[Again, there's a stutter in his momentum when she reaches out to him. A distracted tic from the contact that doesn't have the time to sink in like it needs to. But she's prepared, this time. Rather than giving him the chance to kneejerk into a retaliation. And as approaches go, it's a good one—he's only human. He has no real defense against that kind of thing unless he knows it's coming. Magic.
In a lot of ways, it's a kindness. Not just because she's dragging him out of danger and stopping him from doing anything he'll regret—any more than he already might have. But on a more immediate level, it quiets the symptoms of the virus for a while in a rather complete way. He hasn't been sleeping, for pretty obvious reasons. The forced magical nap puts hiim out of commission and off the streets, makes it easier to catch some real rest for the first time in days.
But all good things must come to an end. And he comes to. (In the bathtub, that's so rude. At least duke him the couch, c'mon.) Unlike the fraught and bloody backstreet she'd dragged him out of, it's quiet. Clean. He breathes carefully as his eyes adjust, catching at his scattered wits. White-knuckling his nerves as he catches sight of the woman watching over him—biting back the disorienting visceral reaction the virus inspires to another warm body in the room.
His fingers (filthy with dried blood, not his own) pull together. He braces himself back against the wall with a grimace as he fights to put the blurred bits of the encounter in order after the fact. It's there, but it's feverish, faint.]
Enjoying the show?
[Rough, but coherent, this time. For now, anyway. You can be honest, Aqua. He can take it.]
no subject
In a lot of ways, it's a kindness. Not just because she's dragging him out of danger and stopping him from doing anything he'll regret—any more than he already might have. But on a more immediate level, it quiets the symptoms of the virus for a while in a rather complete way. He hasn't been sleeping, for pretty obvious reasons. The forced magical nap puts hiim out of commission and off the streets, makes it easier to catch some real rest for the first time in days.
But all good things must come to an end. And he comes to. (In the bathtub, that's so rude. At least duke him the couch, c'mon.) Unlike the fraught and bloody backstreet she'd dragged him out of, it's quiet. Clean. He breathes carefully as his eyes adjust, catching at his scattered wits. White-knuckling his nerves as he catches sight of the woman watching over him—biting back the disorienting visceral reaction the virus inspires to another warm body in the room.
His fingers (filthy with dried blood, not his own) pull together. He braces himself back against the wall with a grimace as he fights to put the blurred bits of the encounter in order after the fact. It's there, but it's feverish, faint.]
Enjoying the show?
[Rough, but coherent, this time. For now, anyway. You can be honest, Aqua. He can take it.]