[ Calm and absent, the sound of a woman who takes it as a foregone conclusion that she will be finishing her work to her own satisfaction. It’s a bit late for the sluice of liquor to burn over the parted flesh, but she relieves Isaac of the bottle to pause and do it anyway, pat it dry with a folded square of bandage, and then two stitches later release Leander from the heavy thread that joins them with the shears. ]
There.
[ A quick glance reveals that to be what most needed the extra aid in sealing. His chest might want for one or two. Alexandrie reaches for the same folded square, comes around to scrutinize the bisecting wound. ]
Are you in a hurry to bleed upon another room?
[ But she makes the concession of folding a pad of cloth to place over the line of stitches— although she then looks at its placement with thinned lips. There’s no truly elegant way to bind it, although across his chest and back... that requires the chest wound done first. A morbid logician’s puzzle. She pulls thread. ]
Two more.
[ And reaches to brace a delicate hand on his chest. ]
[Making a fist is one of the very first things a human learns to do with their body; hands are formed for it, brains wired to clench on reflex. When Leander snatches at Alexandrie's hand—unthinking, a primitive urge—it's only the weakness forced upon him by this whole affair that keeps his grip from squeezing a bruise. Weakness, too, is partly to blame: as his mind slips loose with exhaustion, so does the personable young man he tries to be, so artfully curated, lose shape.
The splash of alcohol, he took that well. The last tying-off of his neck, borne without complaint. But not this.]
Don't— [His voice cracks at sudden volume, retreats to a hiss after the stab of fractured ribs.] Don't touch it, it's not yours.
[The fierce honesty of the moment is short-lived. Focus drains. Indicating no one,]
It belongs to him.
[After a stretch of visible struggle, his brow grows suddenly smooth and his eyelids relax to half-mast; they remain just so, open and unseeing, as the rest of him sags. (At last, his fingers may be pried apart.)]
Leander fades. Isaac's grip in his hair relaxes from the moment it might have asked action. ]
Are you alright?
[ — Is a vestigial question. Of course she is; of course this isn’t. They can afford a breath, should she choose it, and it’s funny, isn’t it? The manner in which one might choose: Transfigure the pause into vulnerability or control.
He sets down Leander’s head, fishes for his pocket again (the lyrium). A bit of work with stopper and teeth, a grimace for the taste. Leander won’t be up for the door. May as well give up on that, ease the rest of this.
The palm that smoothes his eyes shut carries true sleep. ]
Her hand stays—it echoes in her. This is what he has left.
She has none of her own, not like that. The last marks Loki had left on her have faded, her skin left traitorously fine save for the thin white slice of a scar on her thigh from Ghislain. The pink dashes across her palm, perhaps, from when she’d nervelessly clutched a handful of roses hard enough to make stems flush with skin, the thorns hide in her flesh.
Maybe she shouldn’t have let Thor heal them, the small bit he could. Should have grabbed his wrist and hissed.
Alexandrie sets down the thread. Flexes her hand. Takes the breath. ]
Are any of us?
[ She takes up the bandages without waiting, takes the time to wind and tuck them nicely.
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no subject
[ Calm and absent, the sound of a woman who takes it as a foregone conclusion that she will be finishing her work to her own satisfaction. It’s a bit late for the sluice of liquor to burn over the parted flesh, but she relieves Isaac of the bottle to pause and do it anyway, pat it dry with a folded square of bandage, and then two stitches later release Leander from the heavy thread that joins them with the shears. ]
There.
[ A quick glance reveals that to be what most needed the extra aid in sealing. His chest might want for one or two. Alexandrie reaches for the same folded square, comes around to scrutinize the bisecting wound. ]
Are you in a hurry to bleed upon another room?
[ But she makes the concession of folding a pad of cloth to place over the line of stitches— although she then looks at its placement with thinned lips. There’s no truly elegant way to bind it, although across his chest and back... that requires the chest wound done first. A morbid logician’s puzzle. She pulls thread. ]
Two more.
[ And reaches to brace a delicate hand on his chest. ]
no subject
The splash of alcohol, he took that well. The last tying-off of his neck, borne without complaint. But not this.]
Don't— [His voice cracks at sudden volume, retreats to a hiss after the stab of fractured ribs.] Don't touch it, it's not yours.
[The fierce honesty of the moment is short-lived. Focus drains. Indicating no one,]
It belongs to him.
[After a stretch of visible struggle, his brow grows suddenly smooth and his eyelids relax to half-mast; they remain just so, open and unseeing, as the rest of him sags. (At last, his fingers may be pried apart.)]
no subject
Leander fades. Isaac's grip in his hair relaxes from the moment it might have asked action. ]
Are you alright?
[ — Is a vestigial question. Of course she is; of course this isn’t. They can afford a breath, should she choose it, and it’s funny, isn’t it? The manner in which one might choose: Transfigure the pause into vulnerability or control.
He sets down Leander’s head, fishes for his pocket again (the lyrium). A bit of work with stopper and teeth, a grimace for the taste. Leander won’t be up for the door. May as well give up on that, ease the rest of this.
The palm that smoothes his eyes shut carries true sleep. ]
no subject
It belongs to him.
Her hand stays—it echoes in her. This is what he has left.
She has none of her own, not like that. The last marks Loki had left on her have faded, her skin left traitorously fine save for the thin white slice of a scar on her thigh from Ghislain. The pink dashes across her palm, perhaps, from when she’d nervelessly clutched a handful of roses hard enough to make stems flush with skin, the thorns hide in her flesh.
Maybe she shouldn’t have let Thor heal them, the small bit he could. Should have grabbed his wrist and hissed.
Alexandrie sets down the thread. Flexes her hand. Takes the breath. ]
Are any of us?
[ She takes up the bandages without waiting, takes the time to wind and tuck them nicely.
It hardly needs answering. ]
He will be heavy.