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Chapter Text

Life had only been getting worse as of late; the heat was boiling even through the barrier of the blackout curtains he had covering his windows, and he awoke every day fearing the scent of death that may or may not await him. He hadn't considered himself all that sociable before this, but now he seemed to be a beacon to wanderers for some reason. Perhaps he was one of the only ones taking people in.

It wasn't for selfless reasons, only because he feared what the pale visitor would do if he were alone. He missed having the house to himself, fewer things to think about. But he could still say he had come to appreciate some of the company he had taken on. Not much of it, but some. The firefighter was a good man, though he wished he had been willing to go home to his children. Maybe he just didn't understand, but he was sure they would've been thankful to have a little extra time with their father, no matter how bad his injuries looked.

Then, he supposed he wasn't one to judge on appearances to begin with, given the others he had let in. Some of them, in hindsight, were so obviously not human, he couldn't fend off the guilt at having let them anywhere near the others.

He considered all this whilst lounging by the door; it was the dead of night, and everyone else was tucked away in their respective corners. There were usually at least a few people turning up to his doorstep every night, and he didn't want to miss them, human or visitor. In the meantime, however, it was a struggle to stay awake. Somehow, he still hadn't adjusted to this new schedule of his. He stroked the cat in his lap and rested his head against the wall.

Finally, there was a knock. It startled the cat off of him, leaving him free to rush to his feet. He peeked through the hole. On the other side was a young man with curly, greasy black hair, arched brows, and dark sagging under-eyes, but by far his most striking feature was the thick black stitches drawing his otherwise delicate mouth shut. He paused for a moment in shock, and in that time the man seemed to falter. He took a step back, presumably to find somewhere else to beg for shelter, before he snapped out of it and spoke. "Hey, are you alright?" The man pointed to his mouth frantically, rushing back up to the door. Probably a stupid question on his part, yeah. He opened the door and ushered him inside, the stranger clutching his sweater as he led him inside. He checked his eyes and nails; he would check his teeth later, he decided. There wasn't much point now, after all. There was no way to properly pry his mouth open without hurting him.

He seemed human thankfully, and cooperative. He led the stranger, whom he had privately dubbed Wireface, to the bathroom. He sat him down on the edge of the tub, and rummaged through his sink cabinet for the hair scissors and antibiotic ointment, which he'd admit wasn't quite sufficient for the puncture wounds that would no doubt be left around Wireface's mouth, but was nevertheless all he had. When he had found them, he turned back to Wireface, who seemed anxious to see the scissors, though he continued to sit obediently regardless.

Probably just nervous for the coming procedure, he figured. It probably wasn't all that soothing to see a stranger coming at you with a sharp object, especially after... Whatever had happened to leave him in this state. Had it been the visitors? FEMA?

He grasped Wireface's jaw and tilted his face upwards, taking in the full state of his mouth for the first time. The punctures were inflamed but not obviously infected, or if they were, it was early enough to have not caused much damage. His lips were dry and bloodied, and the whole lower half of his face was bruised. Despite all this, he figured the wounds were workable.

"This might hurt," he said, and Wireface seemed not to comprehend him at all, just blinking and sitting obediently as his stitches were cut open. When he went to check his gums to see just how thoroughly the stitches had been attached to his mouth, Wireface let out a weak groan at the feeling of his raw lips being pulled back, the wounds letting out an ooze of dark blood at the pressure, which dripped sluggishly across Wireface's crooked teeth and his hands. So his teeth were good too. Thankfully, his gums seemed untampered with, the stitches having only been threaded through the skin of his lips and cheeks.

He moved on to prying the stitches out. He didn't have any tweezers, though he would've liked to be more delicate with him, he pulled them out with his hands. Wireface whimpered through the process, but resolutely stayed still until he was done. Just as he had suspected looking at it, it was some sort of metal wiring. The surface was rough, and he cringed in sympathy for how painful it must've been to have them stuck in his face, constantly rubbing up against raw wounds, raw lips, and his gums.

