2goodarms | [flashback] in the bleak midwinter long ago

[flashback] in the bleak midwinter long ago

The materials started coming in from the Front last week, a few days after the protein blocks: boards, risers, gym mats, army blankets, rolls of fabric that might have been curtains or carpeting. They've been putting together bunks, stacks of them, under the direction of the armed guards.

By unspoken common consensus, the very end of the last car gets curtained off for Gilliam and the others recovering from their voluntary amputation, and the first makeshift pallets are carried back to them.

The work shift is over for the day, and protein blocks are being distributed. Under a guard's watchful eye, one person -- a different one each day -- is tapped to bring food to those who can't walk out to get it for themselves.

Today it's Curtis.

The cloth pulled tight around his right arm used to be a bandana. The wound beneath it split open again last night; he hasn't been able to stop picking at it. Before, a cut like this might've meant stitches. Now it just means pain biting his arm as he cradles the protein blocks to his chest.

Curtis doesn't look up. Nobody looks at him. They part like the Red Sea when he moves, like the train cleaving through the ice. Even in this small space, they find room to get out of the way.

They still wonder if he's got a knife.

He stops in front of the curtains, exchanging an uneasy glance with the guard.

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"Oh, fuck's sake, Edgar -- "

Curtis grabs for both of the baby's hands this time.

Edgar protests blurrily, wriggling his messy fingers. He wasn't finished!

"No," he says firmly. "Food isn't a toy. The only thing you do with food is eat it. Okay?"

"Buh," Edgar grumbles.

"Yeah, good luck convincing any kid on that one," Tanya says, amused.

"When the hell do they grow out of that?"

Because if -- if -- him feeding Edgar is gonna be a regular thing, it'd be nice to know how long he has to put up with it.

Tanya gives him a dry look. "Depends on the baby. And on the mama. Least another couple years."

Curtis can't stifle his wince at and on the mama. The small spell that Edgar cast breaks, reminding him again where he is, why he's there.

Silently, after a moment's consideration, Curtis lets go of Edgar's hands. His fingers go back to the cloth on his arm -- but not to rub at it this time.

Instead, with a second wince, he unties the bandana, and reaches for Edgar with the cleanest part of it he can find.

Tanya grimaces, but doesn't stop him. There's no way to get anything cleaner; there's barely enough water for everyone to drink.

(The guards have told them there'll be more water in time. They haven't said how much more, or how much time. Nobody's optimistic.)

Edgar, meanwhile, doesn't appear to mind being wiped off with a grimy bandana. Or not much, anyway; he squinches up his face in what looks like perplexity, but doesn't whine or cry.

At least it'll get some of the goop off his fingers and out of his hair.

"Yeah, I know," he mutters anyway in response to that face. "Maybe we'll get lucky and we'll all get baths soon, huh?"

How hard can it be to get extra water? They're surrounded by snow. Surely Wilford can get his shit together and, who knows, grab some of it as the train rolls by.

(That coal under his ribs flares brighter again.)

"Hope so," mutters Tanya. "Bad enough we got that sorry excuse for a latrine without all the babies gettin' diaper rash."

Curtis pauses midway through wiping down Edgar's fingers. The slowly dawning horror on his face is nowhere near as severe as before, but it's a bit panicky nonetheless.

Diapers. He didn't even think about diapers. And Edgar's so young that there's no way he's toilet-trained yet.

"... Oh," Gilliam says after a moment, in a tone that suggests he's had the same realization. "Oh dear."

"Um."

He swallows.

"You said I could bring him back here whenever, right?"

Tanya gives another sigh. "I'll help you with the diapers," she says flatly, "till you get the hang of it. You ain't gonna tell me you're scared of a little mess."

He probably shouldn't be, after everything. But it's not like they can just wad up the diaper and toss it in the trash, and wiping somebody else's ass is never fun.

Curtis hunches his shoulders, unconsciously. In a mutter, without looking at Tanya, "What've you been using for them?"

"Someone tore up a sheet for rags. We got to figure out some better way of getting them clean again, though, or they won't do much longer."

That's to Gilliam, as though Tanya's expecting him to come up with an answer. He nods, frowning, and rubs at one corner of his scrubby beard.

Curtis is quiet, letting Edgar grab at his fingers again and swing his hand back and forth.

"We got any way of collecting our own water?" he asks, eventually.

"If we could ... no, I'm not sure." Gilliam's frown deepens. "There's bound to be somebody back here who might have some idea. Could the two of you ask around?"

"Sure, yeah. -- Ow!"

Edgar, in his quest to drag Curtis closer, has yanked on Curtis' hand hard enough to twist the cut further up his arm.

Edgar lets out a yelp of dismay, though it's hard to say whether that's from Curtis's ow or his hand being jerked away.

(Gilliam's eyes are abruptly very watchful, fixed on Curtis.)

"Goddammit," he swears, cradling his arm close. His eyes flash with anger as he glances from the injury to Edgar -- but then it shutters itself away, and he swears again, softer, as he hunches further into himself.

Tanya looks at Gilliam: should I take him?

He's not looking at her.

Very gently: "Are you all right, Curtis?"

"Yeah," he mutters, unfelt.

There's a pause, in which Edgar's faint sniffing is clearly audible.

With no change in tone, Gilliam says "Try giving him your other hand."

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