stateofdecay | (no subject)

WHO: Beck & Arwen
WHEN One year ago, a couple of weeks after Beck and Walden arrived at Whitney.
WHERE: Whitney Field Depot / medical.
WHAT A first meeting & some famous last words.
WARNINGS N/A.

It's evening, late enough that the electricity has been turned off for the day but not so late that Arwen has any inclination to crawl back to her bunk. She knows she has some reading she should get done, but even though she hasn't been at Whitney for terribly long she's already beginning to feel comfortable enough that she's willing to slack a bit. So, by candlelight in the infirmary, she's reading a mangled copy of A Wild Sheep Chase instead of any of a number of medical books she has stacked along the walls of the temporary building. The door is open, letting in the cool air, and she almost feels… relaxed? As relaxed as one can feel given everything that's happened, she supposes.

Beck is New Here. His face is so fresh at Whitney that he can't explore the place without having to introduce himself two or three times along the way, a feat of social weightlifting he lost the muscle for on the road with Walden. Until he equilibrates, wandering around at night keeps people from seeing him or his aloof yet necessary estimation of them. The old civil equation laid bare: needing to belong but still somehow unsure if you'd like to. Not uncomfortable exactly, but he doesn't want to get it wrong and have to drag his brother out by the hair.

This place is a mystery. Tonight he's looking for the infirmary and is pretty sure he's found it, but as he approaches and peers inside all he can see is a dark-haired woman reading Murakami by candlelight. He's seen a lot of things lately that it would be cool not to have seen, but this is pretty okay. Besides, he can always talk to someone holding a book.

Beck leans against the door frame, trying to present himself as picaresque and charmingly disheveled. In actuality he's acceptable but a little stinky; at least he remembers to smile as he asks, "Do you work here or are you just decoration?"

Arwen has heard Beck - heard him lean his body against the doorframe, breathe in before speaking, maybe even heard him smile - her senses heightened by the need for hypervigilance in these times. But here she doesn't spook, because even a month inside lets one realize that every noise isn't a potential threat. She hums as she turns the page, eyes flicking up for only a moment (a stranger) before they're back to her book, even as she fails to read another word.

"Decoration," she replies, voice gently sarcastic but disinterested, hoping to lay down a barrier of 'I am unfriendly' before she gets to the business of anything else. "Are you in need of medical attention?"

She sounds kind of mean. Beck's smile widens.

"Someone gave me stitches," he says, in an incident from before Whitney that he'd rather not recount but will if asked. That someone is long gone now, their handiwork the last trace of them. "They gotta come out. If you can tear yourself away."

Ah, so she does have an actual job to do. Arwen properly lifts her gaze, a little surprised by the full smile that remains on Beck's lips. But, she's got an excellent poker face, so hopefully she just appears as unimpressed as she had before. She slides a bookmark (an actual bookmark, pressed flowers between clear plastic) into her book and shuts it, indicating the chair across from her as she readjusts herself and the candle to facilitate the work she's about to do. She could pull out a charged lantern, stored away for late night medical emergencies, but… well, this will be a cinch.

"Murakami can wait a few minutes, I guess." While feeling safe in her surroundings has come back quickly, conversation hasn't so much. "...you're new here, right?"

Beck takes the seat and rolls down his sleeve, showing off an ugly gash just under his right elbow. It was pretty gross to start with, but the sterilized red thread holding it together makes things look worse than they are.

"Right." Here goes the spiel, but she doesn't seem like the type to ask twenty questions. "Just a couple weeks in, from Pullman. I'm Beck."

While Beck gets his arm exposed, Arwen goes about preparing. The smallest amount of soapy water is made. Hands are dipped in a small tub of clear alcohol, from which scissors and tweezers are also pulled. She cuts the smallest piece of gauze, always trying to limit supply usage. It's not hospital clean, but it's the level of sterilization she's been accustomed to for quite some time. Before doing anything else, she examines the wound. It… looks right to take them out, from what she knows. It's not going to kill him, anyways.

She glances up, giving a short nod. "I haven't been here too long, either. It's good, though."

Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Arwen," before she leans over and begins, gently cleaning the stitches with the water and gauze and then slowly starting the actual work of removing them. She's never removed stitches done by someone else before - she hopes that she simply seems meticulous, not nervous.

She does. Beck doesn't know anything about this stuff, and her careful movements are automatically believable to him. He relaxes, watching her intently.

"Are you serious?" The tone is amused. Not in a I'm-making-fun-of-you way: just quiet, a little teasing. "Your parents must be super cool."

It takes a moment, but the 'are you serious' makes Arwen's mouth flatten into a straight line for a moment. Honestly she's still getting used to the name, but she knows to play at being a little miffed by anyone drawing attention to it; it must have been relentless for the real Arwen. Her eyes once again flick up after she cuts a piece of the thread.

"While I know I seem like the kind of person who would name herself Arwen, it was definitely my very cool parents," she says dryly before looking back to her work. This isn't the worst interaction she's ever had.

"Beck isn't a particularly common name either."

"And what kind of person is that?" Beck muses.

"Fun, chipper, free-spirited." This is said just as dryly as Arwen's initial comment. She hums quietly as Beck leaves any further details about his name unsaid; she can't blame him for it. Respects it, actually, given that she keeps things close herself. It's nice to relieve the pressure of needing to share.

Beck settles in place and lets himself relax, contemplating the peace they occupy under the golden lamplight. It's the little things more than ever at the end of the world: an almost comfortable chair, her careful hands, the prickle and pull in his skin as she works.

He's never as charming as he thinks he is, but maybe it'd make her smirk just a little if he said his name was really Steinbeck and his parents were absolute goddamn freaks. Maybe she'd not quite laugh. He'd like that -- he still cares if people think he's funny and or cute, a stupid, vestigial urge -- but he never talks about this stuff for a reason.

Instead he just says, "Yeah. Maybe I'm the only one now."

The silence stretches a few moments as Arwen pauses to consider her words and examine her work. The wound really is looking better without the red of the thread to change its appearance, an absolute relief.

"The last of our kinds," she finally replies. There may be other Jennifers, but there are certainly no other Arwens.

"Hope we're good examples."