Wireface lifted a hand to his face and seemed to almost brush it against his mouth before he thought better of it. He looked up at him and eyed the ointment still sitting on the counter. "Not yet, we need to wash it first." He said as he took a dry washcloth from the cabinet and soaked it in water from the sink. "It's cold, so it should make the inflammation feel a bit less painful for a while. How's it feeling without those stitches now, though?"

He looked meaningfully towards Wireface, who, despite still seeming uncomprehending apparently sensed he was being addressed and nodded eagerly. He wondered if the man before him now was a visitor after all, or just some kind of foreigner. "Never mind, just... here." He went ahead and began gently dabbing the crusted blood and grime from his face, the washcloth went rusty brown within only a few minutes, and he rinsed it out again, and again several more times after that until the punctures were about as clean as he could get them short of real anti-septic or rubbing alcohol which he did not have. Wireface looked distinctly uncomfortable, but soldiered on as he finally began rubbing the ointment into the puncture wounds. He felt a bit sickened by how soft the flesh was beneath his fingers, unnaturally so, like tenderized meat, and the blood steadily dripping down the man's face and his own hands.

Finally, after what was probably only about 20 minutes but had seemed more like an hour, he was done. He offered Wireface a hand, who took it gratefully and followed him around the house obediently as he led him room to room, hoping he'd find somewhere he'd want to sleep for the night. Wireface seemed to observe the others sleeping in the rooms, and he hoped he had gotten the idea. Eventually, they reached the closet, which Wireface stepped into and immediately seemed to settle within it, placing his jacket from over his shoulders onto the floor to sit on. "gmdlt ptno. dzln shntshda (Thank you, sir, I was very scared.)" He croaked, voice cracking with disuse. "Goodnight." He assumed that whatever the man was saying was something along those lines.
Either way, Wireface seemed pacified at the tone of his voice and curled into the corner.

He went back to the front door, sitting back on the armchair. It was rare that only one person showed up, but that seemed to be the case tonight as the hours dragged on with no more prospective guests. He went back to his room, but not before stopping in front of the closet door for a moment. There was no sound from the other side of the door. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, nor why he had bothered stopping to begin with. He had paid no mind to the Widow's sobs or the Nun's hymns before.

He told himself it was just concern, given his state upon entering the house. He went to bed feeling concern stirring in his gut for the odd attachment he had already developed toward Wireface. He didn't want to be attached to anyone here, not when any one of them could've been a visitor or die by one. Eventually, he succumbed to an uneasy sleep, dreading the scent of death in the morning just as he always did.

Chapter Text

He woke to the sound of someone yelling outside his door, and shot out of bed. Had something happened? It was rare to see anyone hanging out in the hallway, much less still in the dead of night. He stumbled out into the hall to find the Stoner and the Nun having a heated discussion about something he hadn't made out through the door. The Nun noticed him standing groggily in his doorway and turned to him, "First you let in this hoodlum," she gestured to the stoner, "Then you're going to let in some kind of foreigner from God knows where! Where the devil is a Godly woman such as myself supposed to feel safe!" He spotted Wireface peeking apprehensively out of the closet, apparently roused by the noise just like he was.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, "Look, if you have such an issue with them, you can leave. It's not like I'm holding you hostage here." She gawked, "You're putting me out over them?! I'm a holy woman! You'll go to hell for this!" He wasn't sure he wasn't already there, given everything. "You heard him, if you have a problem with me and that guy in the closet, you can go! We haven't done anything to you." The stoner butted in, clearly having had his confidence boosted by the homeowner taking his side.

She grunted angrily and stomped to the door, appearing to hesitate for a moment before shuffling outside. He hoped she wouldn't be the next disfigured victim situated outside his window. But ultimately, she had forced the choice between one innocent life and two upon him, and in all truth, he wasn't all that sad to see her go. He had never been a religious man himself (that was more his father's thing) and he had found her grandstanding patronizing at the best of times.

he heard someone approaching quietly from behind, he craned his neck to lock eyes with Wireface, apparently watching her leave as well. He wondered how they had even encountered each other in only a few hours of him being there.

