Logs:A Different Kind of Morning After
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 14 July, 2014 |
| Who: G'laer, Oliwer |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: G'laer and Oliwer deal with the immediate consequences after G'laer blows off his ragequit steam. |
| Where: Bookworm's Paradise Weyr (G'laer & Oliwer's), High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 5, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Waaay back-dated. |
  |
| He didn't come home that night. G'laer had told Oliwer when he left that storage closet that he would see him at home later. Only, when later came, he wasn't there. It grew late. Late, late, late. And if Oliwer fell asleep? Well, then the brown sent with the message that's hopefully a 'better late than never' curls up at the healer's feet to wait to make his delivery. (Which, by morning he will have forgotten about; well trained can't force that kind of attention span.) The note is on his collar, "Bad brawl. Am fine. Staying the night. Back in the morning. I love you." Unsigned, but then, he only signed when he had to. And come morning, Teisyth settled on the ledge, though some hours after their usual pre-dawn wake-up time. It surely will help matters that when G'laer enters, in clean clothes and looking freshly washed, that he's limping, right? Favoring his left leg in a way that doesn't ring true with the word 'fine.' Judging by the way Oliwer looks now, circles under his eyes and weary, the healer hasn't slept at all. Or, at most, he's dozed restlessly in his chair while waiting for the greenrider to come home. The note from the brown is on the table by his chair, next to an empty mug. And now that G'laer is home? Oliwer clearly doesn't seem sure whether to be relieved, more worried, or just angry. He starts with relieved, rising and coming to his weyrmate with all intention of embracing him. But he stops short and switches to the more worried. "Oh, Gal. What happened to you?" The extensive bruising on G'laer's face which becomes clearer when he lifts his head to meet Oliwer's gaze tells a story all its own. "Bad brawl." He grunts. Hadn't the note said? "I'll be fine." Which isn't quite the same as 'am fine.' "Sorry to worry you." He preempts the rest. It wouldn't have been safe to between." But he was fine, alright? He stops in front of his weyrmate, rather than brush past him. 'Bad brawl' is not terribly specific, G'laer! Oliwer doesn't have to say that for the sentiment to be perfectly clear on his face . "Why are you off getting into brawls? You could have gotten seriously hurt," he says, concerned, as he gives his weyrmate a precursory once over that ends with his bright eyes studying all the bruises of the greenrider's face, looking himself as though it hurts to give them that much attention. "Because I was angry. I needed to hit someone." His tone lacks emotion so maybe the 'brawl' helped. They say the best lies are founded in truth. G'laer shifts, meaning to lean it to kiss Oliwer on the cheek, probably not daring to go for the lips because he knows he's in some variety of marital trouble. He doesn't move away from the offered kiss, but neither does he turn his head or otherwise move to return the affection. "Should I be proud that you apparently found someone that could give you a fair fight?" The answer is no, in case G'laer is likely to have trouble with that one. "Or did you find several someones to pick a fight with?" "No. You should be angry and disapproving and just a little relieved it's not worse than it is, all of which you're doing wonderfully with, love." G'laer sounded resigned for the first and sincere of all things for the second. "I need salve for my face," he says before moving around the healer and toward the aisle of bookshelves that houses his herbalist paraphernalia. Resigned and sincere or not, Oliwer is frowning at G'laer as he moves past to go through his herb stuff. "I'd offer you something stronger. But I'm not sure you deserve it." Yeah. A little bit angry. But not enough to be so mean as to not offer, "Should I put on some water for tea?" And then, "What did you do to your leg?" In other words, does he need to look at it? "Look," G'laer's voice comes from behind the shelves and there's residual anger sparking in it. "I didn't abandon the Weyr and I didn't abandon you. That's all I had to give yesterday. The rest..." He might shrug, but it can't be seen. "Water." He agrees some moments later, tone calmed a bit. "And I'm paying for it now." He adds to the former. "It's stitched. It will heal," is the grim answer about his leg. Fortunately G'laer can't see the anger is Oliwer's eyes for the few moments that the healer is looking in the direction of the greenrider's voice. He doesn't comment, though, just turns to put the kettle of water over the hearth and then settles into his chair while G'laer deals with how he's paying for his actions. When G'laer returns, he puts the small jars of salve and packets of tea on the tabletop and then limps to fetch his shaving mirror from its home near the wash basin. After laying the mirror with the other items, he reaches to pull of his shirt and-- yes, there's yet worse to be seen. Although it can't yet be seen because his chest is wrapped with clean bandages. To a trauma healer, it can mean only one thing: cracked ribs. 'Bad brawl' even if there had been a brawl wouldn't begin to cover it really. The greenrider can be sure that Oliwer is taking in every little detail, too. He doesn't even look away if G'laer looks in his direction. But neither does he comment further on his weyrmate's injuries. What he does comment on is, "Is Teisyth okay?" "She was uninvolved." G'laer is methodical in the application of the salve. It's a task that almost certainly would be easier if Oliwer did it for him, but G'laer made this bed and will now lie in it. