Wild Roses fic prompt 075 "Shade"
Title: sun's light
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael
Prompt: 075 "Shade"
Word Count: 549
Rating: PG
Notes: follows directly from here. Or here, depending on where you're coming from. :)
He found his discarded shirt when he stepped out of the shower. It wicked up a fair amount of water before he realised what the crumpled mass of fabric under his foot was, and he contemplated it for a moment, dripping and beginning to shiver in the cooler air, his head pounding in time with his pulse, then gave up. Stripped off the remains of his soaking clothing, half-heartedly wrung them out over the drain and then flung everything--pants, shirt, underwear and the sock he could find without effort--over the rod that held up the water shield to dry.
Wrapped in the thin blanket he'd meant to use for a towel, itself damp from long hours next to a running shower, he made his way to the kitchen. The sun shining off the glass of the kitchen windows made him hiss in pain as he crossed the room, then stuck his head in the icebox until his ears went numb. It was, if nothing else, dark and cold in there.
After he completely lost response from his ears and it felt like his hair was trying to freeze to his scalp, he broke off a fair sized piece of the thick ice lining the box, stuck it in the bag the dragon-faced woman had used for the root vegetables, and held it against his head, fabric bunched up so he didn't freeze his fingers. His wet hair actually crackled slightly when he set the bag against it, which would have been slightly amusing if he'd been in a better mood.
The callouses on his hands and feet had actually gone soft from the water, he noticed when he sat down at the chair facing away from the window and took mental stock, as much as he could around the headache.
It was morning, according to the sun outside the windows--he reached automatically for curses and came up distressingly blank--and while he might have misplaced a day in the middle, he didn't really think he had. His skin looked like one giant dried fruit, skin wrinkled and puckered from the water, not bloated, and he hadn't fouled his clothing.
The sun chose that moment to glance off the window and reflect off a metal cabinet pull, bright enough to feel like a stick in his eye, and he cursed, jerking a hand up to block the reflection and dislodging the ice from his head.
" . . . Fuck this," he muttered as he rose, left the icepack on the table and stalked over towards the window, blanket trailing from one hand.
There was a drape-rod over the windows, curling elegant branch to match the bars on the outside of the glass. It was also far enough out from the wall it was bolted to that he could fling the blanket over the rod, yank down on the short end to keep it there, and instantly darken the room to toffee and chocolate instead of white and gold. The blanket was streaked with the water it'd picked up from his skin, abstract darker patterns on the fabric, but he didn't care.
He half-dressed while he was up, pulling on the new pants and the socks, rolling up the slightly too long cuffs of the pants so he didn't stumble, and came back to the kitchen so he could put his head back down on the puddle of melting ice, hands pressing on the back of his head like the pressure might help keep his brains inside.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael
Prompt: 075 "Shade"
Word Count: 549
Rating: PG
Notes: follows directly from here. Or here, depending on where you're coming from. :)
He found his discarded shirt when he stepped out of the shower. It wicked up a fair amount of water before he realised what the crumpled mass of fabric under his foot was, and he contemplated it for a moment, dripping and beginning to shiver in the cooler air, his head pounding in time with his pulse, then gave up. Stripped off the remains of his soaking clothing, half-heartedly wrung them out over the drain and then flung everything--pants, shirt, underwear and the sock he could find without effort--over the rod that held up the water shield to dry.
Wrapped in the thin blanket he'd meant to use for a towel, itself damp from long hours next to a running shower, he made his way to the kitchen. The sun shining off the glass of the kitchen windows made him hiss in pain as he crossed the room, then stuck his head in the icebox until his ears went numb. It was, if nothing else, dark and cold in there.
After he completely lost response from his ears and it felt like his hair was trying to freeze to his scalp, he broke off a fair sized piece of the thick ice lining the box, stuck it in the bag the dragon-faced woman had used for the root vegetables, and held it against his head, fabric bunched up so he didn't freeze his fingers. His wet hair actually crackled slightly when he set the bag against it, which would have been slightly amusing if he'd been in a better mood.
The callouses on his hands and feet had actually gone soft from the water, he noticed when he sat down at the chair facing away from the window and took mental stock, as much as he could around the headache.
It was morning, according to the sun outside the windows--he reached automatically for curses and came up distressingly blank--and while he might have misplaced a day in the middle, he didn't really think he had. His skin looked like one giant dried fruit, skin wrinkled and puckered from the water, not bloated, and he hadn't fouled his clothing.
The sun chose that moment to glance off the window and reflect off a metal cabinet pull, bright enough to feel like a stick in his eye, and he cursed, jerking a hand up to block the reflection and dislodging the ice from his head.
" . . . Fuck this," he muttered as he rose, left the icepack on the table and stalked over towards the window, blanket trailing from one hand.
There was a drape-rod over the windows, curling elegant branch to match the bars on the outside of the glass. It was also far enough out from the wall it was bolted to that he could fling the blanket over the rod, yank down on the short end to keep it there, and instantly darken the room to toffee and chocolate instead of white and gold. The blanket was streaked with the water it'd picked up from his skin, abstract darker patterns on the fabric, but he didn't care.
He half-dressed while he was up, pulling on the new pants and the socks, rolling up the slightly too long cuffs of the pants so he didn't stumble, and came back to the kitchen so he could put his head back down on the puddle of melting ice, hands pressing on the back of his head like the pressure might help keep his brains inside.