subversion | [private] instead of stressed i lie here charmed.

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[private] instead of stressed i lie here charmed.

It's a kitchen, deserted except for Light, who's ... more collapsed than sat at the table. His arm is resting on the surface, and his head is pillowed on it; the other hand is touching a half-eaten piece of toast - perfectly square, spread thinly with some kind of golden-yellow jam, and at least an inch thick.

Over the last week or two, it's got harder and harder to keep his temper; he keeps blowing up at people. It's intolerable; the solution he's chosen is to use (not abuse) some of the prescription sedatives in his medicine cabinet. He's been careful; he's started on the lowest dose, intending to titrate upwards. Unfortunately he didn't anticipate how severe the interactions with his usual medication were likely to be.

He's literally fallen asleep at the table.

[[OOC: private to

stripesandheels.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[She comes in, and nearly goes out again immediately when she sees him. Except, he's sleeping. It's sweet- adorable, really, and ominous because Light would never be caught dead sleeping in public and therefore something must be wrong. She approaches, leans in, and swipes her finger through the jam on his toast to see what flavour it is, licking it off her finger.]

[The jam's lychee: undersweetened to a Western palate, tart and fragrant. There's no butter beneath it. He's close to waking, and as the movement passes through the toast into his hand, he shifts slowly, and moans: not yet, kaasan.

He doesn't look himself; his clothes are too simple, too comfortable-looking, and his hair's scruffy. Perhaps it's because he's been sleeping.

Ordinarily he'd wake like a shot if anyone came near. Now, he doesn't know she's there. His breathing's too slow.]

[Matt reaches out, and cards her fingers through his hair, straightening out some of the scruffiness. She stops quickly, though, and goes to put coffee on for both of them.]

[It's the touch in his hair that finally wakes him - except he doesn't move, not at all, when ordinarily he flits around the place like a bird. All that happens is that his eyes crack open the tiniest bit, and even that is an effort. His voice is slow, slurring, stuck in itself.]

You.

Truce.

[She's too worried to fight, he's probably too tired to make her. He can try, she supposes, but she's going to try not to snap back. Not until she figures out what's wrong with him.]

What did you take?

Nothing. 'm fine.

[The lie's automatic, habit - though it will be far easier to get the truth out of him. His eyes open further, unfocused, staring; he's too tired to move, or fight.]

Coffee will be done in a minute. Finish your toast, Light.

[Getting solid food in his stomach can only help. She isn't sure how bad he is just yet, but it clearly isn't good, if he's lying here like this, mumbling, without a snide remark for her.]

Then you'll be right as rain, as they say.

[Everything's so drifting, so confused. He had toast? Yes, there it is - his eyes trail to it, the only moving things in his face, which is slack, hanging motionless. Pushing himself, he squeezes his fingers together, on the hand that's touching something; they're tacky. Jam.

It would be kind of nice if he was somewhere else now, he supposes, before he gets jam on everything. Getting up is hard; hell, lifting his head is hard.]

Not hungry.

[The next thing he says gets away from him, becomes a rush of syllables, incoherent; why are you here?]

Sorry?

[She doesn't know how he takes his coffee, and doesn't remember to ask, doctoring it easily for the Light from her world, adding a little cool water so he won't scald himself if his hands slip.

She comes to lean against the table in front of him, holding the cup to his mouth. If he can't talk, he certainly won't be able to drink on his own. She does it with a laugh, like it's a game they're playing, without a glimmer of pity.]

[There's another protesting whimper; he tries to pull away from her, but hasn't the strength yet - or the volition, for that matter. His face tightens somewhat at the coffee; it's not how he prefers it, but he does take some.]

You. Why. are. you. here.

[Very carefully sounded out; if he was himself, he'd be aware she could easily plant a knife in his back, or poison him.]

I was coming in to get poached eggs. I was going to eat them on toast, too, so you've prevented a small calamity. You've also kept me from getting lunch, smug bastard.

[When she's satisfied he's had enough coffee for now she pulls the mug away, sets it on the table next to her, and gives him another concerned once-over.]

What did you take?

[The slow, stumbling thing he does under his breath at the gentle insult might just be a laugh: ba-ha.]

Lor— uh. Az— [No long words at the moment, please; he settles, carefully, for the American tradename.] Ativan. Shouldn't have—

[One hand shifts upwards somewhat; ordinarily it would have pointed to himself: it shouldn't have done this. It's easy to misinterpret.]

Lorazepam.

[She fucked with someone's, once. A simulation, at school, submitted a fictional report about bribing a doctor to increase a dosage gradually until a target was neutralized. So the first thing that occurs to her is that someone might have get into his. Would he be that careless? It doesn't matter, not if one of the successors or L was after him, they would have found a way.]

Okay. I want to get you back to your room, Light, you look so tired. Is the pill bottle here or there?

There. The cupboard.