From the faint look of relief present on his face, he was pretty sure he knew exactly what her issue had been. He went to the kitchen, still somewhat roused from the confrontation, to get a beer. He figured it might help him fall back asleep. Wireface followed closely behind him, standing awkwardly near the dining table. He gestured for him to sit down to which he did so stiffly.

"Do you, uh, want one?" He offered despite knowing Wireface probably wouldn't understand anyways. He gestured to the fridge for emphasis. Wireface nodded, and stood up coltishly to look through the it. He guessed the man had taken it as an invitation to help himself to some breakfast? Dinner? Whatever meal might've corresponded with whichever exact hour it was. It hadn't been quite what he had in mind, but he didn't really care either. He sat down again with some old cabbage soup he had made a few days ago.

At the time, he was hoping the familiarity of the dish might bring some comfort to his neighbor's daughter, but the ease of chewing probably made it an ideal dish for Wireface too now that he thought of it. He made a mental note to show the man the canned chicken soup in the cabinet later. It had gone on sale for only a ruble a pop just a few weeks before the visitors came and he had stocked up, despite not really caring for the stuff much himself. He was glad for that in hindsight, it would be good recovery food for his latest guest.

The two sipped at their respective solutions in relative peace, eventually joined by the neighbor's daughter who sat at his feet, glaring apprehensively at the newcomer who politely ignored her. Wireface looked up at him occasionally, but would avert his gaze right back to the table any time they made eye contact. He really wasn't sure just what the foreigner thought the situation was. When he eventually went to get up to get himself another beer Wireface seemed to startle, grabbing the bowl as he followed his movements warily. He held up his other beer; he suspected that if he were to be done drinking, Wireface might also force himself to be done eating.

"He's not gonna take your food away, dummy." The little girl informed Wireface matter-of-factly. "Don't be a smartass." He replied automatically to the girl's tone, then added "He doesn't speak the same language as us, he has no way of knowing that." She shook her head. "You're nice. He should be able to tell that. You're taking care of me while I wait for Daddy to come get me."

He wished she wouldn't bring up that particular belief of hers quite so often. Eventually Wireface polished off the last of the bowl after about five minutes of him drinking his beer deliberately slowly. He put it in the sink, rinsing the solid bits out of the bottom. Then he pushed his chair in and went back to where he had been standing before. The little girl wrinkled her face "He's weird."

"Go back to the office, it's too early for you to be up." He didn't actually know that but it was a convenient excuse nevertheless. He threw back the rest of his beer and got up as well. Wireface watched her leave with as much suspicion as he seemed to regard everything. He followed him to the living room too, sitting down on the floor when he sat down on the couch.

Bar guy was also sat on the couch, he rarely seemed to leave it, and raised his eyebrow at them. "It's a bit early for you to be up, head to bed early or something?" He scoffed, "No, got woken up by that Nun's bitching." Bar guy chuckled, "Fuckin' typical, she got on my nerves right off the bat. Who's this one though, he new?"

He nodded, "Just came in last night, face stitched shut. He's not from around here so don't be surprised if he's not much of a conversationalist." Bar guy shrugged, "Suits me just fine." Wireface looked between them, he wasn't sure if he understood that he was the one being discussed. His hands were folded in his lap and he was fidgeting with his fingers. His lips were still swollen and face bruised ugly reds and purples. In the light, he thought his hair might've been dyed a very dark purple rather than the black he had initially assumed, his eyes too seemed brighter in the warm light, the faintest hint of grey shining through.

He wasn't sure why he paid such close attention to Wireface's appearance. He guessed he was just evaluating his wounds and the other features just sort of caught his eye from there.

