january 2020. welcome to the void.

[modblob]

Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: Seventh Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of January 2020
Where: Around and outside the city.
Warnings: Please add any warnings in the subject lines.

Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.

Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.

a. champagne supernova.

Normally, the changes in the sky are subtle, happening between glances or over the course of days.

That's not the case now, when the bright sky with its three suns is wiped away in an explosion of blue light, right at sunrise on the morning of January 1st. The light pulses across the sky in uneven blazes, sending out lattices of what might be lightning or something worse. There's no moon. No brightness. Just this lightning-storm brilliance in space, shedding little light on the world below.

And the suns don't come back on. As the day wears on, the supernova brightness in the sky starts to fade out and no new light appears. The sky is static and black, with no stars, no moons, no suns. The mild rolling blackouts that started with the opening of the relaxation room intensify with the sudden loss of solar power, as the backup systems try to compensate for the increased use of power.

For a moment, power goes out in Anchor entirely, leaving the place plunged into darkness.

The darkness doesn't last. Thanks to those generators everyone worked so hard to sort out, the backup systems struggle back to life, keeping the lights on and the bar, kitchen, and agricultural supports open, but there are some things that the limited power just can't cover.

b. tower of babelfish.

The first, and perhaps the most noticeable system to start failing, are the auto-translation programs. While not affecting every area in Anchor equally, communication between those who speak different languages is going to be a lot more difficult. The effects are spotty, coming and going, sometimes completely failing, leaving only people's naturally-spoken languages available. Sometimes it just struggles, making conversations sound a lot more like babelfish translations than recognizable speech. People themselves seem to be affected differently by the translation struggles, depending on who and where they are. There's no rhyme or reason to when and how it fails. But the problem persists through most of the month.

c. the hidden passage.

The second system failure is harder to spot.

At the end of what seemed to be a maintenance hallway, a set of doors have appeared from behind what used to be a shielded hologram of a dead end. The doors stick out from their surroundings: thick metal, barred heavily from the outside. A clear attempt to keep something locked away inside, not to keep people from entering.

For those adventurous enough, or foolish enough, to wrestle the locks open, a problem will reveal itself. A short flight of stairs, leading down into an area flooded by murky water. It's hard to see more than branching halls down below.

Those who choose to brave the water will find a hallway lined with bulkheads and sealed doorways, all guarding rooms that could be accessed with the right combination of smarts and brute force. It's the question of what would be ruined by the water if the doors are opened that might give people pause. What kind of secrets could be wiped out or destroyed if the doors are forced and the water passes through the bulkheads? Can the water be drained? How?

But there is one room open, or mostly open, where the bulkhead doors didn't quite manage to seal when the area flooded. It'll be a squeeze, for bigger characters, but the flooded room beyond contains artifacts preserved behind glass - strange medallions, strings of glowing beads, broken sceptres, arrows fletched with feathers from creatures no one has ever seen before.

Only one object isn't sealed away. It's a handful of small orbs, with shifting colors, held in place by a shield array that still seems to function, for the most part. They can be touched, can even be removed from the stand with the right know-how or a willingness to smash stuff.

But once an orb is touched, the colors start to spin more rapidly. The more it's handled, the brighter and faster the colors shift. Whether it takes hold immediately or not is up to you, but those who handled the orb will find the bright colors start to glow under the surface of their skin, in the shape of veins, glowing bright for a few minutes before fading. And those people bring a different kind of contagion back with them to the surface. Memory loss, communicated from one person to the next via contact. It can be partial or complete, or not happen to your character at all - they can be an unwitting "carrier" of the effects, passing it on without experiencing the losses themselves. The loss can last from hours to weeks, with carriers being "infected" for the duration of that time.

It also leaves behind magical traces, ones that don't fade after memories return. The cleverest might start to wonder if it wasn't a kind of inoculation, though against what, it remains to be seen.

Navigation.

Comments

[kaballin]

"Nah, trying to imagine it. Black? Or are you all about being thematic and going with blue?" He can see either, black is classic, but blue would really make those eyes stand out.

Hmm. More things to think on later because he couldn't get aroused right now if his life depended on it. If there's one thing he's most assuredly not into its pain.

"Good, I can be food for all those little dragons. Then they grow up and eat everyone. Circle of life."

He doesn't move, letting Len bandage him up and wanting nothing more than to sleep for a week and have this magically heal up in the next hour. But he's been injured enough times to know that it hurts now, its gonna go numb soon, and then it'll start throbbing once it starts to heal. It sucks that even his body repairing itself is going to hurt.

"You're real good at that. Do this a lot?"

[hypothermic]

"Live through the night and you might just find out." An overt flutter of his eyelashes. The wicked smirk stays.

