applesaucedream | A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

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A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.

[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

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"I know it's strange," the Balladeer says with a slightly apologetic wince. He hadn't thought it was strange enough to cause other people to weep on hearing it, but okay, note taken. Shifting forward, he lowers himself to sit on the floor as well. There, that's better! "It's not like everybody does this. My universe is not really that different from the one with Manhattan in it, for most people. It's just - "

"Oh! Oh, dear!" He's interrupted by a loud voice, as a woman comes bustling over to them. She doesn't look especially out-of-place here, dressed in fairly similar clothing and rustling about in a large handbag as she draws near to stand over the pair. "Just hang on a minute, sweetie - what DID he say to you? Oh! Here you go!"

She leans over to offer Greta several wadded-up tissues. The Balladeer watches her with the air of someone watching a car swerve dangerously along the freeway. There is about to be some kind of spectacular disaster here.

His attempt at reassurance is having the opposite of its intended effect: if his universe allows most people to live normal lives, that makes him being singled out for this repetitive existence even worse. Why him? What could he have possibly done to deserve this? How is she supposed to respond to this without making things more awkward than they are already?

Fortunately - or not so fortunately - she is spared the task by a timely interruption. Greta looks up at the new arrival in bemusement. Is this another one of the Balladeer's charges? She must be; it's only the assorted guilty parties who have actually acknowledged them thusfar. But rather than act menacing, this one is just... fussing over her. Offering her tissues. Calling her 'sweetie.'

Greta opens her mouth, shuts it, and opens it again, at a loss. Then she realizes the woman's trying to blame the Balladeer for her current state, and while it's technically true that his words are what upset her, it's still not his fault. Greta can't allow a probably-armed murderer to think such a thing.

"No, it wasn't him," she blurts, accepting the tissues awkwardly. "I, er, was frightened by the gunshots." That's believable, right? Greta adds a helpful gesture over her shoulder, towards whatever commotion might still be occurring outside, then pats the Balladeer's arm. "He was helping."

"Oh, I know!" The woman settles down herself, flopping onto the ground with the pair. "I've been doing this for years, and I still jump every time I hear one! People always firing them off into the air like it's the Fourth of July!" She laughs, before turning to the Balladeer and adding in a rather accusatory tone: "You've never been very helpful to me before."

He just rolls his eyes. "Hello, Sara Jane."

Sara Jane Moore huffs. "You know, I don't know why you're making such a fuss. John's absolutely right, enough is enough - we've all had enough of his lip," she adds for Greta's benefit, apparently feeling the stranger needs an explanation. "Stick around long enough, dear, you'll see."

"I'm sorry!" The Balladeer throws his hands up, clearly not at all sorry. He'd wanted some kind of distraction from the apparently distressing facts of his life, but this was not it. "Did you want a medal? And she's not one of yours - why are you all assuming that? I can talk to other people."

"Since when?" Sara Jane asks. It's a totally valid question. On the bright side, she appears content to sit on the floor of the hotel and talk for the moment.

Well, this is uncomfortable. The woman - Sara Jane, apparently - makes herself right at home on the floor as if this is all the most natural thing in the world. And she says she's been doing this for years. Greta wishes she hadn't heard that, and she winces before schooling her expression back into something more neutral.

She wants to argue against the idea of the Balladeer being lippy, but he puts an end to that idea by immediately sassing Sara Jane. Is this really the time? Granted, the woman seems far more easygoing than the others were, but still. Greta gives her head a little shake.

"He's right," she says. Maybe if she steers the conversation towards herself, Sara Jane will forget about the Balladeer's supposed transgressions. "I've never murdered anyone - never even tried." She might have things like 'theft' and 'swindling' and 'unfaithfulness' on her list of shameful deeds, but at least 'murdering' isn't there. "I'm actually from a completely different world," she offers.

"Oh, it's the TRYING that's important. I tried, but it didn't really go the way I'd hoped - don't you dare," Sara Jane snaps, pointing a finger at the Balladeer, who looked like he was about to launch into a very funny story. "Anyway, it's not murder if you kill a president, it's assassination. John puts it SO much more beautifully, but it's true."

She nods firmly, then draws a small compact mirror from her bag and begins to casually adjust her hair. "So you're from another world? What's that like?" Unnoticed, the Balladeer catches Greta's eye and shakes his head. He's not really sure what they would even be able to do with that information, but he operates on a general policy of not giving them anything.

'Assassination,' then. They probably call themselves assassins, too - sounds a bit more glamorous than 'murderer,' for all that it's the same thing. Greta tries not to look disgusted and probably fails. "I see," she says dryly.