The firefighter croaked something out, "Should he have bandages on those wounds? Looks like something that could get infected easily." Bar guy replied "Don't know how the hell we'd do that without smothering the poor kid." He shrugged, "I've used the antibiotic cream on them last night when he got here, I'll probably clean him up again tonight if he lets me." Bar guy nodded.

Wireface probably knew he was being spoken of at this point with all the eyes on him, but made no effort to speak up in his own language. He would probably be headed back to bed soon, and he figured the foreigner would follow suit; those eyebags weren't going to get any lighter sticking around here. He let Wireface follow him back into the hall and signaled towards his room, pointing to himself. He hoped the point came across, *'I'm in there if you need something'*.

Wireface seemed to understand him to some degree, and nodded. He saw him turning back into the closet as he went into his room to pass out till the afternoon as usual.

~~

He blinked the blurry sleep from his eyes as he stared at the eye watering light of the TV screen. FEMA was taking 'new measures' in the fight against the visitors. *Taking more people*, his mind supplied. Maybe he should've kept the Nun around after all. He hadn't received anyone back, he doubted he would in the future either. Dread curled in his gut, they wouldn't skip over his house. They hadn't before and they wouldn't start now. He only had a handful of people with him at the moment, how many more rounds of this till he was all alone and vulnerable?

He found himself worrying for the fate of the firefighter, would they recognize him as someone who was supposed to be at the FEMA quarantine centers to begin with? He wasn't sure they had that much communication between them in truth, but FEMA was unpredictable like that. He thought there should've been some kind of adrenaline rush at the sense of doom he was feeling, but even his body seemed to know just how helpless the situation was, and the trepidation he felt only made him sink further into the lumpy mattress. He mindlessly watched the ad that played afterwards for For Rest, he wondered if they sold any medical supplies. *Probably not, would make life too easy for the rest of us.*

He reached blindly on his nightstand for the remote and turned the television off, at worst he'd fall back asleep and at best he'd get bored enough to get off his ass, either seemed like a better option than this. The room was soothingly quiet beside the electric hum of the house, which he appreciated after the commotion of last night. There was a pack of cigarettes wrapped up in his sheets which he felt around blindly for, and when he eventually found it he picked the lighter out of his pocket and lit himself one.

He hadn't had a cigarette since this whole thing had started. It didn't hit the same nowadays, the burning in his chest wasn't as satisfying when he had internalized the need to get away from the heat. He stared at the wall, analyzed the stucco patterns, stared at the wood grain on the floor. Sometimes he could make out faces, or animals. He used to stare at the patterns in the walls and floor for hours as a teenager with nothing better to do. No friends, shitty family, nothing he'd rather have been doing. He guessed he could say the apocalypse had given him purpose and community if nothing else, all those things the psychologist he had been taken to as a teen had told him to find.

There was a knock at the door, and for a moment he thought he was hallucinating, that maybe the nights spent waiting for people at the door had finally gotten to him. He sneered, turning away from the light as the door opened, "What is it?"

"...Gsviv rh hlnvgsrm tlrmt lm lfghrwv. Ziv blf lpzb? (...There is somethin going on outside. Are you okay?)" He recognized the nonsense words from the foreigner, he was the only one who spoke anything but Russian. He looked over at him, he seemed extremely shifty and uncomfortable. He obviously hadn't *wanted* to come into his room, so he figured whatever it was was fairly serious. He hopped up quickly, and motioned for Wireface to lead the way.

Wireface nodded, checking behind him every few seconds to make sure he was still behind him, "Gsviv dzh hlnvgsrmt zg gsv drmwld, rg ivzoob fkhvg gszg xsrow. Rg wrwm'g ollp orpv gsv mlinzo erhrglih. (There was something outside the window, it really upset that child. It didn't look like a normal visitor.)" He was eventually led to the window in the hallway, it was just starting to turn to dusk, though it was still as bright as mid day would've been before all this.