At least until Kabal compliments his skill as someone who heals instead of hurts. Len pulls back immediately, emotionally and physically. Goes cold. Silently wipes his hands off on the more-pink-than-white robe he'll have to burn after this, because it's a terrycloth bio-hazard.

"Only when I have to." Not a lie. Once upon a time, before Mick, before he could stand on his own two feet, before he ran away from home and left it all behind, patching himself up was all Len could do.

"I hurt people. They don't hurt me." Len is too tired for this shit, and his night is far from over. Kabal can pass out when he chooses, but someone needs to stay up and make sure he doesn't show signs of fever or infection. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.

"Do you get your ass kicked a lot?"

[kaballin]

Kabal has accidentally said a lot of dumb shit to kill the mood, but he's honestly not sure what he did here. Not that there was a mood to kill, but he can see the abrupt shift in Len's face to something emotionless and cold when he'd been almost a bit flirty before.

Any other time and he'd press it, try and figure out what part of bandaging someone is somehow worse than all the shit they just got done with. And why saying that was getting this reaction. But right now Kabal doesn't have the strength to protest. He's weak and tired and frustrated that someone is taking care of him.

He hates that.

"I don't back down from fights," his voice is a little different, more insistent as there's something he's not saying there. Because as loathe as he is to admit it, he's lost his fair share of fights being too proud to back down and starting shit with the wrong people.

"And this doesn't count as getting my ass kicked because I won that little scuffle. You're the one that got dragged away all unconscious and floppy." He forces himself to shut up before he antagonizes him into punching him in the arm or worse. Plus the guy had just seen him writhing around in pain. He could stand to be marginally nice to him. Maybe.

Fuck he hates this.

"So now what? You walk of shame home in that bloody robe?"

[hypothermic]

Defensive knows defensive, and Kabal is looking more than a little familiar.

"Only because I passed out. That was low blood-sugar, not skill." Len rolls his eyes, still pissed off at his traitor body. He can't afford to be weak right now. Not with Chronos gunning for him.

As for what comes next, at least Len has an excuse that's as convenient as it is inconvenient. He doesn't want to play nanny, but he's safer in here than he is out there. Chronos will be looking for him everywhere but here. An occupied room with a long-term tenant.

"No. I stay here and make sure you don't go septic and die before I can kill you properly." Len moves the bloodied bucket and dirty equipment off to the side, to be sterilized later. He doesn't have it in him right now. Lack of sleep and nutrition is already biting at his heels.

Now to clean himself. A glance around the room. It's a pig-sty, which he's used to, Mick being a pig, but Len is meticulous about organizing their particular chaos. He knows where everything is at all times.

Kabal's mess is just... messy. Len doesn't know where to start.

"I need something to wear. Where do you keep the rest of your Burning Man wardrobe?"

[kaballin]

"A wins a win. Thought you knew something about fighting dirty." They both seem to be on the same page about that at least. Though there's definitely something telling about the fact Kabal hadn't just sliced his head off and been done with it once Len passed out. He may fight dirty, but he wants an actual fight.

"That one," He jerks his thumb to a closet against one of the walls, "Enjoy swimming in my pants."

The closet has a few pairs of pants stuffed into shelves, underwear, socks, a pile of leather harnesses, another respirator, and the only item actually hanging off a hanger is a different mask, one that's only half as big and inset with sharp, too large teeth. Everything is going to be huge when compared to Len's much smaller frame, but there is a belt in there (also likely too big), that has some knives hanging off it. There's not a single shirt to be found in his whole room.

Well there was one he wore when it was actually cold enough to freeze what's left of his nips off, but he hated it and tossed it who knows where after he got back in his room. Kabal has always run hot, ironic for someone who ended up getting set on fire, but the cold never bothered him, and shirts always seemed pointless.

As for the rest of the room, if Len wants to poke around while Kabal lays on the bed and tries to fight a losing battle with himself over getting up and pretending he's fine, there's plenty for him to play with. The cupboards are mostly empty, just whatever was in there when he claimed this room as his own: dishes, cups, some cooking device he couldn't use if his life depended on it (it's a rice cooker), and some bags of chips and crackers and junk that he salvaged from the Whole Foods a while ago.

The fridge is beer and alcohol and random bits of food from things Cho makes during the day. Convenient that someone has taken it upon themselves to feed him, because otherwise he would be making life in the dining hall absolute hell.

Other closets have a rack that is obviously meant for his swords, some sharpeners, oil and maintenance things for his weapons, along with a small toolkit for his respirator and mask. Len's gun is in there, stashed for safe keeping.

