Mercy

Something or other had filched Jacob's watch (he blamed the rat-mole), but he estimated he'd gotten at least three hours of sleep before a twiggy incisor jabbed his ear. Brushing it aside with a mumble, Jacob started to nod off again, and came awake with a snort as a tiny, high-pitched voice wailed in his ear.

"What the – !"

Cheekily the walking-stick crawled down his arm. It leaned forward with as irate an expression as a plant could manage, gesturing with furious strokes.

"I don't get it," Jacob complained, rubbing his eyes and wishing his head didn't feel so clouded. "Didn't I feed you enough? Did something get out of the suitcase? What…..?"

Comprehension finally clued in. Yawning around the back of his hand, he turned to face Claude. Immediately he wished he'd been woken sooner.

Huffing sounds broke from Claude's sleeve, where chipped teeth were clamped onto an already bruised wrist. His left leg shifted back and forth and back again, swinging to the side, curling in, jostling out, failing to relieve any discomfort. Both eyes were open, moist and anguished, squeezing shut as a smothered yelp eeked past woolen fabric.

"I got this," Jacob whispered to the plant, nodding his thanks.

His knees creaked as he hoisted himself out of the chair, and his neck felt permanently soldered at an angle. He rubbed the stiff muscles with a grimace, reaching for the morphine bottle. It felt disturbingly light.

"Can't have gone through that much," Jacob whispered. But he knew it was possible. He still couldn't find a single spoon in the house. Bill would have a hissy fit when he measured it tomorrow morning, but Claude was going to bite through his wrist if he was forced through another hour without help.

Rationalizing the need for a higher dose, Jacob swished the bottle experimentally. His eyes landed on the carpet stains where Claude's leg wound had breached the dressings. Eyes widening in memory, Jacob tossed the bottle back onto the dresser and dove for the floor. He squinted underneath the bed, aware that Claude probably thought he was acting like a freak, and grinned when he saw a cluttered heap of scrap metal.

"Gotcha."

The bed creaked as Claude shifted fretfully. Wriggling underneath, Jacob reached out and nabbed a spoon. Immediately two black paws flicked out to retrieve it. Frazzled chittering spilled from the nest.

"Aw, come on!" Jacob protested. "Just give me one spoon. You can keep the rest." Anything to get this mangy muskrat out of Claude's medicines.

The mole swiveled around to grip the spoon with its back claws, shoveling silverware into its pouch with all its mighty speed. Rolling his eyes, Jacob clambered out and to his feet, dragging the mole with him. He blew cobwebs out of his eyes and glared.

"You serious?"

The creature stared at him, a stethoscope swinging out from its pouch like an offbeat clock. Jacob grabbed for the medical piece.

"Come on, give it," he growled, prying tiny claws off one by one. The critter responded with a hail of heinous sounds that might have been duck-mole curses. Wrangling the stethoscope free, Jacob swung it away with a triumphant, "Hah!"

A blustering snort startled him and he remembered that there was another guy in the room. Distracted from his pain, Claude watched with dimly perked amusement. Jacob faltered, surprised the Brit could see anything as funny when he was half-bedeviled with pain, and considered idly that those really were impressive black eyes. Bill would have a story to compare with the army days, back when Corporal Jeffrey walked straight into a ….

But he was the one distracted now.

Rolling the mole-rat off his wrist (it really wanted the stethoscope back), Jacob thrust the medical tool into a drawer and wiped the spoon on his sleeve before doling out a careful measurement of morphine.

"Just a bit if'n you don't want him sleeping," Bill had cautioned. "He's gotta eat at some point, Jake."

Well, this wasn't even a mouthful, so it shouldn't be too hard to compel the Brit to swallow a little more broth. He'd drunk maybe half a cup the night before. The leg wound was still secreting pus, and personal needs were tended on a regular basis. He had to be thirsty.

The morphine was taken without a fuss. Jacob dashed to the kitchen, muttering to himself about tea and soaked bread, and what was it that Bill had mentioned when Claude could stomach solid foods again? He waved off the thought, reheated the pan, and raced back with a mug of lukewarm broth just in time to rescue Bill's stethoscope from an adamant pesky pilferer.

"I can't keep anything out of your paws," Jacob censured, winding the stethoscope around his neck. The beast snarled.

"Obsessive little guy, isn't he?" Jacob commented as he moved his chair next to the bed. Like the night before, he crooked his arm under Claude's shoulders, lifting him despite the clenching of the wizard's shoulders, pretending it was just tension and he wasn't causing him any more pain as he coaxed him to take one swallow, just a bit more, it wouldn't make him sick 'cause this was the good stuff, Bill always found friends among the honest farmers, and just like the night before, while Claude spluttered and tried to swallow and Jacob ignored the dribbles soaking his sleeve, the mug slowly emptied and he was certain there was a chance the Brit could make it after all.

This time Claude managed a full three-quarters before his stomach heaved and he clamped his mouth shut, begging for no more. Jacob nestled him back into the blankets and reached for the bedpan.