There was a pile of bodies in the grass, he didn't care to look too closely at the state of them. He knew it was probably gruesome. "Is this all?" The foreigner looked peeved, his dark eyes flicking around the landscape outside as if searching for something. He explained "Rg nfhg szev ovug. R'n hliib uli dzprmt blf fk, R slkv rg wlvhm'g xlnv sviv. (It must have left. I'm sorry for waking you up, I hope it doesn't come here.)" He was still staring pensively outside before turning back to him, seeming rather anxious.

"It's alright, I believe you that something was there." He hoped his tone would reassure the foreigner he wasn't upset at him. He wasn't sure if he had seen what had killed these people or something else. He felt the absence of his shotgun, having been left in his room in the rush. Wireface pointed to the kitchen and clambered to lead him there, nodding to the little girl in hysterics.

He leaned down to speak to her, "Hey, is everything alright? What happened?" She gasped for air between sobs, "There was something scary outside of the window, the weird guy saw it too!" He reached to pet her hair in soothing motions, "Hey, it's okay. It can't get us in here," Wireface stood to the side, concern evident on his face even as he kept a respectful distance, "What'd it look like? Can you tell me?"

She shook her head frantically, "It was ugly." She curled in on herself, it seemed like the conversation was older. He stood back up and the foreigner returned to his side. He seemed to get a quizzical look on his face for a moment before asking, "Rh hsv blfih?(Is she yours?)"

He wished he knew what the foreigner was asking, given the situation it would have made things far easier actually being able to communicate with the only other adult that had seen anything. He wondered if it would have been possible to coax Wireface into drawing a picture of it.

In the meantime however, he noticed an ugly yellow crust forming around the foreigners wounds, it might be time to clean them up again. He caught Wireface's eye and mimed cleaning around his mouth. Wireface looked towards the bathroom and back towards him, cocking a brow in question.

~~

The man nodded at his silent question, leading him back to the cramped bathroom he had been brought to his very first night here. He braced himself for the pain to come, of having his still raw face prodded at. He knew the wound care was necessary though, and hopefully it would get his mind off that *thing* he had seen. He wasn't even sure it was a visitor or something else entirely, it was black, almost amorphous from a distance. His thoughts were interrupted by the rough hands of the homeowner grasping his face as he was sat down on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze seeming to tingle against his skin as his wounds were carefully surveyed.

He thought absently to himself that the homeowner was quite handsome, broad shoulders and pretty green eyes. He hated that he felt that way, that his cheeks felt warmer as the homeowner brushed his fingers over his lips and mouth, that this wasn't the first time this had happened. He was honestly too easy.

His friend hadn't wanted him in the end, and he doubted his savior would either. Ultimately, maybe it was a blessing in disguise that nobody here could understand him. He didn't want to lose his place here, in what seemed to be one of the only remaining safe havens within miles just because he made the homeowner uncomfortable.

Eventually, the homeowner seemed satisfied with whatever he had been looking at and brought out a clean washcloth which he soaked with cold water. The old terrycloth was rough against his skin and flesh, painful although the cold soothed the burn of his wounds. He tried not to whimper, he knew the man wasn't doing it on purpose, but he swore he could feel his raw skin being scrubbed away. The ointment came next, it was sticky and made his face itch.

He knew it was probably in short supply; he felt bad it was being used so liberally on him. Eventually his face stopped being prodded at, and the homeowner offered him an arm to get up. The man had clearly tried to make it a fairly quick process, which he appreciated. He went back to the closet for the night afterwards, taking the cue from the other residents returning to their own spaces. The homeowner remained out in the hall after having grabbed his gun, to wait for other guests like himself he assumed.

He wasn't tired, but neither did he want to join the homeowner where he might've been unwelcome. He didn't know if it was some kind of unspoken taboo, and in situations like these he found it better to follow the flock just in case. He had nabbed a pen from the office and started fidgeting with it to pass the time as he browsed the closet for something else to entertain himself with.