But the good shit is just all over the place: there's jewelry from presents he'd opened in a pile on the counter, some very high tech looking tablets sitting next to what looks like a flashlight barrel without the light part, knives, gun parts, computer chips, more alcohol.

If it wasn't nailed down and it looked at all valuable, Kabal took it. And after being here half a year he still hasn't quite realized that he can't actually sell any of this stuff, and that there's no currency anyway. Old habits die hard.

[hypothermic]

It's an impressive collection, but Len isn't interested in Kabal's shit. Right now, all he wants is something clean to wear. Taking a shower isn't an option until Kabal is stable, and the room doesn't spin when Len stands. If he slips in the tub, Kabal won't be there to keep him from drowning in two inches of tuna-infused water a second time.

The best he can do is grab a clean towel, run the sink and take what his father tenderly referred to as a 'whore bath', wiping himself down while he sits on the toilet. Sexy. At least he finds a shaving kit to buzz the silver-stubble down to his preferred length. Because it makes him feel in control of something, and this is the first opportunity Len's had to breathe and do something for himself since he arrived.

He finishes in the bathroom feeling almost human, and struts back into the bedroom wearing only an air of confidence, clean, pale, impressively scarred skin, and black lacy underwear. Silk, expensive, and entirely impractical.

Len dresses for himself, and no one else. He wears what makes him feel powerful in the moment. Sometimes that means leather, combat boots, and fur. Other times it means leather, combat boots, and a skirt.

Rules are meant to be broken.

He goes to the closet, pulling open the doors to reveal a wardrobe that's exactly as ridiculous/kinky as the get-up Kabal was wearing when they met. All leather, buckles, and spikes. Your kinks are showing Kabal. Cute on him, but definitely not comfortable. Especially for a man half his size to float around inside.

Len flips through his extremely limited options, one hand perched on his cocked hip. A glance back over his shoulder as he thumbs over the teeth of that fanged mask. Faded lash-marks criss-cross his back.

"Would it kill you to cover up your ta-ta's once in a while?" More to check in on Kabal and make sure he's conscious than start a conversation.

And maybe to catch him looking.

[kaballin]

Meanwhile Kabal has managed to sit up, which is a feat on par with the time he cold clocked Kano and dragged him through a few dimensions to leave him in the Netherrealm. He's lightheaded, his arm is throbbing, he feels weak and frustrated and --

And...

And everything else he was thinking immediately evaporates as Len practically saunters out of the bathroom to the closet in only something lacy. The kind of item that's designed to look as good on someone's body as it does in a ball on the bedroom floor. Well that answers the question about blue or black.

"What happened to you not enjoying torturing me?" He's looking. He is definitely looking and the mask sure as fuck isn't hiding it. Sweeping his eyes over those scars, down to how his ass looks all cutely canted to the side, and back up to those eyes that are looking oh so alluring right now.

"Shirts just get in the way." Of what? He's not saying, but he's also not exactly thinking right now.

Kabal does not make good decisions, that's more than obvious. And right now his really good idea is something along the lines of standing up and getting significantly closer to the guy who was scrubbing off his skin not twenty minutes ago.

Fortunately for his idiot brain that would ooze out of his skull when he fell and cracked it open on the floor, he's far too weak to do anything beyond sitting up.

And he is absolutely furious about it.

Gnashing his teeth he keeps right on staring, because at least he's got a good view in case he dies in the night from his arm getting infected. That's probably not how infections work but he's not a doctor, he doesn't know.

"So new plan is to kill me so you don't have to change this bandage later?"

[hypothermic]

"I never said I don't enjoy torturing you." Blithely, with a strategic flit of his eyelashes. Just because Len hadn't enjoyed defrosting Kabal doesn't mean he isn't sadistic. It means he's sadistic with standards. There's nothing interesting about a half-dead man writhing around in pain, helpless to put up a proper fight.

He slams the door to Kabal's closet, finding absolutely nothing worth wearing. It's going to be a long night, and he's not going to be sitting around wearing a harness and pants so big he could get lost in them. He would rather walk around in panties than look like a kinky clown.

A slow turn, leaning against the closet. Len knows his angles. A professional uses every asset they have at their disposal. Eyes, ears, and fingers are the obvious choices for a thief, but there's something be said for the distracting power of lips, legs, and ass. Magicians don't own the monopoly on misdirection.

Sometimes the best tool in a criminal's belt is a smile.

His lips curve up at the corners, but the real amusement is in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The way they glitter beneath his eyelashes, equal parts steel and sapphire. Overcast when he's in a bad mood, and bright when he's up to no good.

This kind of torture is more his speed. Kabal glaring at him from behind his mask, oh so frustrated, and powerless to do anything about it. If he has enough blood left in his body to split between both heads, there's a good chance Kabal will make it through the night.

