2008-01-26: Breakthrough


Jack_icon.gif Logan_icon.gif Nathan_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif

Summary: A few things break within this scene. Among them include hearts, bones and mirrors.

Date It Happened: January 26th, 2008


Petrelli Mansion

Jack dabs his brush in the paint bucket and slops another semi-tidy stroke over the remnants of Peterblood that wouldn't come out of the walls. They're three coats in and finally starting to make some progress. They're surrounded by donut wrappers and empty coffee cups (both disposable and household). It's clearly been a busy morning.

When he's used up his dab of paint, Jack drops the brush back in the bucket and pushes himself into a creaky standing position. "Jesus. Next time you shoot someone, can you do it outside?"

While he complains, he digs a slim plastic case out of his pocket and cracks it open. The components for a fix are quickly assembled, and in a matter of seconds he's ready to shoot up.

Logan lets a paintbrush fall somewhat haphazardly back into the paint tray, bringing his arm up to wipe his forehead as he observes what they've done, standing upon the newspaper they had laid down. It's taken most of the morning, but the mansion is as quiet as if it were the middle of the night. No security, no family, just two men covering tracks. Logan glances sidelong at Jack as he goes to shoot up, but doesn't comment, standing with his hands on his hips before eyeing the wall for missed spots. He's dressed reasonably casual in a T-shirt, a sweater pulled over that, and jeans now specked with paint, boots making paper crinkle underfoot. "Noted," he says, voice clipped, distracted and thinking.

Not too long ago, Peter showed his brother the proper respect of teleporting outside and coming to knock on the door. This time, he's not quite as polite. A room upstairs, the guest bedroom that he tended to use when staying over, suddenly has someone in it. It's not a loud entrance, no crak on his teleport. His eyes open and he looks around the room. No startled maids, good. Before opening the door into the hallway, he turns transparent, invisibility sliding over him. The invisibility doesn't mask the sound of a door opening, or light footsteps that go down the hall, toward the stairs.

He's trying to be quiet, though, so he avoids knocking anything over, doesn't stomp or run, and doesn't start flailing about in ways that would give advance warning of approach. Of course, then he makes it part-way down the stairs— and sees his brother and Jack… painting. The blood splatter left behind from his last visit. He's so startled, his foot slips, and he nearly trips the rest of the way down the stairs, force to catch himself on the railing. That— might have made enough noise for the two of them.

As paint-spotted as Logan, Jack takes a moment to wipe down his hands and one forearm before he ties off and jabs a needle into his vein. He's wearing a pair of faded jeans and a well worn t-shirt with tattoo graphics and the words 'INK BY NUMBERS' printed on the front and back. Ironically, between tattoos is where he's pumping himself full of drugs. He clacks his teeth several time and then grits them ferociously as fire crawls through his veins and into his heart.

"Mm," he rumbles happily. "I feel so much yummier."

"Good for you," Logan murmurs, likely beneath the roar of a pounding bloodstream that Jack is currently grappling with. There is still the barest into of arterial spray managing to show through the delicate paint job, making Logan roll his shoulders and stoop to pick up the paintbrush once more, when he hears someone clumsily approach. No one is meant to be approaching. Journey to the paintbrush abandoned, he turns around rather sharply, eyes narrowing as soon as he sees Peter, anger first, then caution. "Come to lend a hand?" he asks, tone dry and devoid of real humour.

The invisibility dropped away into the stumble, mostly because Peter's staring at a man he respected and went to for help and guidance shooting up drugs in his arm. "What the hell is— Jack what are you doing? Why are you…" The shocked tone carries in his voice as he looks between the two of them, from the man pumping something into his blood stream, to the man who shot him not too long ago. "I came here to lend someone a hand, and it certainly isn't you." It doesn't seem too very long ago he watched the rugged man string a guy upside down and drain the blood from him— and not too very long before the same man fighting so hard to get his best friend back from this near-same personality that took him over. "Jack…" There's a near pleading sound to his voice.

Caught in the act of prepping a second dose for later, Jack's head jerks up abruptly when Peter's presence is revealed. The case is quickly snapped shut and his goodies tucked into his pocket. When he stands, he assumes a familiar, comfortable posture. Feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. In the military they refer to it as 'at ease."'