"Oh. Um..." she flounders a little in response to the Balladeer's head shake. It had seemed like a safe enough subject shift to her, and she's not sure just what she shouldn't be telling anyone. She's assuming none of them can go to her world, so what does it matter what they know about it? Well, perhaps she can just stick to the more universal traits. "Quiet, mostly," she ventures, keeping half an eye on the Balladeer in case he signals her again. "I live in a small village. And we have Kings and Princes, not presidents."

"Really?" Sara Jane drops the compact into her lap, rapt. "Have you ever MET a prince? Oh, wouldn't that be something?"

The Balladeer coughs something that sounds suspiciously like 'number six'.

Sara Jane laughs, a little. "Well, you wouldn't catch me divorcing a PRINCE easy. And don't you get too comfortable, I'm not finished with you yet." She points at the Balladeer, in a way that would seem like a joke if everyone here didn't know that she's armed and potentially dangerous.

Well. Greta never imagined she'd be on the receiving end of any questions about the Princes (let alone that she'd have anything to say). "I, er… I have, actually," she admits. She might be blushing. Scratch that, she is definitely blushing. 'Met' is an awfully forgiving term for it. "There are two in the kingdom, but I've only, er, met one."

Honestly, she wouldn't be saying any of this at all, but if she can distract Sara Jane from whatever plans she might have for the Balladeer, it might be worth the embarrassment.

"Really?"

Sara Jane leans forward, having obviously seen the blush. The Balladeer's raising an eyebrow as well, glancing between the two of them. He has a vague feeling that he's watching Greta get thrown under the bus. At the very least, the lady assassin does seem utterly distracted. "Was he cute? I bet he was cute."

"Sara, I don't think - "

She flaps a hand at the Balladeer's attempt at interference. "You hush. This is between us women."

Oh, dear. She might be distracting Sara Jane, but at what cost? Greta shoots the Balladeer a look that lands somewhere between 'you owe me' and 'for goodness' sake help,' then reluctantly turns back to the other woman, cheeks practically crimson.

"He was very charming," she says diplomatically, fiddling with her husband's scarf. Altogether too charming, really. "And… handsome, yes."

"Aaaaaaaaand?" Sara asks leadingly, leaning in closer.

Okay, that's clearly been enough of this. "So!" The Balladeer says brightly, and loudly. "What brings you here, Sara Jane? Not going to go help Hinckley out?"

"Johnny? Pfffff, no. He's fiiiiiine." If nothing else, Sara Jane Moore seems pretty easily distractable. She reaches for her large bag again and starts to rummage around in it, talking as she does. "We were all looking around for you after you ran off, and we figured hey - there's ONLY so many places he could have gone! Squeaky said we didn't need the both of us in one place, so I thought I'd just come over here and help out. Don't look so grim, I'm not going to kill you right now." She snorts, as if the idea is ridiculous. "John'd be pissed!"

Oh, thank goodness. Greta lets out a breath when the subject shifts away from the Prince… and back to visiting violence upon the Balladeer. Does it have to be one or the other with these people? Honestly.

"I don't understand why you'd want to kill him at all," Greta protests, frowning. 'Talking back' doesn't seem like a severe enough offense - not that she ought to be expecting any kind of sense from any of these people, but still. "Don't you need him to tell your stories?"

"That's what I said," the Balladeer agrees, though perhaps he didn't say so in quite so many words. He'd always thought it was understood. If not for that, after all, Booth probably would have shot him a while ago. "Come on, you know what I do. If it weren't important, I wouldn't be here. It's more for YOUR benefit than mine."

Sara Jane takes no immediate notice of either, still digging through her bag. "I know, I know. But John's got to have something in mind! He's been talking with that guy who sells the guns lately - oh, no, that isn't it..."

Something in mind? What could he possibly have in mind? They can't just hire a replacement - and anyway it's hardly his fault history looks poorly on them. "You're really just shooting the messenger," the Balladeer says, and instantly regrets his choice of words. "Nothing you do is going to change history. It just doesn't work like - what are you looking for?" She's obviously not really listening to him...is she going for her weapon?

"Oh, you know. There's just so much crap in here..." With a deafening bang, a hole explodes out of the side of the bag, and blood spurts from the side of the Balladeer's shoulder. "Ah! Found it!"

The downside to the conversation moving away from her is that Greta's rather left behind, unable to entirely follow what's going on. It seems she and the Balladeer are in agreement, at least - it even sounds as if Sara Jane sees their point regarding his importance, here - but Booth is still… what, planning something? Ugh. She is really not a fan of Mister Booth.

The gun's report is a terrible shock, far louder and more alarming than the ones outside. Greta lets out a little scream - she can't help herself - and scrambles halfway to her feet before tripping on her own skirts and sitting back down heavily. It's only then that she registers hot dampness on her sleeve and thinks to look down.