"Don't be silly. I'm expecting a return on my investment. When I kill you, I'm going to take my time. Make it nice n' slow. Until you're begging for mercy. Or screaming my name."

Murder. Len's definitely talking about murder. Not something else similarly sinful, satisfying, and intimate. No double entendres here.

"So everyone knows who took down the biggest bastard in this prison."

[kaballin]

"Yeah, no shit you're enjoying it now."

He's sitting up, a little hunched forward, and inadvertently has all the covers bunched up in his lap and around his sides so Len is just going to have to use his imagination to determine how that bloodflow is doing.

There's a low sound in Kabal's chest, nearly a growl as he watches Len turn around, taking in every curve, the way his hipbones frame his stomach and how good the man looks in lace. Though he'd look far better out of it with the lace in pieces on the floor. Not only is Kabal seven levels of aroused right now, a nice distraction from the pain, but there's a part of him that's really curious about how those silky panties would feel if Len was in his lap.

He frequents bars and underground fighting arenas and anywhere seedy enough that fucking completely naked will probably net you some horrible disease. So he's never actually touched fancy lingerie before. It looks soft and smooth, good for sliding hands over, what he imagines satin sheets would feel like, though he's never encountered those either.

"Wouldn't peg you for the kind that's into the slow and drawn out sort of thing. Seem a little more like back against a wall and clawing gouges in someone else while screaming." For the murder that they're both talking about it. Murder.

"Oh flattery. I like it," his voice drops a bit before continuing, the tone he'd have if he was currently cornering Len into said wall and about to make him claw his back all up, "Do it again."

[hypothermic]

Len doesn't correct Kabal, and maybe saying nothing says it all.

He pushes away from the closet, gliding across the room, through the loot, trash, and sharp objects, as if he owns the place. Right now, while Kabal is incapacitated, Len does. He stops at the foot of the bed, looking down his nose at the other man with sharp, predatory eyes.

"Don't tell me what to do." In the same tone as if Kabal were backing him into said imaginary wall. A low, dangerous purr. Claws out and ready to scratch, if necessary.

"That's a good way to get yourself pegged." Len can give as good as he takes. Punch for punch. Kick for kick. Fuck for fuck. A look somewhere between promising and menacing, and he turns away from Kabal just to make the man watch him go.

Len grabs the nearby bottle of whiskey, drinks straight from the bottle, adam's apple bobbing within his pale throat, and wipes his mouth with the back of one scarred forearm.

"I'm hungry. What's a guy gotta do to get a decent meal in this dump? Save another idiot?" He stretches one long leg out to toe open the mini fridge, appraising Kabal's stash of pillaged food. More of the same from the community fridge, but better because he's stealing it in front of a captive audience.

With only a hint of evil, he bends over in front of the fridge, fingers pressed to his cheek in deep consideration of the choices. So they can both get a better look at the goods.

"Ooh. Chilly." Was that a shiver, or a wiggle?

[kaballin]

That guttural purr goes right to Kabal's dick. (Turns out blood flow is just fine.)

"Oh you fucking bastard." Every single thing that Len is doing is arousing: walking around without a care while completely naked, drinking straight from the bottle, and then flaunting the goods right in Kabal's face.

His arm is all but forgotten, sure it still hurts, but he can ignore it when in the face, or ass as it were, of something he wants a hell of a lot more. There's two options open to him, reach his good hand between his legs and enjoy a little more than just the view. Or something very stupid.

This is Kabal.

He chooses the stupid one.

The mask is attached to the respirator which is currently all wrapped up around the bed to keep him from tangling up the lines. So Kabal in all his infinite wisdom pulls the mask off so he can stand up, promptly falls back onto the sheets, rolls over to the end of the bed and makes a swipe at Len's middle to try and tug him down onto the mattress.

It's a rather uncoordinated effort born of frustration and desperation, but he is definitely willing to sacrifice his own well being for the sake of his dick.

[hypothermic]

Kabal's arm catches him around his waist, and Len stumbles backwards and onto the mattress with a bounce that shakes the entire bed.

He twists around in the other man's grip, snarling, and breaks away. As vicious and impossible to hold onto as a pissed-off cat. His gut reaction is to lash out. Fist raised and ready to strike before his brain catches up with his body. Chest heaving.

The switch from animal instinct to rational mind is immediate. Wild eyes turned cool with a hard blink. Len's shoulders lower, the fight leaving his body. He sits back and away from Kabal. Breathes in deep through his nose. Exhales. Silently fighting down the uncomfortable slurry of emotions in his belly as violently as any physical opponent.

"You're an idiot." Len rolls his eyes, leaning back on one hand. Cool. Like nothing happened. In spite of his burning face and throat.