There was a box of books laying half-opened in a corner, and he crawled over to it. If they were important looking he wouldn't touch them, but as he had hoped they just appeared to be dusty old textbooks and what he assumed was either an encyclopedia or a dictionary. There wasn't much to read, but he liked looking at the pictures. At the very bottom, he noticed a book with a map on the cover. The pages were cheap pulp, and the print quality was mediocre, but it was clearly a travel atlas. He flipped the pages for Georgia, and the first page had his hometown plastered all over it. He smiled painfully; he hadn't realized he had been so homesick.

The very next page took the breath from his lungs, on one side was a list of Georgian phrases written out in Russian phonetics. On the other was what he could assume were the Russian equivalents. There must have been a hundred or more phrases listed, he wondered if the homeowner had even known this was here. The phrases themselves were really only geared to travelers, it seemed like, things like "Where is the nearest hotel?" and the like, but surely the individual words could be picked apart, right?

He put down the book, but he couldn't sleep the rest of the night. He was too busy contemplating what he knew about the homeowner, the thing he had seen, and now the new possibilities that had just opened up to him. He hoped the smile stretching his face wouldn't disrupt his scabbing.

Chapter Text

In the morning, he spent the time until the homeowner awoke flipping through the atlas. He must've gone through the listed phrases a thousand times, turning the syllables over in his mouth over and over. He felt more unsure than he had last night, now that he had had time to think it over. What if the Homeowner simply didn't care to communicate at all? What if he was mad he had been digging through his things? What if he said something he didn't mean to at all and they miraculously understood from the small amount of Georgian the book actually contained? His filter had been somewhat eroded by all the time he had spent not being understood. Ultimately, he tried to reason with himself that he was probably being irrational.

He eventually went to the kitchen for something to eat, and hopefully to distract himself with. There was still a little bit of soup left thankfully, he wasn't sure what he'd do once it ran out and he had to eat solid food. He couldn't read anything in the pantry unless it had pictures, which very few items did.

He could feel the change in the room when the homeowner stepped in. He seemed tired and more importantly irritated, right eye twitching as he fished a can from the fridge which he recognized as an energy drink. He gave a tentative wave, suddenly finding a good excuse to be apprehensive about his plans sharing the atlas. The movement seemed to get his attention, and he looked up as if startled. His shoulders went a bit slack when he saw him, and his frame seemed to soften overall. However, green eyes just as soon went to his mouth before he went stiff again.

The homeowner set his drink down and drew close to him, and he nearly flinched before the man simply brushed a finger across the corner of his mouth. It came back bloodied. He hadn't even realized he was bleeding at all, but when he looked down the morose liquid had pooled at the bottom of his bowl. "R'n hliib, R szwm'g vevm mlgrxvw!(I'm sorry, I hadn't even noticed!)" He sighed, offering him a paper towel off the holder. "Maybe we should try bandaging you up after all. Sorry, It's not your fault."

He cleaned himself up, feeling mildly embarrassed. To make it worse, his stomach rumbled, apparently dissatisfied with the paltry portion he had. The homeowner eyed the pantry cabinet, waving him over. He followed, and was presented a box of nondescript cans kicked out from under the cabinet. The homeowner cracked a can open, it seemed like some kind of cream soup. He gestured to the other matching cans, "All yours, given it's kind of the only option for you." Were they the same thing? He guessed probably. He grabbed a bowl and emptied the gelatinous substance into it, offering it to him cold.

During better times, he probably would've found the sight of cold congealed soup and soggy celery unappetizing, but right now it looked like the best thing he had ever laid his eyes on. He took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the homeowner's hands against his as he passed him the bowl, before he went to the drawers to rummage around for a spoon. It was nice to eat something more substantial than watery cabbage to be sure.

The homeowner brought the other bowl to the sink and rinsed the blood out, he cringed, he hadn't even thought of it in the moment. Before he could try to express any kind of apology, he began speaking in a low, quiet voice. "I let in two people last night, but I'm getting a bad feeling about it now." He looked back at him, "I wish I could tell you to stay the hell away from them."