There's blood on her dress.

She touches her fingertips to it in bemusement. Is she hurt? She doesn't feel hurt, but with her ears still ringing and her heart still racing, it's possible that she could be and the pain just hasn't registered, yet. But there's no pain, and the blood is the only damage to her dress. Nothing has struck her - no 'slug' or what have you. Where on earth is the blood coming from?

She looks to the Balladeer for guidance - it's becoming something of an automatic response, now - and it's only then that she sees the crimson stain soaking into his shirt. It was never her blood to begin with; it was his. He's hurt.

"Oh, no," she breathes, floundering over to him. "Oh, no." She hesitates for only a moment before gritting her teeth and pressing her palm over where she guesses the wound must be. It will hurt, and she is sorry for that, but she has to slow the bleeding. Turning an accusatory glare on Sara Jane, she snaps, "Why did you do this?!"

The Balladeer is already holding a hand over the wound, blood seeping between his fingers as he stares wide-eyed at Sara Jane. "You shot me." He sounds shocked, and Greta will feel that he's starting to shake.

"I didn't MEAN to!" Sara Jane squawks in return. She got the gun out now, but is holding it in her lap, not pointed at them yet. "I mean not NOW - shit, is he okay?"

She shifts, leaning forward to try to look at the injury, and the Balladeer tries to scoot backwards away from her attentions. "No! You just SHOT me!"

No no no, this is awful, how did this happen? Greta rests her other hand against the Balladeer's back, hoping to offer some small comfort. He's trembling, she can feel it plainly, and a sudden swell of protective fury rises within her. Her child isn't here, but her instinctive desire to keep him safe is quick enough to attach itself to the Balladeer, instead. She rounds on Sara Jane, holding her bloody hand out like a ward. "Stay away from him!" she barks, with such force that she's distantly surprised with herself.

Well, there's no time for embarrassment. She tears at the hem of her skirt, removing a wide strip of cloth and folding it over itself several times into an impromptu bandage. "It's all right," she insists in an unsteady undertone, tugging off the scarf. "Look, we can bind it." That will work, right? It has to.

"Je-sus!" Sara Jane rocks back on her heels. "You don't need to be like that. I don't want to kill him either."

"Right now," the Balladeer says, trying to keep an eye on her while watching Greta bind the wound. He doesn't think the bullet is still in there; it's grazed him, strange as that is to think with how much it hurts, and how much blood there is. He has a sudden flashback to Garfield's long, lingering death. Thank god it just grazed him. "You don't want to kill me right now," he insists. "You don't even know what Booth wants - Greta, come on." He tries to get to his feet, though rising makes him feel abruptly light-headed. "We should go."

Her hands are shaking, but they move with swift surety as she keeps the bulk of her attention on Sara Jane, making sure the woman keeps her distance. She only looks back at the Balladeer's shoulder to knot the ends of the scarf together, and then she's vaguely surprised at how quickly she put it together. It all looks a bit slapdash, and her skirt and the scarf are dark enough that it's hard to tell how much blood might be soaking through, but at least it's something.

Greta can't say she approves of the Balladeer lurching to his feet, but she also very much likes the idea of them getting out of here. She moves to stand beneath his uninjured arm, propping him up a bit with one hand at his back and the other on his chest. "Yes, we should," she says quietly. "But where?" That place where he goes to rest? Is that too obvious? She doesn't want to suggest anything where Sara Jane might overhear.

The Balladeer lets her prop him up, leaning on her for a few seconds until his vision clears and he can steady himself. That can't possibly be blood loss, can it? Maybe it's shock. But he's fine now, he's totally fine. Yep.

"I don't know," he admits, thoughts racing as he tries to consider their options. Between is right out; if there's any assassins not out looking for him, they'll be waiting there. The Exposition? They might be able to hide in the crowds for a while.

"There's not too many places you can go," Sara Jane agrees, rising to her feet as well. She's holding the gun loosely in her hand, but makes no moves towards them. "But look, if you wanna take him up to a room and clean up, you go right ahead. John's already not gonna be too happy about this." She frowns contemplatively. The Balladeer can understand - the man's got a temper - but he rather viciously hopes Booth is annoyed.

It's a relief when he straightens, but she sticks close and keeps her arm at his back in case it doesn't last. She doesn't think he's lost that much blood, but heaven knows what else getting hit with a gun might do to someone.

Oh, this is an inn. Greta looks around the lobby with that helpful bit of context in mind, and… yes, there's a stairway that must lead to rooms. There might be clean towels and running water up there - and they'd be getting away from Sara Jane and whoever else might show up in the meantime.