He isn't used to being caught off-guard, and it's been a while since anyone's touched him without the intent to maim or kill. Len hasn't been laid in months. Saving the world doesn't leave much time for fooling around, and even if it did, the type of people (heroes) who dedicate their lives to saving the world aren't interested in slumming it with a criminal. They shack up with each other. Len couldn't hold onto his singular friend, never mind bag a lover.

For all his teasing, Len didn't expect Kabal would actually want him. Never mind risk pain for pleasure so soon after going through hell. Forgot he could be that kind of desirable to anyone anymore.

Len reaches over to adjust the respirator, re-aligning the tubes into a viable position above Kabal's head.

"I should let you suffocate. So you can claim the Darwin award with your name on it."

[kaballin]

There's a reason that Kabal is an enforcer and not the brains of the Black Dragon, because when he plans for things they aren't more than five minutes into the future. What would he have done if that had worked? If Len had flopped onto the bed all coy and alluring? He'd be in exactly the same situation he's in now which is grabbing for his mask and sliding it back into place while flopping down onto the bed because he doesn't have the stamina to even stand up let alone thrust someone into the mattress.

Also he almost got a fist to the face right then which would be a little bit of a mood killer. But not much since he was raring to go one handed and unable to sit up for more than a few minutes.

Someday Kabal will learn to think with other parts than his dick. Today is not that day.

"Then all that scrubbing you just did would be for nothing." he's wheezing, it's super attractive. "We had a bargain."

The one where if he didn't cry maybe Leonard would potentially think about something. But now here he is prancing around in silky panties and somehow he expected that Kabal wouldn't act on that?

His joking demeanor and total confidence belies the fact that he's incredibly self aware of who and what he is. And especially what he looks like. It's not so much that he cares, because really he doesn't, but being a walking husk of beef jerky does tend to turn people off. Or to make jokes about what else might have burned off.

So now he's got someone sassily waggling their bits around and he more than wants it. He's been here for over half a year and got laid once and he's suffering. Too bad he's far too weak to act on it.

He stretches out, taking up the whole bed and leaning up on his elbows to stare at Len on the other end of the mattress. "You're the one who has to deal with my corpse if I die and start smelling up the place."

[hypothermic]

"And if I fucked you right now, all that scrubbing would still be for nothing. Because you'd croak before you came." Len reaches from where he's sitting to grab the bottle back, and take another drink. Getting drunk would be stupid, but he'll need a buzz to lay here beside this man and not smother him before morning comes.

A heavy sigh, and he offers the bottle to Kabal. Shifting on the bed to be almost beside him. So he can stretch his legs out, and attempt to relax before shit can hit the fan.

"I'd freeze you before you could start rotting, and chip pieces off when I needed ice in my drink."

Len's eyes are on Kabal again, scanning over his arm before tracking up towards his face. The bandages are still intact, thankfully. He'll change them over when they start to look too wet.

"Like I said. Live through the night, and I'll think about it. Until then? Go the hell to sleep, or shut up and watch Diehard 2 with me. That's the only action you'll be getting." And on VHS no less. How nostalgic.

He leans back on one elbow, hand supporting the back of his neck, and flicks on the TV.

"I'm allllllll about that icicle scene." A smirk.

[kaballin]

"At least I'd die happy. Assuming you live up to what you look like." An idle quip, with the way Len talks he's pretty sure the man knows what he's doing. All the more reason Kabal would very much like to be plowing him into the mattress right now. But for all his frustration and seething lust, he does sort of realize that's not very practical. Under duress he might admit he's not up to it.

Possibly.

Grabbing the bottle he tilts the mask up to take a few swallows before handing it back. He doesn't wanna get shitfaced when he's already making amazingly bad decisions while stone-cold sober. With his luck he'll end up on the floor choking to death ten inches away from his respirator because he doesn't have the strength to get up and then he'll never see what that silky little number looks like on the floor.

Fine, he'll be a good patient, closing his eyes and falling asleep next to a hot piece of ass with the soothing sounds of Diehard 2 in the background. It's almost a little romantic.

It's a few hours later when he slowly wakes up, feeling even worse than he had before. Even though he's under all his blankets and sheets he's absolutely freezing. Is Captain Icebox over here actually cold to the touch? It's hard to see from only the light of a tv that's showing a black screen, but Len is next to him asleep. Cute.

And it's right about then that Kabal realizes something must be wrong with him, because he isn't even trying to get a better view of all Len's good parts, he just wants to get warmed up.

Shifting over to his side he wraps an arm around Len's middle, wanting to drag him against his chest. He's cold, Len is probably warm, and none of Kabal's thought processes are currently centered below the waist.

Clearly he's dying.

