(Untitled)
It's a quarter after 2 AM when Candice wakes up with a start, instincts screaming that something is happening in this house. Considering this isn't the first time lately that something has gone on at this hour, she's not hugely surprised - but she doesn't take long to consider that lack of surprise, sliding hurriedly out of bed and making her way ( Read more... )
Mr Dessoir, for his part, is sleeping and might as well be dead to the world - but maybe that's not such a good metaphor when the curtains on his four-poster are burning around him. A glint of silver hangs from one, probably a slightly lower priority, and Martel himself starts to stir at the sudden disturbance, groggily beginning to wake.
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"Mr. Dessoir!" She starts beating the flames out of the curtains, breathless and panicked - her voice isn't as loud as she thinks it is, but hopefully it'll be enough to jar him fully awake.
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...smoke. Smoke...fire. Fire he didn't st-
And that, as well as her voice, is enough to get him moving, half-stumbling out of his bed to yank the curtains down from their hooks and stomp them out into ash and charred fabric. In a truly marvelous show of priorities, he lunges for the hanging silver chain and its wrecked amulet (swearing at the heat of it, not dropping it).
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She beats out the last of the fire, and turns to retrieve Martel - only to find him in the midst of acquiring his amulet? That gives her a split-second pause, but she shakes her head and focuses on getting them out instead.
"Mr. Dessoir, we have to leave, come on--" She figures downstairs is the best way to go. Away from that attic.
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Distantly aware of the burning in his hand, Martel tucks that behind his back the best he can - without brushing the hot metal against the bare skin there - and half pulls, half pushes her out of the room with him. "Bathroom," he says, "whichever one is nearest." When they get to the bottom of the stairs, he means - it doesn't occur to him to assume she'll understand, because it doesn't occur to him that she mightn't.
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And she does seem to understand, intuitively - the nearest bathroom at the bottom of the stairs is one of those large ridiculous ones that seem to dot this house, and once they're inside she closes the door behind them securely.
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At this point, he finally lets go - into the sink, turning the cold tap on full with his other hand. "Fuck."
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"Madman," she mutters, realizing what he's done, "you are a crazy person -- keep that under water for at least fifteen minutes. It's red, right? That means it's first degree, it won't blister and we don't have to go to a hospital. You have aloe vera, don't you? Good."
This is concurrent to her rummaging around the cupboards to find aloe vera, antibiotic mixture, and gauze bandages.
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Under the circumstances, something he'd ordinarily blithely confirm touches a nerve, and he has to force his hand to unclench again to let the water rush over the - yes, first degree - burn. "So I'm told. It's in the third drawer down."
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"How are you feeling otherwise?" She fetches what she needs and sets it up, sitting on the counter top next to the sink and watching him closely. Waiting. "Smoke inhalation?"
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"I'm fine," he says, briskly; the fact he's holding one hand under cold water for fifteen minutes suggests that perhaps taking Martel's word for how he is may not be the best of ideas.
At least the metal's cooling, as well.
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"He could have killed you." She needs to - keep her voice more even, for starters, he is the one whose bed was on fire. Candice leans forward, hands balanced on her knees.
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"And tomorrow morning I'm going to talk to my lawyer about my will and testament, but the point is I'm not dead." Maybe he's just better at killing people than Oliver - Christ, he can't start laughing, she'll think he's insane.
She already thinks he's insane.
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"You--" She looks genuinely disconcerted. "Mr. Dessoir, that's not going to be necessary, I promise you."
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"Lake couldn't kill me if I waited and let the bastard aim." He leans against the sink, watching his reflection instad of Candice. "Practically speaking I really should, though, regardless. Don't worry about that."
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"Well, I'll try." She decides it's been long enough and picks up the bandage again, smoothing the edges. "Your hand, please."
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