"Right. We'll do that." She steers the Balladeer toward the staircase. At least he seems steadier on his feet, so he should be able to climb with only a little assistance. As they mount the stairs, she mutters, "Can you still do the whole travel thing? Even when you're injured?" She has no idea how that works, either.

But at least she knows how inns work, and when the first door that she tries opens easily, she guides the Balladeer into the - oh, look, there's an entire bathroom. Perfect. "Sit," she orders, cranking on the hot water and letting it run, "and let's have a look at you."

The Balladeer is, indeed, steady enough to manage the stairs without much help. It's really lucky that he was hit in the arm and not the leg; that would probably make it nigh-impossible for both of them to escape anything. "I'm not sure," he replies, voice strained with pain. "I've never tried. Don't see why I couldn't."

It isn't exactly a physically taxing endeavor. At least, he's pretty sure it's not. True, he's never tried it injured, or even multiple times in quick succession, but then he's never had cause to do that either. This will be a day of experimentation.

He sits on the toilet lid, turning to check the wound again. It's hard to tell how bad it is with the dark bandage wrapped around it - but it hurts like hell. "We need to disinfect it," he says, once again flashing back to Garfield. This is not anywhere near as bad as that bullet wound. He's just seen an awful lot of fatal shootings.

Greta gives her hands a quick rinse under the tap - the bloodier of the two had started to get unpleasantly tacky - then sets about unpicking the knot she'd tied in the scarf and unwinding her hasty bit of binding. His shoulder looks a mess, but it might not be that bad beneath all the blood and the torn sleeve. She tsks quietly, then soaks a washcloth so she can start cleaning away the blood. It'll be easier to pull his shirt away from the wound when it's damp, too.

Truth be told, having something practical to do is a bit of a relief. Greta's not a healer by any stretch, but she has a good enough grasp of basic first aid. She winces sympathetically at the sizable graze along his arm, once things are clean enough for her to make it out. Poor fellow; that really must hurt.

She carefully peels his sleeve away from the wound, lips pursed in general disapproval. "This might need to come off," she says, giving the shirt a pointed tug, "at least until we've bound it properly." Under less dire circumstances, she'd probably be embarrassed by the idea; as it is, she's too busy being worried (and quietly furious) to care about anything as currently trivial as propriety.

As for disinfecting, she barely knows what that means. "What would work for that?" she asks as she rinses out the washcloth.

The Balladeer nods, already in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. It's a hell of a lot easier than trying to keep the sleeve free. "I guess we can just use the soap," he says as he slips his good arm out of its sleeve, nodding towards the sink where he figures there should be some. That's probably going to sting, but he'd rather that than infection.

Speaking of stinging, he hisses in pain as he carefully extricates his wounded shoulder from the rest of his shirt. Once it's off, he tosses it into the tub and peers down at the wound with a grimace. Lucky he's never been squeamish about blood, though he'd kill for some painkillers. "We're not going to be able to stay here forever."

Greta nods, a little bemused but mostly reassured: soap was part of the plan, anyway, so this just means she won't have to rummage around for anything extra. Once the washcloth is as rinsed as it's going to get, she gives it a brisk rub with the soap.

"This might sting a bit," she warns, probably needlessly, before she starts washing out the wound as gently as she can while still getting the job done. "And no, we're not." She glances up to his face, brow furrowed, before returning her focus to the job at hand. "You said they could follow you to your… resting place." Is there any way to say that phrase without making it sound like some inhuman thing's lair as opposed to the closest thing to a home he has? "I don't suppose there's anywhere you could go where they can't follow you."

Another rinse of the washcloth, another careful wipe-down to clear away the soap. That's as clean as the wound is likely to get. She hands the Balladeer another folded-up washcloth to press over the wound while she tears up a hand towel for more bandages. What options do they have? There was the memorial, and before that, the gallows, and before that, the Woods...

… Wait.

Greta freezes mid-tear, looking up at the Balladeer. There's some sort of important revelation hovering at the edge of her awareness. "How are we both in your world in the first place?" she asks. "I was… I was in the Woods before I met you at the gallows." Did the Rift bring her here? Why would it do that?

The Balladeer hisses as the washcloth meets his shoulder, but holds himself still to let Greta work. Resting place, he needs to work out a real name for it now that there's other people involved. That makes it sound like he's some kind of subterranean monster. "No. I follow them more than anything." Unless someone shoots a president there, he's not likely to just hop to a new location.

He takes the second cloth and presses it over the wound. "Were you?" He HAD been wondering that - he'd asked her how she got here, he remembers, but then Guiteau came along and they both got caught up in all this. "I don't know. This..." He frowns, brow furrowing in thought. "This shouldn't happen. This doesn't happen, random people getting caught up in this. Sara Jane had a point, I don't talk to people outside of them."

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