Lil-Sis is a good nurse?
WHO: Conner and Remy
WHEN: April 10 morning
WHERE: Conner’s flat
WHAT: Conner got his ass kicked last night and Lil sister is worried
RATING: P for pouting
Conner scowled, flipping shut his phone and grabbing for the antibiotic cream again. He’d barely slept last night from the pain in his skull, stomach and face, the ibuprofen hadn’t helped for shit and now he’d found he was out of half the medical supplies he needed. If his twin were still here… Well there was no doubt his other half would have been here to patch him up and run out for the supplies he needed. Stupid brat had run off through so there was no hope in that.
“Fack, fack, faaaaack,” he hissed, pressing his hand over his uncovered and scarred eye. He’d been right. Last night when Moon had slammed that table leg into his skull splinters had broken off and slipped into his scalp. Now here he was, sitting on the counter in his small bathroom with a comb and pair of tweezers, slowly shifting his hair aside as he searched for the evil little things.
“I hope I broke his facken ribs,” the Celt grumbled, wincing as he pulled another out. Bruised fingers gently prodded and he hissed again as he found another, quickly pulling it out then spitting into the sink. He’d broken open the clot on his bloody lip several times already from cussing and biting.
WHEN: April 10 morning
WHERE: Conner’s flat
WHAT: Conner got his ass kicked last night and Lil sister is worried
RATING: P for pouting
Conner scowled, flipping shut his phone and grabbing for the antibiotic cream again. He’d barely slept last night from the pain in his skull, stomach and face, the ibuprofen hadn’t helped for shit and now he’d found he was out of half the medical supplies he needed. If his twin were still here… Well there was no doubt his other half would have been here to patch him up and run out for the supplies he needed. Stupid brat had run off through so there was no hope in that.
“Fack, fack, faaaaack,” he hissed, pressing his hand over his uncovered and scarred eye. He’d been right. Last night when Moon had slammed that table leg into his skull splinters had broken off and slipped into his scalp. Now here he was, sitting on the counter in his small bathroom with a comb and pair of tweezers, slowly shifting his hair aside as he searched for the evil little things.
“I hope I broke his facken ribs,” the Celt grumbled, wincing as he pulled another out. Bruised fingers gently prodded and he hissed again as he found another, quickly pulling it out then spitting into the sink. He’d broken open the clot on his bloody lip several times already from cussing and biting.