[Anthony] Morning
OOC Note: There are a series of vignettes coming up that may or may not be of interest to anyone but myself, all dealing with the aftermath and subsequent convalescence. Fortunately, they're all vignettes and therefore not very long.
Morning
I wake in stages, each one bringing with it fear and comfort in quick succession. One moment, I am falling and falling and falling and the next I realize that I am in my own bed that smells pleasantly of fabric softener. Other, sharper scents enter my mind; blood and antiseptic, and I feel a burn of pain across my chest and arm and hip, just as I also feel skin, warm and comforting against my back, and cool metal around my waist. I lean back against the skin, hear wind rattling the windows and words in high speech that falter when I shift. The metal doesn't move, but the skin does, curling protectively around me.
"Did you chant all night?" I ask, trying to shake my mind of its haze. I turn my head a little, feel the crick in my neck from sleeping with my head at an angle.
Anthony's eyes flick under his eyelids and he moves again, as if coming out of sleep. Eventually, his eyes, deeply green, edge open. "Hmm?"
Oh, Anthony. "I asked if you chanted all night. I think maybe you did."
He blinks and shakes his head to clear it, making a noncommittal noise. His body shifts, but his arm remains precisely where it has been, fingers lightly against the base of the stitching across my chest, and motionless. "I've got... no idea what you're talking about."
I shake my head at him, bury my face in my pillow. I'm too tired to argue. "Your arm is cold," I mumble instead, directly into my pillow. I'm a little surprised when he answers me.
"It... yeah. It's not easy to drain it and myself completely, but... turns out, it can happen." He shifts again.
Turning my head again, I look at him. He is exhausted, with a drawn face and tight lips, and it worries me. "Anthony..."
He makes an effort at focusing himself, blinking his eyes clear a few times then rolls them gently. "Don't give me that look, Joule. Neither of us is dead or dying, you're going to keep your arm, and you're not making pain sounds right now."
I'm about to snap, but take a moment to take stock. I hurt, but not as much as I rightly should. Even the solely internal paradox damage doesn't hurt as much as it could. And my body is in one piece, even if it is battered and bandaged and weakened. "I'd rather be in pain than have you empty," I say quietly, feeling his immobile arm around my waist and oddly cold.
He looks at me for a moment, his face entirely impassive but for his eyes, then he swallows and gives me a small smile. "My call, not yours."
I take a deep, experimental breath. Yesterday, I could barely breathe for the feeling of coming apart; this morning, I'm... better. Not good. It's going to be a long time before I'm good. I let the breath out with a sigh. "There's a small store of tass in the shop, bottom drawer of the bench furthest from the doors."
He hesitates, then nods. "Later. When I feel a little better about moving."
I lay my head down again, grateful for the pillow under it, even if my neck is still sore. "It should be good for a few more days..."
His laugh is short, exhausted, and the last thing I hear before I fall asleep again is, "Then I'll think about moving in a day or two."
Morning
I wake in stages, each one bringing with it fear and comfort in quick succession. One moment, I am falling and falling and falling and the next I realize that I am in my own bed that smells pleasantly of fabric softener. Other, sharper scents enter my mind; blood and antiseptic, and I feel a burn of pain across my chest and arm and hip, just as I also feel skin, warm and comforting against my back, and cool metal around my waist. I lean back against the skin, hear wind rattling the windows and words in high speech that falter when I shift. The metal doesn't move, but the skin does, curling protectively around me.
"Did you chant all night?" I ask, trying to shake my mind of its haze. I turn my head a little, feel the crick in my neck from sleeping with my head at an angle.
Anthony's eyes flick under his eyelids and he moves again, as if coming out of sleep. Eventually, his eyes, deeply green, edge open. "Hmm?"
Oh, Anthony. "I asked if you chanted all night. I think maybe you did."
He blinks and shakes his head to clear it, making a noncommittal noise. His body shifts, but his arm remains precisely where it has been, fingers lightly against the base of the stitching across my chest, and motionless. "I've got... no idea what you're talking about."
I shake my head at him, bury my face in my pillow. I'm too tired to argue. "Your arm is cold," I mumble instead, directly into my pillow. I'm a little surprised when he answers me.
"It... yeah. It's not easy to drain it and myself completely, but... turns out, it can happen." He shifts again.
Turning my head again, I look at him. He is exhausted, with a drawn face and tight lips, and it worries me. "Anthony..."
He makes an effort at focusing himself, blinking his eyes clear a few times then rolls them gently. "Don't give me that look, Joule. Neither of us is dead or dying, you're going to keep your arm, and you're not making pain sounds right now."
I'm about to snap, but take a moment to take stock. I hurt, but not as much as I rightly should. Even the solely internal paradox damage doesn't hurt as much as it could. And my body is in one piece, even if it is battered and bandaged and weakened. "I'd rather be in pain than have you empty," I say quietly, feeling his immobile arm around my waist and oddly cold.
He looks at me for a moment, his face entirely impassive but for his eyes, then he swallows and gives me a small smile. "My call, not yours."
I take a deep, experimental breath. Yesterday, I could barely breathe for the feeling of coming apart; this morning, I'm... better. Not good. It's going to be a long time before I'm good. I let the breath out with a sigh. "There's a small store of tass in the shop, bottom drawer of the bench furthest from the doors."
He hesitates, then nods. "Later. When I feel a little better about moving."
I lay my head down again, grateful for the pillow under it, even if my neck is still sore. "It should be good for a few more days..."
His laugh is short, exhausted, and the last thing I hear before I fall asleep again is, "Then I'll think about moving in a day or two."