Right now he's anything but. His eyes are bulging, sweat has sprung out around his brow and upper lip, and his teeth are clenched in a rough mockery of a smile. "You shouldn't be here, kid," he growls tightly. "Walk away."

"He won't," Logan says, stepping a little away from Jack - mostly because it seems like the best tactical thing to do, to divide Peter's attention - and his mouth curls in a cold smile. "He knows what happens when he tries to walk away, don't you, Pete." His boots find unpapered floor as he paces, keeping his focus on his brother, and he can't help but feel smug when it comes to Peter's reaction to this most unexpected alliance. Proud. "How's the jaw? We were just cleaning up pieces of it."

"What is wrong with you, Jack?" Peter asks, looking at him with a new kind of confusion. It's as if everything in the world has decided to get twisted around. His brother is a man he barely recognizes, his worst enemy is probably his only ally— and now the not-uncle of his girlfriend, one of her most important people… He looks toward the other man, the one who shot him and is now mocking him. He shakes his head and takes another few steps, until he's at the bottom of the stairs. "What have you done to him?" It's an accusation. No, he's not walking away this time.

Jack is unable to completely stifle a snort of laughter in response to Logan's verbal jabs. He doesn't move. Not yet. The tip of his tounge drags a slow, lascivious line along his sneering lip and he twitches in anticipation as Peter approaches. "He made me happy again, which is more than you've been able to do for Elena with those mincey little balls of yours. I can't believe I let you inside her, you poofy little fairy."

Now Logan grins, a wide and superior smile that could almost be genuine. "What did I do?" he asks, once Jack states his piece. "I just bring out the best in people, Petey." His taunting tone of voice eases up, that smile fades as he adds, "And everything else he did to himself." He glances towards Jack, now, wariness of the situation returning.

"Shut up," Peter says, shooting a glance toward his brother, voice suddenly rather tense. It doesn't carry the impact that it might have otherwise had if he used an ability to back up his demand, but it's there. A demand to the man of the house, who should have every right to demand silence from an unwelcome guest… "Jack… this isn't like you. You said you could take care of your problems on your own. Maybe you tried to call me for help and if you did— I'm sorry I didn't answer." His situations cut him off from a lot of his friends… "You don't have to listen to him. Whatever he's told you. Whatever he's offered you. That isn't Nathan."

Jack quirks a curious eyebrow and glances over at Logan appraisingly. He takes a step closer to Peter, and then another. A third brings him within a few feet. There's something uncertain and unhappy about his expression, though whatever thoughts he's mulling over haven't quite pierced the sharp, adrenaline-fueled high he's riding. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Logan's back is as straight as a post by now, watching the scene unfold, tension lining his posture. This is a question of trust and loyalty now, and he doesn't exactly rush to stop whatever Peter is about to say occur. He meets Jack's glance then looks towards Peter, raising an eyebrow. As if daring him to say anything.

With his brother— or whoever is in charge of his brother's body— remaining quiet, Peter looks up at the much taller Irish man. His jaw is tense, eyebrows lowered with determination. "Nathan isn't— in full control of himself right now, Jack. He shot me. You know us. You've known us for months now. You know what my brother went through to try to get me back— can you think of a single reason he would shoot me in the back of the head? And then— get you to come here and clean up with him?" He glances down at the track marks. Listening to reason may not work out well… The tension is audible in his voice, thickening by the moment.

Jack shoots a suspicious stare back in Logan's direction. There's a long, heavy pause while he considers Peter's explanation of why things haven't quite added up. He takes a deep breath, holds it for several seconds, and hisses it out between his teeth.

Then he changes sides, moving to stand next to Peter in favor of his other brother. "Sorry about the whole mincey balls thing," he whispers.

"Jack…" Logan says, in a very disappointed tone, though his expression remains icy and stoic, and he takes a step away from the two men. "Oh, well, teach me for keeping friends closer than enemies." He studies Jack for a long moment, and by the time his gaze flicks back to Peter, there's a change there. Dreadful uncertainty. Maybe fear, if he's capable of that, but mostly uncertainty, and plenty of bridled anger. "What do you want?"

"It's fine," Peter says, actually seeming to relax some of the tension for the moment. He even reaches up to touch the man's arm, though it doesn't last long. "Wasn't your choice to make, though," he can't help but add, almost absently. Cause hey, it was Elena's choice who to let inside her, right? He'd like to think so… He focuses his attention onto the shadow of his brother, taking a step away from Jack and closer to Logan. "I just wanted to talk to my brother. And this time, I'm not leaving until I do." That determination focuses on the man cleaning up his mess, and he takes another step toward him.