It wasn't the first time he had to do it, but Claude still looked away, blinking helplessly, and Jacob told himself it was just one of Bill's patients. Just a kid in the outfit when there was no one else was there to help. Jacob reminded himself that this was still more dignifying for both of them than blotting the mattress.

He didn't blame Claude for just wanting to sleep afterwards. Jacob washed his hands and grabbed a small bowl, half-asleep himself. He wondered about the hiss in the room, hoping it wasn't another serpent, and then realized cold water was still streaming into a cluttered sink. Shutting off the faucet, he leaned over the counter and stared at the chipped bowl.

"Milk," he said numbly. Stumbling, he pulled out one of his stale pastries and dropped it into the dish, snorting when crumbs sprayed everywhere. "No one's buying that paczki."

He located the milk without landing on his face. Dolling it liberally over the pastry, Jacob set down the half-full bottle with a chef's flourish and lurched back to the bedroom.

"Here ya go, li'l thief," he stated, nudging the bowl under the bed frame. A muted, forgotten corner of his dignity told him he'd be crazy by morning if he didn't sleep.

Retreating to the chair and resting his head against his hand, he allowed his eyes to rove, tracking the room as it stretched in roils of carpet and suitcase and dresser. Smackering under the bed told him that his offering had been appreciated. Jacob wanted to feel cheerful, but his spirit couldn't follow through.

He woke up late the next morning with his head digging into the nightstand and his fingers clenched around Bill's stethoscope.

"Jake. Jaaay-cob. C'mon, lazy cob, I need you t'hold the kid. Brave, stupid lout."

Bill had returned, and well in time. Claude's fever had spiked.

"It's gonna be a leg soon," Bill said regretfully. He'd slashed the wound, drained it of rusty seepage, and bound a mixture of herbs and powdered silver to the inflamed gash. "Jacob, don't stop me next time. I won't lose him 'cause you care too much."

"Is there nothing else you can do?" Jacob begged.

Bill shook his head. "Short of a miracle, he's outta time."

Jacob's attention slid to the suitcase. "You want a miracle?"

The doctor sighed. "Now you're tellin' me he's a doctor an' has a cur'all remedy stowed in his trunk." He deliberately coiled his stethoscope and dropped it into his bag. "All right, where'd you put my knife, Jacob?"

Eyes flaring, Jacob swiveled to face the bed - more specifically, the snatcher hiding underneath. "Aw, you gotta be kidding –"

"I'm jokin' – it's a bloody joke!" Bill said darkly. He rolled down the sleeves of his permanently wrinkled coat. "Don't mind me, Jake. Bin a long night."

"Yeah, I know," Jacob commiserated.

"No, you don't, not till you got three kids with pneumonia, melancholia, an' monophobia, all screamin' your bloody name!" Bill's eyes lit up, raw and desperate, and for a moment Jacob thought he would pitch his bag across the room. Almost immediately Bill deflated, raising a shivering hand to his head.

"I can't save 'em all, Jacob. I try…. Every time you'd think it'd be easier, but…. I can't save everyone. You still believe in me, don't you?"

"Course I do," Jacob whispered. "Look, Bill, get some rest. You've done what you can. Just put your bag up – ignore the phone. New York can survive a few hours on its own."

Bill spluttered, laughed, gnawed a fingernail that was already stripped to the flesh. He patted Jacob's shoulder, gripping tight for one moment. "Thanks, Jake, but there's some'uns in New York that'll never be reached less'n they call on me. I can name one darlin' girl who won't be breathin' tomorrow morn if I leave her now."

"You left her for the Brit, didn't you?" Jacob's gut clenched, and Bill squeezed his shoulder twice.

"It ain't your fault, Jake. He'd be dead if not for me, I know. Stop frettin' an' keep him alive until I get back. I'll try to keep his leg."

"Bill…!" Jacob began.

The doctor held up his hand. "Three hours sleep an' I'll be dandy as a flock'o pigeons. Tomorrow, Jakey. I'll see myself out."

Left without a choice, Jacob shut the door behind him. He stood with his head against the frame, trying to imagine Bill's practice, day in and day out.

Life just wasn't fair.

After the door closed, Jacob sank into his chair. He tried to remember actually sleeping in his own bed instead of keeping a crazy knucklehead from jumping out of it. He'd never liked the monotony of the factory, always felt like he was being crushed into a lifeless heap of scrapped can, but at least things were fairly predictable there. Fewer people actually died in his line of work.

"What kinda guy am I?" Jacob wondered aloud. Claude was insensible – Bill had staunchly refused to give him a higher dose of morphine and the poor kid had finally taken the easy way out – but it was easier to pretend someone was listening. "I mean, I finally get the chance to do something important and I wish I was an ordinary bloke again. Who does that?"

Jacob looked down at the sweat-plastered curls and shook his head. "And here you are, still fighting. Maybe someday you can tell me what makes you so brave."

He heard the door creak behind him. Someone let the mole out, was his first thought.

I know I shut that, was his second.