The homeowner's head snapped to the direction of the noise, and he took off sprinting. He followed as best as he could, and they both turned sharply into the open office.

~~

He had let in two people last night, a woman he had dubbed the Fortune Teller and the Kindergarten Teacher, one of whom was now attacking the other.

He didn't hesitate, he didn't have time to; he grasped his shotgun and took aim. The moment he pulled the trigger he feared accidentally hitting the Kindergarten Teacher instead, but his aim was true and the Fortune Teller was reduced to pulp on top of her. The Teacher's screams went silent as she seemed struck with shock, but shock was better than terror as far as he was concerned. He registered Wireface behind him, stuttering in his own language.

His neighbor's daughter was holed up in a corner, having witnessed the entire event. He told himself it wasn't the first time she had seen someone get killed. "I-- thank you." the Teacher said quietly. He nodded and leaned down to help her up. She took his hand, but wouldn't look him in the eyes. Once she was up she turned away from him, sitting down on the couch head down. She seemed despondent for lack of a better word. He looked away, the sight made him squirm internally.

He knew it had to be done, but he could acknowledge it was still brutal. It was a descriptor he had never wanted applied to him, but as of late it had become more and more true. He knew it wasn't the same at all, that he was preserving lives; but it still made him feel like a monster sometimes. He remembered all too well what it was like to live in a house with someone who had an itchy trigger finger. But the risk of visitors was too high to be benevolent.

He left the room briskly after that, tailed by Wireface. He must've had a softer impression of him for whatever reason. Maybe tending to his wounds had been a bigger kindness in Wireface's eyes than his own, or maybe he just hadn't been around him long enough to understand the sort of person he was yet. He wasn't sure whether he feared the day he realized or not; whether he anticipated the return to solitude or dreaded it.

He had a confidant for now, he supposed. He'd squander Wireface's opinion of him eventually either way, no need to speed up the process. He skulked back into the kitchen, and Wireface closed the door behind them after following him in. He settled back into his chair, but didn't go back to eating. Instead, he was just sort of picking at his food. He didn't look disturbed per se, not in the same way the kindergarten teacher had. Just staring into his bowl thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have followed me, there was no reason you needed to see that." Wireface looked up at him, and said something in his own language "R'n lpzb, R wrwm'g tvg sfig. (I'm okay, I didn't get hurt.)" The blood was leaking from his puncture wounds again already, dripping down his lips and chin. It made his lips a pretty, shiny cerise. He offered him another paper towel.

He honestly wasn't sure what had ripped the wounds back open, when they had seemed to be scarring over already. Wireface blotted the punctures, but it still left blooming red stains across his pale cheeks; It was almost enticing. Wireface got up to wash the blood from his hands in the sink, but before he could he grabbed him by his slender wrist and, with surprisingly little resistance, dragged him to the bathroom.

Wireface seemed to recognize the routine by now and sat down at the edge of the tub and tilted his face without being directed to do so, squinting at the bathroom lights. He turned his attention to the otherwise untouched box of gauze, he needed to figure out how he was going to do this.

He had dabbled in medical studies in high school. A time that, now especially, felt centuries away. It had been yet another symptom of his aimless academic wandering before eventually deciding to forgo college altogether, but he was thankful for what he remembered now. It was a procedure he had gone through a handful of times now: clean up the wounds, sterilize with alcohol, dry, smear with antiseptic.

Now he took an extra step, tedious as it was, to bandage every row of punctures. He couldn't very well wrap his whole head without damn near suffocating him and keeping him from eating, so this was the next best option. He had Wireface hold the bandages in place while he dried the skin around the bandage so the medical tape would stick. The resulting dressings were unsightly, but functional.

He thought about what his life would've been like if he had really tried to go to medical school, whether he would've had the metal to make it through with no financial support. Whether he would have made a good doctor. He really wasn't sure.