With his head hanging, his hands in his pockets, and his boots scuffing at the floor, Jack looks like nothing so much as an abashed littled boy while the Petrelli brothers shout it out. It's as if once the dam has broken, all the shame and confusion that he's been supressing has come to the fore. Every snap and yell is enough to elicit a flinch from him.

That is, until he pounces on Peter from behind. He pulls the loaded syringe out of his pocket for a sharp, downward stab at his prey's neck. "Taste the rainbow, bitch."

What did Peter learn last time he stepped into this house? Apparently, he didn't learn it enough. With all his attention focused on one person, he seems to have completely dismissed the threat of the man behind him. After all, he thought the threat had passed. Too trusting. The syringe jabs into his neck, earning a wide eyed gasp of pain, one that doesn't save him from the delivered into his neck. It takes effect almost immediately. As he stumbles away and ends up on his knees, he's already shaking. He reaches up to try and remove the syringe if it didn't fall out when he stumbled away, his hand against his neck.

"Jack— Jack— you don't— you don't— you don't know what you're…" He doesn't finish. On his knees, already sweating heavily, jaw tense from the pain, his head tilts backwards. Glazed over eyes stare up at his brother, like the eyes of the dead. White. Sightless. Or maybe he's seeing something after all. As if he's no longer in control of his body, he starts to stand—

And that smile returns, and as soon as Peter's knees back audible cracks against the floor, Logan is swiftly moving forward. If he recognises the way Peter's eyes go milky white, or even cares to figure out the meaning, he doesn't show it - but he can recognise blindness, despite its unnatural form. His boot snaps against Peter's jaw to send him sprawling when the man, trance-like, starts to get to his feet, the vicious kick coming quickly and with zeal. "No no, don't get up," he says between breaths, keeping his eyes on his brother even as he gestures to Jack, fingers snapping in indication. "Reinforcement?"

"With pleasure," Jack purrs. He leans forward, rests his heel on Peter's kidney, and grinds his weight down with enough force to shift more internal organs. "I told you to walk away, kid. You just can't listen to anyone, can you?" The rhetorical question is punctuated by a soccer kick to the ribs.

He drops to knees, scoops up the syringe, and presses the tip of the needle against the back of Peter's head. With his palm, he pantomimes a sharp, hammerlike blow against the base. "Let me take care of him. He's so proper that it makes my skin itch."

Jack says, "Peter, you literally need to take a step back and FUCK YOUR OWN FACE."

The first hit takes Peter back down to his knees, gasping for air, eyes widening. Whatever had taken him over seems to end, seems to slip away. He's coughing, almost as if he can't breathe, but the attacks don't stop, another one lands, this time against his ribs. It hits hard enough there's a cracking sound. He yells out, trying to form words of protest, but nothing happens. It doesn't come out right. It's the needle against the back of his skull, the threat, that suddenly causes him to reach behind him, grabbing the man by the making it damn well impossible for him to actually hammer that needle any closer.

Though his eyes regained their color, they don't have clarity. Almost as if he's not completely in control of himself still. Sweat dampens his hair, sticks his clothes to him in places. The grip tightens, and then he moves, lifting the much taller man in a way that should be impossible for him, and throwing him away.

"Whoo. WHOO!" Jack grins up at Logan triumphantly. "I just took down Peter Petrelli. I don't see what the big deal with him is. He's nothin'." He grabs Peter by the chin and wiggles his face. "That's right, you're nothin'. Taken down by an Irishman on drugs. You've got nothin' but these nuts in your mouth."

Crowing and singsonging, he continues to jiggle Peter's jaw in a gross imitation of singing. "Unh-huh-huh. These nuts in your mouth. These nuts in your mooooooouth~ These nuuuu—"

This is when he's launched across the room at Logan. He doesn't scream. He refuses to scream. He does close his eyes, though. He's veteran of enough falls and crashes to know that no matter where he lands, this one will hurt. And not just his pride.