Glancing up, Jacob lunged from the chair. "Who are you?"

The dark-haired stranger raised his hand hand in calm assurance and peacefulness settled across Jacob's shoulders, blanketing his frantic thoughts. His heart stopped palpitating and the clamminess left his palms. Breathing easier, he stepped aside, too relaxed to wonder how the intruder… visitor… had found his apartment.

"It's quite all right, Mister Kowalski," the man said, draping his coat over Claude's suitcase. "Your friend told me all about you. I'm here to help."

"You're… you're a…." Peering at the silver-handled wand, Jacob finally managed the question. "You're magical, too?"

Dark eyebrows lifted. "Ah. You understand, then."

The man brushed his shoulder and Jacob moved out of the way. Thank goodness, it was another wizard. He could help where Jacob was failing. He would know how to incant spells or brew potions or do other magical things to save Claude.

"Of course I'll do the best I can," the wizard said compassionately as he took Jacob's chair. Gently he raised Claude's bruised eyelids, inspected the splinted wrist, hovered his fingers over the torn leg. He frowned and retreated to the infection, casting aside the bandages with a sweep of his wand. The stench roiled in a leakage of blood and tinted fluid.

"Well, that's hardly advantageous, is it?" the wizard commented. He pressed his wand to the wound, closing his eyes, and Jacob gawked as the red flare centered, then pushed outwards in a cascade of clear fluid, until the split flesh scabbed over and the scab itself knotted into a silver scar. Claude's eyes flashed open.

"You won't forget that mark," the wizard murmured. "One more reminder of of they've done to our kind."

He paused, looking over his shoulder as if he had forgotten Jacob's presence. "Would you mind fetching me a cup of coffee? It shouldn't be too much trouble."

"No, no trouble at all," Jacob agreed. He nodded reassuringly at Claude, trusting that this wizard would take care of him. He'd just be gone for a few minutes.

"So tell me," the wizard murmured, softer, "Why would Theseus send you to America?"

Jacob's neck crawled. The uneasy feeling quickly passed in a fresh wave of apathy and he gripped the doorknob with confidence. Everything was just fine. Now that the wizard was here, he finally didn't have to worry about what would happen if he left Claude by himself.

He was just about to step past the door when something furry and sharp-clawed jumped onto his ankle. Flummoxed, Jacob stared at the beady-eyed monster and shook his foot. "Shoo."

"What's that?" the wizard looked over his shoulder, saw the fuzzy pest, and sighed, flicking his wand. "I'll take care of it."

In that moment Jacob saw two startling images. The mole cowering as it huddled against his leg, and Claude's jilted eyes. The young wizard rolled, springing the older man's attention, and Jacob snapped out his lethargic barrier.

He suddenly felt exposed and horribly in the wrong.

Claude cried out as he fell onto his broken wrist. The dark-haired wizard bolted to his feet, wand swishing, and the outcry clamped into a dull whimper. He raised his hand and Claude jerked back, jaw clenched as though sealed, awful noises tearing from his raw throat.

"I don't really need you alive," the taller wizard speculated. "It just makes things easier." He pressed his wand to Claude's temple and twisted, wrenching out a single thread of blue.

Jacob bolted. He didn't have a wand, and he knew nothing about magic, but he knew how much it hurt to have a bottle smashed over his head. He dove for the dresser, grabbing the quarter-full bottle of morphine, and as the furry mole detached itself, tripping up the wizard when he raised the blue strand to a vial, Jacob gave him a face full of crunching glass.

Dark eyes widened and dulled instantly, and the wizard collapsed at his feet. The blue thread wriggled and dissolved.

"Oh… oh, I'm sorry," Jacob said frantically, staring at the jagged bottleneck in his hands. "I'm really, really sorry, man, I didn't…."

Rationality reasserted itself. Shaking his head, Jacob stepped over the unconscious wizard and hauled Claude into his arms. "Come on, we're getting out of here."

Claude tried to mumble, blood streaking down his chin. "….mperio….."

"Yeah, yeah – talk to me about it later." Jacob swung his head for the mole to follow, flipped the suitcase latches with his foot, and practically skidded down the steps. He searched for the silver monkey, ignored the growls from outside, and tramped over to the far wall, depositing Claude into the heap of blankets and puffy feathers that vaguely resembled a cluttered nest.

"Be right back," Jacob gasped, holding up one finger and running back up the stairs. He searched the room briefly, held out his hand for the walking-stick, and snatched up the blue coat and the silver-tipped wand. Scurrying back down, gasping from the exertion, he laid both at Claude's side.

"Gotta get us out of here," Jacob said in a rush. "I'll come down when it's safe, okay?"

Green eyes searched him, anxious and trusting, and Claude gave a tiny nod. Jacob spread the coat over him and detangled the plant from his own shoulder, depositing it onto a shelf. In thirty seconds he was up the stairs, running from his own apartment with a battered suitcase and his last handful of cash.

To his good fortune, the cabbie ran cheap. He made it to Central Park with five bucks left and enough coins in his pocket to make a phone call.