Or he's feverish, because while he feels like he's sleeping in a New York doorway in January, he's actually burning up. His whole body is radiating heat to the point it's probably uncomfortable for Len to be next to him. On the plus side: he doesn't sweat. On the negative side, because of that he doesn't thermoregulate so he'll keep on getting hotter until his brain melts out his ears.

[hypothermic]

Kabal was out like a light before the credits rolled. Len crept out of bed, carefully, to eat something, grab a shower, and wash his disgusting clothes in the tub.

He washes Kabal's dirty pants and leather jacket too. Only because they're reeking up the place, and the tub was already full. Len would bite off his own tongue before admitting he takes comfort in mundane domestic tasks, or that focusing on laundry instead of survival is almost enough to take the edge off.

After all the hiding, stealing, and fighting for his life, living like a person for a few hours instead of mouse on the run from a particularly large, aggressive cat feels... good. Len knows it can't or won't last, but he would be stupid not to take advantage of the situation while he can.

In the morning, Kabal will wake up (or not), they'll screw (or not), and then Len's ass is getting kicked to the curb unless he gives the man a reason otherwise.

There's a part of Len that wants to flip this to his favor. Keep on seducing and screwing Kabal in exchange for a safe place to sleep, eat, and bathe, but... that would make him a whore, and hooking is the one crime you'll never see on Len's rap sheet. He's better than that.

More than pride, it's his father's voice that stops him. How fucking smug he would look knowing Len fell that far without him, like he always said he would. Because he's too weak to cut it on his own.

Len stews for a while, picks up the trash from all over, pours the sloshing, soggy-skin water down the toilet, and wipes everything down. He's not spending the night in a petri dish of bacteria.

At some point he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, closes his eyes, and the next thing he remembers is burning. Mick's eyes on fire as he brands something into his back. Hotter than hell. The smell of plasma and raw tissue thick in the air. He gasps in his sleep, clawing at the bed-sheets trying to pry himself away from the heat, but there are strong, burning arms wrapped around him. Holding him claustrophobically tight.

Len's eyes snap open. All at once he knows where he is, who he's with, and what's happening.

"Kabal, wake up." He pinches his good arm, twisting in his embrace to glare back at him "Wake up, and let go of me. We need to move. Now."

He reaches for a cup of water on the bed-side table, and dumps it over his shoulder onto the other man's face/head. Len needs him awake. There's no way in hell he can drag Kabal's ass to the tub without the other man putting in some leg-work.

[kaballin]

Kabal grunts at the voice, he's not used to sleeping next to anyone, but he's done it enough times to know it's nicer when they're quiet and actually asleep and nice and warm and..

And definitely not tossing water onto him. Behind the mask he blinks in surprise, staring at Len in complete confusion as if his brain can't process what just happened or why he's wet.

"The fuck was that for?" He doesn't sound angry, more grumpy, like only issue here is that he was sleeping and got woken up early. He's freezing, but that doesn't strike him as an actual problem, not like he's never been cold before. He grew up poor as shit sleeping on a mattress on the floor in New York - he's dealt with cold before. But now Len is shoving and dumping water on him and his fevered brain is not putting the pieces together.

"We don't gotta go anywhere. Anything comes in here I'll slice 'em to bits."

It's gotta be that someone is threatening to shoot them or there's a robot incursion or maybe all the little dragons suddenly grew up and went on a rampage. Kabal's sense of self preservation fails him and he tries to drag Len back down onto the bed. He's cold and he wants to cuddle and if anyone interrupts them he's willing to put a sword right through their face.

[hypothermic]

"You can't kill a fever, wise-guy." Kabal isn't just burning up. He's delirious. There's no reasoning with a man in the throes of a fever hot enough to make Mick Rory jealous.

Len's going to learn his lesson and stop fucking around with violent, hot-blooded men one of these days, but today is not that day. And tomorrow isn't either. Maybe not the next day, but the day after. Or week.

Mick's probably going to kill him before he gets over that particular issue, if Kabal doesn't smother him to death first.

It's a stroke of luck they're both mostly naked, soaked with water and sweat. Len slips out of the other man's hold, rolling off the bed into a crouch on the floor.

Kabal is big, wet, and uncooperative. This is going to be fun. Len grabs him by one ankle and yanks him down towards the foot of the bed, ducking kicking legs, until he can lean down and wrap an arm around Kabal's muscular torso, hauling him to his feet with a grunt of exertion. Careful not to aggravate his arm.

Heavy, but not heavier than Mick. Len can make the walk from the bed to the bathroom, one slow, cumbersome step at a time. It's a work-out.

Len hates working out. He's more Mensa than meathead.