Suddenly, tall burly Irishman is flying through the air at him, Logan unable to do much but put his hands up in protest, which doesn't do much of anything at all. The two men are bowled down, Logan grunting as all the air in his lungs is suddenly expelled as he hits the marble floor beneath Jack. Ow. His back teeth are grit together as he fairly shoves Jack off him, body suddenly bruised and twinging in a whole manner of places. His palm makes a slapping sound against the floor, both to brace himself to get to his feet, and to get Jack's attention as he gets back his breathing and therefore his words. He manages one, which is a very adamant and definite instruction; "Gun."

"Don't see what the big deal is?" Peter says, voice suddenly much thicker than it had been before. Everything coarsing through his body is making it difficult to focus. Something deeper is pulling on him. The betrayal of being turned on by someone he respected and even cared for, and his brother— whom he can't quite blame. The man in charge he can, though. The anger, the betrayal— it's all pushing into one thing as he pushes back up to his feet. Pain.

For them. His eyes actually seem to blacken. White to black in a very short time, and he projects pain into the bodies of the both of them. "Try— holding a gun— now." He grates out in their direction. The pain is shared. He's still in a great deal of pain, he's still shaking. Whatever he's doing will probably be very difficult to hold onto, but he's lashing out. Boy is he lashing out.

Despite having Logan to cushion his fall, it's not a good landing for Jack. His forehead smacks into the ground with an audible popping noise, like firewood being split.

He's down, but he's not out. Grunting unsteadily, he comes to his hands and knees before he starts to focus his will. The first firearm he can call to mind is the well-used lupara. When he has it relocated and in hand, he slides it across the floor to Logan with a metallic clatter. He's in the process of standing when the pain staggers him and sends him back to the floor.

The gun goes pinwheeling, sliding along the floor, a double-barreled sawed-off little monster that had put his daughter into a cage. Logan runs his tongue along his teeth, tasting blood as he reaches to grasp the gun, hand curling around the barrel just as the pain hits him. Sublime, mind-numbing pain. It's a good thing he's still on his knees, he doesn't have far to fall, but fall he does, back arching and a cry escaping his throat.

If Nathan had more strength, if he'd been aware for the past five minutes, perhaps now would be the time to steal control, but as it happens, Logan's on his own. Compulsively his hands grip the lupara, even as he convulses, nerve endings on fire, and with an angrier growl, he tries to see through the haze, turning the weapon on Peter and firing.

The shotgun shells go wide— though less wide than expected. They catch a wall to the right of Peter, leaving another mess to be cleaned up, but there's no blood this time. Just damage from the shotgun shells shattering against expensive walling. His hands raise up, black bleeding out of his eyes, only to be replaced by a kind of fury, pain of a different sort, and a morbid kind of determination that lowers his eyebrows. They picked the wrong guy to kick in the stomach, and to taunt, and to threaten. And to betray.

The hands grasp at the air, picking them both off of their feet and slamming them heavily against the wall. Jack isn't given half as much attention as the man with the shotgun— the man who shot him. The man, who in his mind, may have started it all. He flicks his wrist, tossing Jack in the direction of another room, as if he intends to leave him there. Discard him. The pain may have stopped, but the manhandling might be enough to take him out of the picture.

"You…" he says, one hand still raised at the other man. Much like in the hospital. The sweat still beads, the young man still shakes, and his hair is clumped together by the sweat. "You… are not my brother."

Jack crashes headlong through the door into the sitting room with an impressive crackle of broken timbers and glass. From somewhere on the other side of the wall, his muffled, incoherent voice can be heard. "…balls. Petrelli… balls. Shit."

To the benefit of all, he loses consciousness.

This again. The gun clatters uselessly to the ground as Logan is thrown against the wall for the second time this month, clamping his teeth down against any kind of cry out or groan, hands clenching into fists. At least the chemical pain is gone, replaced now by bruises and cuts. "I'm not," he agrees, voice at a rasp, struggling as he can against the telekinetic hold, his teeth shining with blood from whatever impact had occurred in the last five minutes. "And you'd wanna get used to that, Pete." The words are confident, but the voice is not, an uncertain waver making his voice leap. He'd shot this man in the back of the head, after all.

"I won't get used to it," Peter snaps, emphasizing each word as if he has to spit it out. With the pain and the drugs still coarsing through him, he may just have to spit each of them out one at a time. Each one has it's own special emphasis. The telekinesis doesn't release him right away, each step seeming to press him harder, making it even more difficult to move. But once he's standing right in front of him, his arms come up, grasping at the elbow, shoving his arms down against his body. The telekinesis fades out as he lifts him away from the wall, as if he weighted nothing.

