it felt odd, really, that such a wealth of love had sprung from such a horrid and soul-wrenching set of tragedies. quincey’s heart had broken more times than he could count since the first touch of pallor had started to spread over lucy’s countenance, and yet, in spite of all that heartache, he had found, too, a better set of companions than god himself could have put together.
in light of their closeness now, it was almost baffling to think of how short a time he had known the majority of these companions. mina and jonathan, he had only known through lucy’s brief mentions of the them; van helsing, he had only known through jack’s stories. when the psychologist, drunk on whisky and bathed in the light of a campfire, had put on an exaggerated dutch accent for some retelling of an old conversation with his mentor from amsterdam, the thought had never once occurred to quincey, through his haze of drunken laughter, that he might one day meet the man, let alone come to love him like family after mere months of knowing him.
quincey let his gaze drift lazily back to van helsing, though his hand did not stop its slow strokes through jack’s hair. “ no, ” he murmured, “ he was stubborn even when i met him. dedicated, too, my god — when art and i first met him on that ship to korea, i swear the damned fool had his nose buried in a textbook for ten hours a day. i’ve never met a man who could put his mind to something the way jack can. ”
A dangerous honesty could creep in, in moments like these. Quincey was no fool, and Abraham knew how clever the man was. Yet, unlike his good friend John, who was young and drawn so taught he might well break, Abraham was old and practiced in keeping his vulnerabilities well closed within the walls of his ribcage, so that they might not seep out and cause distress to others. If it was only himself who was distressed that was no matter, he knew himself well enough to not get caught irrevocably in hesitation.
It was not a certain recovery. That knowledge seethed at the back of his mind, evermore pressing, the longer the convalescence went onward. By all logic, the longer time went following the operation, the more secure he should feel. Yet, all their tragedies in this affair, they seemed all to have come on the heels of confidence.
And a knife to the gut was no light matter.
Quincey must have known it himself, for certainly the gravity of the injury, while not spoken out loud, would have been more than obvious to the man who had suffered it. He would have been. It was a miracle that he was even still breathing, much less talking, and yet, no miracle at all, but the consequence of absolute devotion.
“And here now, he put his stubborn mind to you.” His smile was soft, as he spoke with his usual gaiety, though the air of exhaustion was starting to pull through. With care, he went and took the other chair in the room, sitting himself down next to the bed. As he sat, he closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He felt so very old.
“That, yes, that is something that I am very thankful for.”