[Another of those whispered twitches of his hand, towards the door. He's not tired, really not tired; everything's fine, even if he could sleep forever, if she'd only let him. Things are just too slow, and he's heavy, too heavy to get up; the chances of getting him away from the table aren't good.

He manages another carefully-enunciated sentence; it's scary in its own right, because even this Light knew perfectly well that he wasn't safe here.]

I can sleep here.

No, you can't. Lots of people are going to be in here, soon. Lots of very loud, loud people who will shake you and steal your toast and coffee.

[She goes to the cupboard to find it, and examines it quickly, estimating the number inside and checking the prescription count to see how long he's been taking it. It looks right- the pills are the proper shape and size, from what she remembers, the dosage isn't impossible, and he doesn't seem like the type to pop six.]

You taking anything else, kitten?

[She pockets these. Confiscated.]

Mm-hm.

[It's a confirmation: yes, I am. As long as she's pleasant to him, he'll be remarkably forthcoming; effectively overdosed as he is, the stuff is like a truth serum. But he can't find it in him to care about other people coming in; none of them could be worse than her.]

Why don't you try to remember for me what else there is, okay?

[On top of the pills, she grabs a bag of chips and a couple of apples, tucking them into vest pockets and going over to him, watching him for a moment longer then reaching out to take his hands.]

Up.

[As she takes his hands, there's the faintest tug away from her, and an incoherent protest under his breath: he can remember well enough, it's just that talking is hard.

In response to the order, he tries to push up from the chair; he really does. He's getting better, though; his eyes are wide open now, focusing with effort. His strings have been cut, and he doesn't care enough to push harder.]

Two of them. There's two.

Harder, Light, you can do this. You know you can do whatever you put your mind to. You're going to stand up and tell me the names of those pills, and if that's a little much for today, you'll tell me where I can find them.

[She pulls a little. He's bigger than her, but if he puts an arm around her shoulder and helps her, they could probably do it.]

Up.

[Another thing he doesn't care enough to crumple at, or to offer a bitter cascade of those barely-there laughs at: the suggestion that he can do whatever he wants. As she pulls on his arms, he leans forward, going with her; her hands are still around his wrists. Straining, because she's telling him to, and it's so much easier just to comply, he ends up standing, falling against the table; some of his hair lands in the jam. He doesn't notice.]

They're in my pocket.

[If she checks, she'll find two blister packs in his right trouser pocket, both marked in katakana and English. One is risperidone, an antipsychotic: tiny green tablets. The other is carbamazepine, a mood stabiliser: larger white tablets. The packs are both half-empty, and not the same ones he brought in his bag, when he arrived.

He's watching her like a child, all big, dark eyes, with, increasingly, more visible behind them.]

[She looks, and the guilt really sets in now, looking at his antipsychotics and his great big eyes. He isn't well, she'd known that and fucked with him anyways, and now he's sprawled on the table with lychee jam in his hair. Drugged, a tiny bit adorable, just as dangerous as ever. This is an even worse idea than the sex, but she has to help.

She slides the blister packs back into his pockets, fingers just brushing his leg through the trousers, and takes just one hand this time, pulling it up, trying to get that arm over her shoulders.]

You're doing so good. Lorazepam isn't safe to mix with just anything, kitten, but if we get you to bed, you might be able to sleep this off.

[Somehow, he does end up with one arm around her shoulders, and his head resting on hers. It's mildly unpleasant, to be bounced around from place to place and jarred and shaken when all he wants to do is lie down and close his eyes again and sleep. On the floor, if necessary, curled under the table.]

I know. I thought—

[No way to get that one out - that they've given him diazepam in the past, but he couldn't find it in his medicine cabinet. He'd known the relative strengths of the two, he'd known the interactions, but he really hadn't thought the lowest dosage would hit him this hard.]

[Walking gently enough to avoid cracking their heads together, with him all loose and relaxed, is rather painstakingly difficult, but she manages it. He's easy to patient with, when he's half incoherent and leaning up against her.]

Do you remember how much you've taken of each of them?

[She's sort of at a loss- her instincts say to pull him off everything until his system is less fucked, but arbitrary withdrawal from an antipsychotic is an incredibly stupid idea.]

[Tapering him off them would be the thing to do; the problem would be to get him to consent to it. It's a very slow process, but the motion itself brings him a little way out of the stupor; as they go, he becomes more able to slowly move himself.]

Morning, evening. One of each.

[He can still feel himself being pulled along, as if he's on wheels, as if his feet don't move of their own accord. And he's given away his secret, given it to her, and can't care.]

[And, she isn't sure she'd want to. She doesn't know his medical history, and whether or not the antipsychotics are, you know, to prevent psychotic episodes. As a rule, Matt supports continuing medicatiion. It's still hard to see him like this, though.]

Okay. I'm going to put you to bed, then go to the wish room and get a pharmaceutical textbook and read all about side effects and mixing and dosages. I'm way out of my league here, Light. This is pretty scary.

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