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They drag each other up the stairs. Dakota's got a bruised hip and Cavendish can't put any weight on his left leg. Their wobbling three-legged waltz ends at the front door of the former H+G Water Co.
The lock sticks, like it always does. Dakota has to jiggle the doorknob while Cavendish turns the key. They stumble through, Cavendish's arm wrapped around Dakota's waist.
Still propping up Cavendish, Dakota takes a moment to lean against the door and discovers his neck is sore as hell. It feels like he got kicked by a horse, which isn't far from the truth.
He deposits his partner on the couch and limps over to the dresser to get the first aid kit. Cavendish is peeling off his torn coveralls. Dakota removes his own so-called protective gear, wincing when it snags on his hip. They could really use some body armor.
He shucks his jacket as well, picks up his trash grabber in case any limbs need splinting and sets down the first aid kit on the floor. Cavendish is struggling with the glove on his left hand. Dakota helpfully yanks it off and discovers the glove was stuck to the skin with dried blood. Cavendish goes crosseyed with pain.
"Stuck is good. Means the bleeding's stopped," Dakota offers.
"It's started again now," Cavendish says sourly.
A sharp edge, like a claw, has made a long shallow cut across the back of his hand. Dakota applies pieces of gauze, but the blood keeps oozing through. He tapes a roll of bandages on top of the cut to maintain pressure. "Done. Show me your knee."
Once revealed the knee is swollen and discolored, but nothing seems to be broken. Just a sprain. Dakota wraps the joint with an elastic bandage and tops off with a cold pack. He gives Cavendish a couple of painkillers and takes one for himself.
There's pieces of gravel stuck in the side of his face. Cavendish tweezes them out with a none too steady hand. Once he accidentally jabs Dakota's cheek with the tweezer. "Sorry."
"I can take it," Dakota says. "I got a lot of grit."
Cavendish sighs. "Just hand me the antiseptic, would you?"
Dakota twists around to reach for the bottle. Cavendish sucks in a breath. "Good God."
Dakota turns back quickly. "What? You got more injuries?"
"No, you!" Cavendish waves his hands. "Turn around!"
Dakota does. Cavendish probes his bare neck and shoulder until he finds the sorest spot and puts a cold pack on it. "Dakota, you've got to be more careful," he says, stunning Dakota into silence. "That creature nearly took your head off. Two inches higher and you could have been hurt!"
Dakota's not the one who wants to chase monsters from another planet, and he is hurt, actually. But he's figured out that that's not exactly what Cavendish means when he says that.
"It's not that bad," he says. "Nothing's broken. I'm fine."
For certain values of fine. It occurs to him that he'd like to sit with Cavendish and not move again for a long time. "You know, tomorrow's our day off. Let's watch some movies. The TV's right there, we're already on the couch. Whadya say?"
Cavendish gets to his feet with a groan, leaning on the grabber. "You need to rest your spine. Lie down on your stomach, I'll take the chair."
As a butt supporter the chair does its job, but you couldn't call it comfortable. "You sure?" Dakota asks, mildly disappointed.
"Of course. Don't want me on top of you, do you?"
"Nah, you're right. My ass is already sore," Dakota says, because some fruit's just begging to be picked.
Cavendish uses the grabber to flip through their vast selection of nine movies and puts a cassette into the ancient VHS player. "Aren't you gonna ask what I want to watch?" Dakota objects. He's seen those movies enough times to know that him and Cavendish have just about opposite tastes.
"Yours is the best seat in the house, therefore I get to choose the movie," Cavendish says with inescapable logic. The intro to The Third Man begins to play. Dakota helps him to the blue chair and makes a pile of the back cushions from the couch so he can prop his leg on them.
The nice thing about not being super tall is that when he lies down on their three-seater, most of him fits. He can see the TV screen by turning his head. The actors are sideways, a new angle on the movie that ought to make it less boring but doesn't. He wishes he could throw popcorn at the screen and enjoy Cavendish's scowl, but at least the painkiller's finally kicking in. Dakota starts to drift off to the soothing tune of the zither. Joseph Cotten pokes him in the face with a tweezer and tells him to sleep well.
He jerks awake from a dream where the alien was on target. He sits up to shake it off. The TV is still on. In the dim light he sees that the blue chair is empty.
"...endish? Where are you? Cavendish!"
There's a sleepy noise from the floor. "Mwhuh?" Dakota looks down and there's Cavendish blinking up at him. He's lying in front of the TV stand on a kind of mattress made out of the back cushions. "Wossamatter?"
Just like that, every trace of the nightmare is gone. "Oh," Dakota says. "Okay. Just checking in. You can go back to sleep now."
Cavendish stares at him for a moment. "Thank you, I believe I will."
The cushions he's lying on are starting to part ways. "You okay down there?" Dakota asks.
"Perfectly." Cavendish's hand travels towards the TV's off button, then stops in midair. "Er, Dakota?"
"Yeah?"
"Nothing. Good night. Oh, and remember to lie prone."
He switches off the TV. Dakota lies down (prone, as ordered) and shoves his arms under the balled-up jacket currently doubling as a pillow. His neck throbs dully. Tomorrow's going to hurt, but it's worth it when he thinks of the alternative. They stayed alive, and who knows, maybe one day it'll be the alien getting its ass kicked. He lets that thought lull him into sleep.