[size=9pt]There's a leak in the corner. It drip, drip, drips, bounces, bounces, bounces off the ground and fucking echoes and Moon's gonna' lose his fucking mind.

He's severely messed up. Cuts running down his neck, tooth marks in his hind leg, blood caking under his chin and one eye stained crimson, shut tight He had his head resting against the wall, for the cool temperature of it, if anything. He was weaker than he'd ever been, muscles shaky even as he sat, and his head was throbbing. He was just not doing good. He'd seen the movies; this is where the protagonist reminisces on their life, on their loved ones, on their accomplishments and their faults, and comes to terms with their inevitable death. The problem was, Moon had had a short life, and he really didn't think anyone fucking loved him, and his accomplishments were non-existent next to his faults. So he didn't think about that. He thought about the dripping. Besides, he'd be a shit protagonist.

But he failed to remember the trope next in line; the savior. In enters a knight in shining armor, hushed whispers and a disguise, to save him so he can continue his story, reach his character arch. But here came clicking talons and cloak. He blinks his eyes open, gazes steadily at Gabriel, waits a beat, and promptly shuts them again. "'Thought you were the Grim Reaper. Don't get my hopes up like that." He stares into the blackness his eyelids cast, and when he speaks, his voice is scratchy and torn. "If Panchair sent you, tell him I've kicked the bucket and joined the God Squad. I ain't talking."

It's the sound of the basket that gets the better of him. Curiousity killed the cat. Moon blinks his one good eye open, cartoonish as he always is, and looks from Gabe, to the basket, back to Gabe. Clearly they're trying to fix him up, fatten him up for sacrifice, because they've realized his good lucks under all the skin and bone and they're willing to backtrack on the torture. He's hesitant to trust. Besides, at this point, he's too out of it to even chew up a poultice or tell the difference between Comfrey and Coltsfoot. He'd sooner poison himself than heal himself. When he speaks, it's flat and humorless. "What the fuck are you doing here, man."

[size=9pt]Moon's not a complete idiot; he knows Gabriel isn't here to save him. Despite the Archangel name, he's not some swooping flurry of holy wrath, powerful enough to rain down on the Typhoon's mass of members and drag Moon off to safety. But it's fine. He doesn't expect him to. In fact, in that moment, Moon can't find it in himself to care about escaping. He'd never been one particularly fond of life and all it's blessings; perhaps this is the early end younger Moon had always asked for. Perhaps he was being overdramatic.

He coughs a laugh. "Yeah, 'taking care of'? Fuck off, Feathers. That's my job. 'Bet you've already adopted half of this shithole's messed up kids, anyway." He'd planned on saying, 'I'm not another one of your charity case sons,' but, in the moment, his speech was slow and slurred enough for him to genuinely think, if only slightly, about what he had to say. And he had no interest in reminding Gabriel of Lazarus and whatever the fuck went down between them. He knows a complicated situation when he sees one. Hell, he's a fucking walking complicated situation, himself. [b]"But, yeah, whatever, dodge the question if you want. I don't give a shit. Keep your secrets. Allies and enemies and sworn loyalties. It's all a load of bullshit."[/b]

Gathering all of his strength, he pushes himself from the wall and tugs the basket over to him. The sight of the water makes his tongue feel as dry as Gabriel's wit, and he realizes just how long it'd been since he'd last had a drink. Back in the Ascendant's, he'd been having a busy day when he was knocked out by that Grandma Wolf bitch, but even if he hadn't-- Moon had never been one to take care of himself, anyway. He bends and laps at the water for a moment, and it hits him, then, just how exposed he feels. It's incredibly uncomfortable, the whole situation. The fact that he'd end up with Gabriel, out of everyone, visiting him when he was such a ragged mess was definitely karma paying him a visit. He lifts his head, gaze remaining on the ground, and collapses back against the wall. "You come here often, Tweety? Wallowing in someone else's indignity seems to be right up your alley. Or am I just special?"

[size=9pt]/npppp i took just as long rip

Moon raises one brow. One side of his lips tilt. 'It's just not the whole answer.' Very Hollywood. Though he doubted Gabriel would know what that meant. Still, the words sparked a hint of humor in Moon, despite the situation. "Oh, he's mysterious. Where's the cameras, Mr. Bond? You got your script hidden under that cape?" He grins, but he's distracted and he moves his side against the wall slightly. The exposed skin grates against the brick and he sucks in sharply through his teeth. For a moment, his shoulder sets on fire, and he clamps his jaw shut tight, but he breathes in and out in steadily and slowly, it fades. He's back to his nonchalance, lightning fast. "It's fine, man. Keep the other half of the answer. I get it; I wouldn't wanna' get castrated at the hands of those Jack Sparrow scum, either. Saving your own ass comes first, right?"

Moon manages to find some poppy seeds in the basket. The sight of them comes as such a relief, he feels weak in the knees. It's possible he's slightly too reliant on the sleep-inducing seeds. It's possible that, on more than one occasion, he'd abused them, as some other Medics would say, for the sake of some shut-eye. But now, here, he knows he needs them. He knocks them back with some water, feeling the heat of his tongue starved off with the rush of the freezing liquid. "A bath?" He frowns, once the seeds have been swallowed. "Yeah, sure. Just direct me to the fuckin' Spa Resort, Feathers. Hey, maybe you can get your talons painted and I can get my claws filed, while we're at it." His grin has disappeared. Instead, he stares the hybrid down, borderline defensive. He knows he needs a fucking bath. Hell, it's not as if he enjoys sitting, leaking crimson from parts of his body he'd never even known existed, before. He doesn't need the criticism, and his disgruntlement shows. His next words are just as gruff, though, perhaps, not as resentful. "I don't hate you. Don't be dramatic. Do whatever you need to do. Don't blame you for getting sick of all that Star talk, anyway."