that Park was obeying.
He was back from the bathroom with the first-aid kit a few seconds later, which he threw to the side of the bed. Miraculously, Park had not gone and crawled out. He did cringe away from Miles when his hand came too close to Park’s head. Too close by a fucking mile.
“Calm down,” said Miles. “Or are you going to have another little episode if I touch you?”
Still shaking, Park did manage to shoot him a glare.
Finally, some spine. Miles gestured at the kit. “There’s needle, thread, and disinfectant in there. You need new stitches. Three, from the looks of it. I’d help, but apparently I’m radioactive to you. Can you handle this yourself?”
Park looked like he had to debate on the matter, but he finally said: “...Yes.”
“Good. And clean your hands with the sanitizer first,” said Miles, and he left.
He returned to check on him five minutes later, because that’s how long it would have taken him, and found Park laying on the bed with his eyes closed. Of course, Park being the sad miserable loser that he was, he'd passed out after completing the first stitch and there was blood leaking through the hole that remained. This was about what Miles had expected of him. He came closer and picked the needle out of Park’s limp, bloody hand. Slapping him awake was tempting, but it was probably for the better that he wasn’t conscious enough to freak out about Miles being in such close proximity while he finished the job.
Miles already knew that this was going to be a fucking rodeo if– and probably when–Park woke up. He didn’t see how else the impromptu stitches would go down. Park was not the kind of guy to clench his jaw and bear it. He’d probably lose his shit all over again, and Miles would need to use the Walrider, and Park would lose whatever little shit he hadn’t lost yet. Miles shook his head to himself. Didn’t matter. It had to be done, and if he could get the second stitch in without Park trying to wriggle away, it would already be a small victory.
Miles washed his hands with the alcohol-based handrub, studying Park’s work as he waited for them to dry. Considering this was probably the first time he’d had to suture his own wound, it wasn’t too shoddy for a beginner sewing himself back up. Miles picked up the antiseptic and dabbled some on a piece of cotton, which he swiped around Park’s wound, collecting the drying blood. More fresh dribbles spilled down his skin, but Miles wasn’t going for spotless. Germless was sufficient. He took a new piece of cotton and soaked it in antiseptic as well, but he used this one to wipe the needle clean, and then put in a new thread.
Miles leaned in close and focused on the wound. He felt something switch in his mind, the whole of his attention sliding closer to the suture. Park twitched beneath his fingers. Miles’ gaze darted up and he saw Park’s eyes fluttering open at the same time as he noticed the Walrider’s shadows swirling around them. He realized what the switching sensation had been.
Well, shit, here we go, thought Miles.
Park’s eyes widened, and he screamed.