He had held his ground out there in the office, aim steady as he took the life of someone who may or may not have been a visitor. He couldn't lie and say he had even though twice about it in the moment. But his hands had trembled the whole time he was in here, just trying to tend a wound.

Wireface patted his face discontentedly, furrowing drawn brows in question. "It'll put pressure on the wound to help it heal, and keep it from drying out or getting shit in it." He explained, though he knew Wireface couldn't understand him. He mumbled something quietly enough he couldn't even make out the foreign syllables, but he figured it was probably profane.

He got up, and for the moment they were face to face he mourned the cherry redness the smeared blood had given to his pallor lips and face. He stepped back and they stood together for a moment, from his perspective the silence seemed comfortable as Wireface inspected himself in the mirror. He eventually turned to him, seeming to appraise him for a moment before grabbing the sleeve of his sweater; beckoning him to follow. The closet, it had turned out, was where he was being taken.

He tried to avoid spending too much time here himself, but he supposed it could have held appeal for someone looking for somewhere quiet and enclosed to sequester away. Wireface had made himself something like a nest in the floor, out of moth eaten blankets taken from old bins on the shelves and throw pillows squirreled away from the couch. He himself down there, and Wireface rummaged the shelf beside them for a moment before he pulled out a thick book. Looking at the cover, it looked like his father's old travel atlas. He didn't wonder for long what purpose Wireface could have possibly had with it, before he eagerly flipped to a dog-eared page somewhere in the middle and ushered the book into his hands.

He had heard vaguely of Georgia, had met a few people from there in his youth back when he actually bothered meeting anyone new at all. Given the context, he assumed he had met another as of now. Wireface flipped to the page of translations, and he heard his own breath hitch as he realized the implications. "This is, uh... Definitely a starting point." His eyes flicked across the page at random, spotting familiar vocalizations in the phonetic pronunciation guides; he hadn't even realized he had been paying that much attention to what Wireface was saying all this time.

Near the top, one of the translations was for a simple greeting. He stuttered through the pronunciation, "S-svool. Sld ziv blf uvvormt? (H-hello. How are you feeling?)" Wireface's mouth instantly split into blood-stained grin. "R'n tllw! R dzh vcxrgvw gl hsld blf gsrh. R'n tozw blf ivzxgvw orpv R slkvw blf dlfow. (I'm good! I was excited to show you this. I'm glad you reacted like I hoped you would.)"

He didn't understand Georgian nearly well enough to interpret that just yet, and his confusion must have shown on his face because Wireface just laughed cheerfully. He grabbed the book and began to read a question in Russian "What's y-your name?" It was a bit clunky, though for what it was worth his pronunciation wasn't half bad. Only after a moment did he register the question itself-- and he hesitated.

Was it worth telling him? Moreso, was it worth not telling him? It'd hurt his feelings, and it wasn't like he could really do anything with a first name. But at the same time, it was a disturbing step towards personal intimacy, which was something he had prided himself on avoiding up to this point.

Wireface seemed to wilt the longer he took to answer, and the guilt spurred him to answer despite his better sense. "Isaak." Wireface perked up, "Hello Isaak!" It was oddly relieving to hear it again from someone else for the first time in so long, that acknowledgement was something he hadn't even realized he missed. Oddly humanizing, if he had to put a word to the feeling. Before they could continue, a yawn ripped from his throat.

He didn't want to fall asleep while he needed to be on watch at the door, so he nodded goodbye to Wireface and went back to his room. Laying in his bed, glimpsing the slowly darkening sky outside, his guilt from earlier bubbled back up to the surface. He had thought he had been thoroughly distracted, but apparently not.

He wasn't so much worried for the teacher or even the woman he killed, but rather his neighbor's daughter. He tried to keep her out of the way of any shootings, given her experience with her father. She would know they were happening, sure, but he wasn't familiar enough with children to know how quickly she would get over witnessing something like that a second time, or if she would get over it at all. He resolved to talk to her in the morning as he fell into a sleep as uneasy as ever.