(no subject)
Bill's tired of resting and tired of sleeping and tired of questioning and tired of not knowing. He's tired of glances full of pity and that overwhelming sensation of people tiptoeing about him, of treating him differently.
As if he can't handle things any more.
And so, when Fleur leaves for a few minutes to go get more tea, or a bowl of soup, or whatever she thinks is best at the moment, Bill throws back the blankets and stands. It's his first time out of bed unassisted since he got here, but he's through playing the invalid; he refuses to do it any longer.
I am not some pitiful creature. Slowly, he makes his way across the room and into the bath and, for the first time, faces himself squarely in the mirror.
He stares.
And stares.
Methodically, he peels off the remaining bandages: the wounds underneath don't look quite so bad as he'd feared. She'd said it was Raven who did the healing; there will have to be thanks proffered yet again. Once he's done examining the scars and scabs, he looks into his eyes in the mirror. One time when they thought he was asleep, Bill thought he heard someone say that one eye was not in the socket when they brought him in.
But it looks all right now. Common wisdom says that eyes are the mirrors of the soul: he gazes into his own, only confident about what he sees because this is not a magical mirror that will try to flatter or cajole him.
He looks for signs that he's... different. That he's fierce or more dangerous or part wolf or... he's not sure what, but he only sees his own eyes looking back at him, dull and glassy with the fever that accompanies trauma and healing.
Bill rests his head against the mirror's glass, eyes closed. "I don't feel different. I don't."
Nor does he want to.
Carefully, he peels out of his sick-bed clothes, foraging in the bureau for fresh things. He dresses with great appreciation for simple things, like being able to move about, then pulls the covers up on the bed, taking a seat in the chair instead. Reaching for his wand, he taps it against his palm a few times, speaking to the room. "I would very much like to see my brother, Charlie." He nods as if that pronouncement made to thin air will make his brother simply appear.
As if he can't handle things any more.
And so, when Fleur leaves for a few minutes to go get more tea, or a bowl of soup, or whatever she thinks is best at the moment, Bill throws back the blankets and stands. It's his first time out of bed unassisted since he got here, but he's through playing the invalid; he refuses to do it any longer.
I am not some pitiful creature. Slowly, he makes his way across the room and into the bath and, for the first time, faces himself squarely in the mirror.
He stares.
And stares.
Methodically, he peels off the remaining bandages: the wounds underneath don't look quite so bad as he'd feared. She'd said it was Raven who did the healing; there will have to be thanks proffered yet again. Once he's done examining the scars and scabs, he looks into his eyes in the mirror. One time when they thought he was asleep, Bill thought he heard someone say that one eye was not in the socket when they brought him in.
But it looks all right now. Common wisdom says that eyes are the mirrors of the soul: he gazes into his own, only confident about what he sees because this is not a magical mirror that will try to flatter or cajole him.
He looks for signs that he's... different. That he's fierce or more dangerous or part wolf or... he's not sure what, but he only sees his own eyes looking back at him, dull and glassy with the fever that accompanies trauma and healing.
Bill rests his head against the mirror's glass, eyes closed. "I don't feel different. I don't."
Nor does he want to.
Carefully, he peels out of his sick-bed clothes, foraging in the bureau for fresh things. He dresses with great appreciation for simple things, like being able to move about, then pulls the covers up on the bed, taking a seat in the chair instead. Reaching for his wand, he taps it against his palm a few times, speaking to the room. "I would very much like to see my brother, Charlie." He nods as if that pronouncement made to thin air will make his brother simply appear.