"I'm going to get my brother back. I'm not leaving until I speak to him!" He's yelling now, the grip tightens, eyes wild and unclear, almost like a cornered animal, striking out in the only ways that he can. This time he slams his brother against the wall— into the wall, even. That paint job? It won't be enough to cover that up. But his legs are now released. Kicking may commense.

A sharp, almost animalistic cry is filtered through gritted teeth as he's slammed back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut. He's certainly never been on the receiving end of this power and goddamn it hurts, Peter's hands like vices on his arms, not to mention the sudden crack of wood and plaster behind him. For a moment, he goes limp, stunned— and then he does struggle, legs lashing out in vicious kicks, breathing shallow as if he, too, were a cornered and trapped animal.

The first kicks land, and Peter releases him, shoving him back further into the wall as he stumbles away, gritting his teeth. "You're— I won't— what ever you have making Jack act like…" It's so difficult to talk, and he's not the one being slammed or thrown about. Even the broken ribs he may have gotten in the kick-the-Peter moment have already healed over. Only the adrenaline pumping through him, sending all of his abilities into some kind of crazy short-circuit. It's hard to hold
onto one. It's hard to control what one comes out. With his eyes focused on his brother, he grits his teeth and hisses, "I want… to speak… to my… brother."

As Peter lets him go, Logan has little choice but to slide down the wall and fall to the floor, all the limbs and awkwardness of a broken doll, coughing a little and tasting blood, head spinning from the where his head has smacked against the wall with such force and so often. Then Peter makes his suggestion.

That's just the best idea ever, isn't it?

The mental mirror that separates himself and Nathan is broken (although such things can be repaired given time), and it's not too hard to succumb to the suggestion when his body is currently a technicolour display of pain and frazzled nerves. Nathan gives a gasp like a drowning man a she wakes up to a bruised body, utterly disoriented and barely able to see past himself, let alone notice Peter, drawing his knees up a little as he tries to understand what's going on.

The heavy breathing doesn't settle as his command has a chance to settle. Peter tries to control the flared temper, to give it a chance to take effect. Whatever is inside him shifts yet again, causing his eyes to change once more— this time the green in the depths increase. All of his sensations heightened. It only makes the drugs worse, increasing natural chemical production within his body, but it doesn't fling across the room at the other man this time. He drops to his knees, breathing through his teeth as his jaw tightens, trying desperately to stop what's happening to him, to hold on to one ability— even if this one makes him sweat more.


Nathan's head snaps up when his name is spoken, barely managing not to hit his head again against the wall, mouth parting but no words coming out, not yet. It's been a bizarre time, since Heidi's accident - no longer kept entirely in the dark, reality has been fleeting images and sounds when Logan's allowed it, but this— this is different. "Peter?" is his response, taking a deeper breath which jostles cracked ribs, causing him to wince. "Hurts. Where'd he go." His brain is slowly catching up with him, looking beyond Peter to the paint supplies several feet away, the shotgun lying on the floor. Jack goes unseen in another room as his attention shifting back to Peter. "He— he'll come back."

Grasping the single ability in the most harmless way he can, Peter moves across the floor, trying to get closer to his brother. "I know— I know this is… this is only temporary," he says, through his teeth, voice practically hissing. His hand reaches out, trying to touch his brother's arm. Arms that he manhandled painfully moments before. Can't heal him. With all of the chemicals still coarsing through him, he can barely even continue to hold onto this one ability. Trying to switch to healing could have any number of adverse effects for his brother. Hurting him even worse than he already has… "I'm sorry I hurt you," he apologizes at first, grimacing. "I made him— let you out— I needed to tell you— I'm not going to give up on you." God damnit Jack. Fucking drugs. "I'm not— so you're not allowed to give up. You— you can fight him."

Nathan's gaze manages to focus on Peter's face, picking up the symptoms of the drug while simultaneously having no idea as to what it means. It's confusing. Everything is confusing. What day is it? Why does he hurt all over? He hasn't been gone so long that pain in favour of nothing brings him anything but, well, pain. "No," he breathes out, shaking his head in denial. "I can't fight him. He. Heidi." The names comes out ragged, infinitely more pained than any number of bruises, and loaded with more meaning than he can communicate in a sentence. His hand comes out to grip Peter's shirt, a compulsive move that has no meaning other than to ground himself, fist tight around the fabric. Before Peter's eyes, his brother is breaking apart in the few moments he has himself back together. "I couldn't stop the car."

