Putting her fingers upon it is almost the first thing she does—
which hurts enough to make her sorry for doing it. Of course: magic isn’t a limitless resource. The work he’s being asked to do is already delicate, difficult, complex. The same way no one’s chugging an entire healing potion for a bruise— the break is what matters, what needs fixing. The bruising, the tenderness, time will heal those things the way it would’ve without his intervention. Or: not exactly as it would have. Specifically.
That she can touch it and only hiss, though. That it feels like it’s healing, not...
She feels sort of ill, but that probably has more to do with how little she’s been managing to eat. How much she’s immediately going to be able to keep down is another story entirely. And with her head pounding and her stomach roiling and the disconcerting awareness of what Isaac’s fingers taste like,
“I think we can safely say,” more clearly than before, “that I fucking owe you, Isaac.”
A secret never comes free. But the years stretch, and he's kept worse than this. Hand curls into handkerchief. Gareth, Ilias, John. Charlotte. Leander, Derrica, even that list he handed Holden —
Secrets. He keeps them more often than not, a grisly little collection. People keep killing him insects, as though Isaac should want them skewered, arranged in neat rows. Under the belly of this boat, termites squirm unseen. Squalid and free.
"You don't," It's natural she shouldn't trust that. "Just don't get us both killed."
Gwen brings a hand to bruise. Isaac sets the cloth aside, and stands again, unsteady. It'll pass.
"Water, rest. More water than you think," The wings to support. "I'd advise bland food, but we are in Kirkwall."
"If you need call on me again, ask a delivery for Strange." Less like than an escort to draw attention. He thinks of offering some comfort, considers the hollow taste of it. Bland food. "I'll take myself back."
It’s not that she doesn’t listen to everything else he says — she does. Nods along, more water, bland food. (It will be some time before she keeps anything down anything like reliably, but no one is going to be surprised by that, least of all Gwenaëlle.) It’s just that he gets to the end of it, standing, and she reaches out,
her hand curling around his wrist, clammy with sweat, a firm grip. She says,
“I do,” quietly, like it means something that she is placing in his hand. And: “I’ll be alright. He and I can manage.”
Stephen, not Guilfoyle, who had stirred at her sudden motion, and moves no further.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
which hurts enough to make her sorry for doing it. Of course: magic isn’t a limitless resource. The work he’s being asked to do is already delicate, difficult, complex. The same way no one’s chugging an entire healing potion for a bruise— the break is what matters, what needs fixing. The bruising, the tenderness, time will heal those things the way it would’ve without his intervention. Or: not exactly as it would have. Specifically.
That she can touch it and only hiss, though. That it feels like it’s healing, not...
She feels sort of ill, but that probably has more to do with how little she’s been managing to eat. How much she’s immediately going to be able to keep down is another story entirely. And with her head pounding and her stomach roiling and the disconcerting awareness of what Isaac’s fingers taste like,
“I think we can safely say,” more clearly than before, “that I fucking owe you, Isaac.”
no subject
A secret never comes free. But the years stretch, and he's kept worse than this. Hand curls into handkerchief. Gareth, Ilias, John. Charlotte. Leander, Derrica, even that list he handed Holden —
Secrets. He keeps them more often than not, a grisly little collection. People keep killing him insects, as though Isaac should want them skewered, arranged in neat rows. Under the belly of this boat, termites squirm unseen. Squalid and free.
"You don't," It's natural she shouldn't trust that. "Just don't get us both killed."
Gwen brings a hand to bruise. Isaac sets the cloth aside, and stands again, unsteady. It'll pass.
"Water, rest. More water than you think," The wings to support. "I'd advise bland food, but we are in Kirkwall."
"If you need call on me again, ask a delivery for Strange." Less like than an escort to draw attention. He thinks of offering some comfort, considers the hollow taste of it. Bland food. "I'll take myself back."
no subject
her hand curling around his wrist, clammy with sweat, a firm grip. She says,
“I do,” quietly, like it means something that she is placing in his hand. And: “I’ll be alright. He and I can manage.”
Stephen, not Guilfoyle, who had stirred at her sudden motion, and moves no further.
“Thank you.”
She remembers to let go.