[Witches' Horses] Chevalier de Grammont
Title: midnight maintenance
'Verse/characters: le Chevalier de Grammont; Sinclair, Grammont
Prompt: 69D "annoyance"
Word Count: 601
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"My belly itches," she announced in the middle of his night cycle, right by his head.
He strongly considered rolling over and putting in earplugs, but decided that she'd probably escalate until she got a response and he still hadn't worked out a way of suggesting that dropping a man on his head by fucking with your internal gravity wasn't appropriate behaviour in a horse.
"Why do I care?" he said instead, and ignored the rasp in his voice. If he was coming down with something, he was coming down with something, and if it was just interrupted in REM it'd be gone in ten minutes.
"I want you to go outside and seal something," she told him, and he kind of hated the lack of uncertainty in her voice.
Hated the way he was rolling over and dragging himself out of bed even more. His hands felt like someone'd dipped them in lead, and he felt every one of the scrapes he'd picked up less than six hours ago like someone had poured white acid across them.
"It's going to take me a half-hour to get ready to do this," he called towards the singer at the other end of the room as he tacked his blankets neatly into place again and cycled the filter that would air them out and keep them from getting stale.
"It will only itch more in the morning," she replied from that singer. "Get moving, human."
"Neighing at me won't make me move faster, nag," he told her as he knotted his hair back into a half-assed braid to keep it out of the way before he tucked it under a helmet lining.
She blew a burst of static through the singer and then clicked it off, pretending to ignore him.
She could pretend all she liked, he could see the active current in the other singer through the patch.
It did take him nearly the half hour to finish getting prepped for the black, because he was tired and sore and his fingers were clumsier than they'd be in a flood of adrenaline. Which he knew from experience, thank you, and that was why he habitually wore a fair bit of gear prepped to take cold if not actually designed for it.
"Alright, nag," he said after he'd clicked the helmet's pickups on. "Where am I heading?"
"The center of my belly, back of the third intake," she replied in his ear and opened the outer airlock for him.
He bit off the reflexive mutter at that, then swung himself and the repair and diagnostics kit out the airlock, letting the magnets in his boots catch at her outer skin.
She rolled underneath him, putting her belly a small upcurve walk instead of a downcurve, and he obliged the courtesy by touching down as few times as he could. She'd said the magnets felt 'odd', at least twice, and he hadn't been willing to ask what she meant by it at the time.
When he got to the itchy spot, he didn't have to do more than flick the light in the kit on to identify the problem.
"You've got a feather growing in here," he said aloud, and heard a tiny buzz of staticky surprise from her end before she managed a "Well, that would explain why it itched."
"Torch, chisel, or paint, nag?" he inquired, letting his irritation show when she didn't say anything else for a good five minutes.
" . . Paint," she decided. "Torch when we're in an atmosphere."
"Fine," he said, and went for the kit's basic grey sealant paint.
'Verse/characters: le Chevalier de Grammont; Sinclair, Grammont
Prompt: 69D "annoyance"
Word Count: 601
---------
"My belly itches," she announced in the middle of his night cycle, right by his head.
He strongly considered rolling over and putting in earplugs, but decided that she'd probably escalate until she got a response and he still hadn't worked out a way of suggesting that dropping a man on his head by fucking with your internal gravity wasn't appropriate behaviour in a horse.
"Why do I care?" he said instead, and ignored the rasp in his voice. If he was coming down with something, he was coming down with something, and if it was just interrupted in REM it'd be gone in ten minutes.
"I want you to go outside and seal something," she told him, and he kind of hated the lack of uncertainty in her voice.
Hated the way he was rolling over and dragging himself out of bed even more. His hands felt like someone'd dipped them in lead, and he felt every one of the scrapes he'd picked up less than six hours ago like someone had poured white acid across them.
"It's going to take me a half-hour to get ready to do this," he called towards the singer at the other end of the room as he tacked his blankets neatly into place again and cycled the filter that would air them out and keep them from getting stale.
"It will only itch more in the morning," she replied from that singer. "Get moving, human."
"Neighing at me won't make me move faster, nag," he told her as he knotted his hair back into a half-assed braid to keep it out of the way before he tucked it under a helmet lining.
She blew a burst of static through the singer and then clicked it off, pretending to ignore him.
She could pretend all she liked, he could see the active current in the other singer through the patch.
It did take him nearly the half hour to finish getting prepped for the black, because he was tired and sore and his fingers were clumsier than they'd be in a flood of adrenaline. Which he knew from experience, thank you, and that was why he habitually wore a fair bit of gear prepped to take cold if not actually designed for it.
"Alright, nag," he said after he'd clicked the helmet's pickups on. "Where am I heading?"
"The center of my belly, back of the third intake," she replied in his ear and opened the outer airlock for him.
He bit off the reflexive mutter at that, then swung himself and the repair and diagnostics kit out the airlock, letting the magnets in his boots catch at her outer skin.
She rolled underneath him, putting her belly a small upcurve walk instead of a downcurve, and he obliged the courtesy by touching down as few times as he could. She'd said the magnets felt 'odd', at least twice, and he hadn't been willing to ask what she meant by it at the time.
When he got to the itchy spot, he didn't have to do more than flick the light in the kit on to identify the problem.
"You've got a feather growing in here," he said aloud, and heard a tiny buzz of staticky surprise from her end before she managed a "Well, that would explain why it itched."
"Torch, chisel, or paint, nag?" he inquired, letting his irritation show when she didn't say anything else for a good five minutes.
" . . Paint," she decided. "Torch when we're in an atmosphere."
"Fine," he said, and went for the kit's basic grey sealant paint.