"Nathan— Nathan, Heidi's alive— she's going to get better," Peter says, trying to grasp some kind of good news. The pain could be taken away, if he had full control over his abilities— even if he couldn't heal all the damage he'd done, he could heal some of it. It's not an option now. The hands that reach out to touch his brother are sweaty, the shirt that's grasped has a thin layer of the stuff. His forehead is wrinkled with sweat, he's shaking. It's not so much being cold as it is being restless. "You can fight him— you don't— you won't fight him alone. Listen to me. You're not— I'll be here. I won't let you give up. Heidi— Heidi wouldn't let you give up."

The fevered rush of thoughts do nothing for his communication skills. How Heidi must hate him, must be angry at him, how much pain she'll be in, what happened to the kids— Nathan shuts his eyes, turning his head away from Peter and hand loosening from his shirt. But Heidi is alive. And Peter knows. That makes it difficult to just give in. He manages to open his eyes, looking back at Peter. The fear is obvious, but there's a spark of determination. "Sedatives," he says. "Painkillers. I think when I was— it was the morphine that let me." He's not making much sense, but it's tough to order your thoughts when you're worried they won't be yours anymore, any moment now. "I just don't know how to break him."

The grimacing continues, as Peter tries to push back the drugs in favor of something much better— a brief conversation with his shattered brother. Shattered in more ways then one. "We'll figure that out— together. You're not alone in this. I promise you. We'll— we'll find a way." It's basically repeating what he's already said before, but it's all about determination— all about not giving up. Optimism is something he has to grasp onto right now. "I can… get you to the hospital— or call am ambulance…" And what would the reason for his injuries be? The appearing disappearing RHINO that rampaged through the house? Yeah, that'll go well. And… he glances down the hall. To Jack. With all the drugs in his system… "I can get you somewhere else…" From the look of things… they'll probably assume he got hit by a car.

"Somewhere else," Nathan agrees, a little airily. "Somewhere he can't hurt…" And that's it. Like a payphone call, the credit runs dry and the conversation grinds to a halt, brown eyes going glassy and sightless for a moment as an otherwise seamless transition is made. His hand tightens in Peter's shirt, and with an audible growl, Logan pulls him in closer, other hand gripping Peter's arm as he murmurs against his brother's ear, "Get out before I fucking kill you." Yeah, someone is unhappy.

Somewhere else— Peter's already trying to consentrate on it, so when his brother's personality's switch, he's working on it already. "You— Logan," he says, still gritting his teeth. "You can kill me a hundred times… and I'll still come back to stop you." Or, he will as long as he doesn't get a lucky shot to the back of the head? Teeth gritted, he closes his eyes— and all of a sudden they're not in the house anymore. They're in a grove of trees, in the middle of Central Fucking Park. "Someone will find you here. Senator." There's a little forced spit-sound in his voice, as he pushes the far more injured man away and stumbles back. Somewhere he can't hurt anyone. A Senator isn't about to hurt anyone in a public place.

Logan falls easily when shoved— onto grass, a little damp from a nighttime of rain but warmed now from the sun. Outside. In Central Fucking Park. Oh god his head hurts, the sudden brightness of the sun above making his vision swim for a moment. "Fuck you," he mutters, determinedly rolling onto his side, a hand digging into the grass to pull himself up— and a sharp gasp is emitted as soon as his ribs protest from the motion, a new wash of pain making his head spin. It'd just be so easy… Logan rolls back onto his back. Someone will find him, right? He can deal with all the complications when his head isn't pounding.

"Hope you— spin a good story," Peter says, stumbling back until he ends up leaning against one of the nearby trees. There's still people who walk the park. He's not bruised, but his clothes are ruffled, showing signs of the beating he took. And the drugs— those will probably have the park security cops wanting to take him in too…

Pushing away from the tree, he stumbles over to the nearest phone booth, to leave an anonymous tip. He won't risk his brother laying in the cold too long, not with his injuries… May not be his brother right now, but it's his brother deep down. Then he'll need to get somewhere warm— somewhere he can lay down— and let the effects pass. Somewhere safe.

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