"What do they feed the psychopaths where you're from?" A grimace, shifting Kabal's weight. Grabbing onto whatever is closest to keep them from toppling over when he almost trips over Kabal's dragging feet.

"If you don't stop moving I'm gonna knock you the hell out." Struggling through the bathroom door, he drops the other man into the cool bath-tub. Hard. So much for being careful.

[kaballin]

"Sure I can. Watch me." It's anyone's guess exactly how he would murder a fever without also killing himself, but fortunately they don't have to find out because he's being dragged out of bed like a large uncooperative dog that doesn't want to take a bath.

He does assist somewhat, taking a few steps here or there but most of it is him being dead weight against Len and wanting to go back to sleep. This is turning into the worst night he's had in a while - good dreams of those lacy panties in a heap on the floor being so rudely interrupted by the guy in them dragging him around like a sack of very disoriented and pissed off potatoes.

The reverberation of Kabal hitting the tub can be felt through the metal and concrete flooring. If he'd been wearing his shoes and clothes he probably would have dented the damn thing. As it is they should both be grateful he didn't send the whole tub crashing into the room below his because that would have been a fun explanation.

But hey, he's not moving. He's a little stunned from the fall, not because it hurt (thought it did) but because he's now actually waking up more and doesn't really understand what's going on. Or why he was wet before the tub.

"The fuck?"

Eloquent.

[hypothermic]

Len starts the water. Tepid, not cold, in spite of his irritation after the circus that was getting Kabal from Point A to Point B without killing either of them. Not that Kabal will be able to tell the difference. To his searingly hot skin, any temperature below boiling is freezing. So in a way, they're even.

Work smarter not harder.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bake-y."

In contrast to the way he dumped Kabal like a dead body, he's careful when removing Kabal's bandaged arm to stay up and out of the water. The wound needs to stay clean and dry, or the healthy skin could start become soggy, and even more fragile than it already is.

Then there's the way he wets a hand-towel to start sponging cool water over Kabal's scarred upper chest and shoulders, compressing the fabric between his fingers to pour cool and clean over his skin.

"Well. No eggs, or bacon, but you're burning so hot I could use your back like a frying pan. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that even your fever is obnoxious and over the top." And it kind of smells like something reminiscent of bacon is cooking, and what's worse is it's not an entirely bad smell. That's one more food group ruined by this disastrous whirlwind rivalmance. Tuna and bacon are off the menu for the forseeable future.

"Guess they call it longpig for a reason." More to himself than Kabal as he wipes away sweat from flushed cheeks, leaving the wet cloth draped around his neck so Kabal can comfortably lay back if he wants.

Knowing how to make people feel really bad, you can't help but learn what makes them feel good at the same time. Villain or hero, there's a flip-side to every coin.

"Feeling refreshed yet?"

[kaballin]

That. Is. FREEZING.

He recoils immediately, sending Len a glare so heated that coupled with his fever should have caused his frigid nursemaid to burst into flames.

"This part of the all inclusive sadistic spa experience?"

He freezes (heh) immediately when Len removes the bandage and then starts almost gently moving the towel across his skin. No. No no. He doesn't like this. He doesn't want to be taken care of. Doesn't want to be coddled. Weak and pathetic and...

"Alright alright, I'm not dying. Knock it off." He tries to bat Len's hands away. Hunching forward he puts his elbows on his knees and rubs his face before tugging the mask back down. He may not want to be taken care of, but he's aware enough to realize he's a complete mess right now.

"I don't feel refreshed, I feel like fucking shit. The hell is going on?" He feels a bit like he caught the flu sometime in the past twenty minutes, which seems highly unlikely.

But there's actually a more pressing question he wants to ask about why Len is even doing this? Kabal is a confident, arrogant, asshole, but he's pretty self-aware, and no one really wants to be around him longer than necessary. But here's Len, still here after what had to be hours, making sure Kabal didn't roast himself alive or have his arm fall off.

"What about you? Enjoying the spa treatment?"

[hypothermic]

Gentle isn't Leonard's thing. Leonard doesn't take care of people, and he sure as hell doesn't baby them. Leonard looks out for number one. Anyone who argues that fact is asking to be made into an ice-sculpture before they ruin his street cred.

"Yeah, you can say *thank you* for that. I know I'm cute and all, but you were gonna kill yourself just to keep cuddling. I'm not into corpses. Dead, you're of zero value to me. Alive, well..." Len squints at him, the corner of his mouth twitching against a smirk.

"I can think of a few practical uses."

Flirting is something he does, and it's far more comfortable than wearing what he's really feeling on the outside. Truth is, no one wants to hear that shit. Nobody like a sob-story if it doesn't involve lost kittens or happy endings. People say they do, because it makes them feel good to pretend to be a good person, but the minute you're more effort than ego-boost, they're off to the next charity case.

Talking to Kabal is the closest Len's gotten to honest since he arrived.

Even now, he can't quite keep up that mask of feigned indifference. It's just so much goddamn effort, and Kabal is in no state to give a fuck.

"Yeah, I'm loving this. Exactly how I wanted to spend my night. Being choked out by a half-dead dude, and wrestling him into the bathtub while he flails like a big, muscular baby." If Len rolled his eyes any harder he would give himself a seizure. Still, he checks the temperature of the water with one hand and Kabal's skin with the either.

Slowly, slowly, Kabal's finally chilling the fuck out.

"Listen, you're the only guy here who isn't a total square, and I might need a big, stupid bastard like you to have my back if I get myself in a bind with the goody-goody's." He punctuates the sentence by booping Kabal's masked snoot with a cool smile.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't love a reason to fight people. Especially since this reason is so hot he's cold, and might bang you."

[kaballin]

"I was not cuddling." The emphasis he puts on the word underscoring the fact that he was absolutely without a doubt cuddling Len and would have continued to do so until his brain melted from fever. He frowns, not wanting to think about what he was doing when Len moves on to talk about something significantly better.

"Practical huh? There some heavy lifting you need done?" Because now he's thinking about lifting Leonard and smashing him up against a wall which would be a way better way to spend the time than sitting in a fucking tub. Alright, maybe right now isn't the best time, since he just had to be manhandled into the water, so any attempt to get the imprint of the tile wall on Len's back is going to have to wait.

Kabal is not a patient man.

"Oh I would love a reason to bash some faces in. But let's be clear here, I don't need a reason. It'd be nice, but not exactly necessary. You get me?"

Which is his pretense of making sure that Len know's he doesn't need him. Cuz that's verging on having an emotion or getting sentimental or some kind of crap he's a little too lightheaded to parse right now. Just two guys with some mutually beneficial needs here.

He twists in the tub to face Len a little better, nodding to Len's lacy little panties, "You got more of those? Because I make no promises I won't fucking ruin 'em."

There's not much about Kabal that's gentle and he's been wanting to rip those off him since he first sauntered out of the bathroom.

[hypothermic]

Len gets him. He's never known this kind of exchange to function any other way. Some people love, and are loved. Len isn't one of them. Has never been. Saying I love you in the Snart household was the same as lifting up your shirt and asking to be sucker-punched.

"Ruin these, and I ruin you." and that's how they continue, bickering, flirting, picking small fights about anything and everything while ignoring the elephant in the room that is Len nursing Kabal out of the grave and back into some semblance of health.

Then there's the stumble back to the dead, more clumsy and exhausted than any drunks, and a wet, weak tumble onto the mattress. Kabal more alive than dead, but still pretty dead, and Len exhausted past the point of giving a fuck about anything but sleep.

At some point he yanks the comforter over them, because Kabal is shivering and clamouring again.

And Len thought he was high maintenance.

He's still asleep when the faux daylight shines through the small dormitory window, Len groans low, turning his face into his arm to block the light in a drowsy effort to fight off the morning.

Can there be some rest for the wicked?

[kaballin]

Kabal hadn't enjoyed his time in the tub. Granted he doesn't smell atrocious anymore because of that. And sure it had been better than Len scrubbing the skin off his arm so it'll heal, but at least that had been pain which he's well used to dealing with. The tub was caring and being taken care of and those are completely foreign concepts to him. Things he'd scoff at openly. So they've avoided talking about it, sniping at each other as an easy cover so they don't have to acknowledge what's really going on.

This food fight had taken an odd turn somewhere.

Even without the fever, Kabal is just shy of crushing Len to death like some bbq octopus wrapped around him. But the moment Len groans Kabal realizes where he is and what he's doing and backs away. Because he is not "soft" and he doesn't "cuddle." Len moves to try and block out the sun and those very soft and silky panties drag across Kabal's thigh and suddenly all his plans to get up and restart his tough guy routine of pretending nothings wrong, are put on hold in favor of wanting to see that tiny scrap of fabric balled up on the floor.

Or maybe kept on and pulled to the side.

Kabal is easygoing like that. Keeping his options open.

Sitting up (and taking all the sheets with his massive bulk) he inspects his bandaged arm, a pretense of pretending to not care that he's totally naked, and Len might as well be.

"Mornin' sunshine." He pulls the mask off to rub his eyes, and also to take in the view without seeing through the eyeholes of it. Get a nice good look at those options he'd been considering. Hm. They all seem equally desirable.

"Ready for round two of our fun little spa trip? The breakfast in bed part now I guess. Because I've got one hell of an appetite."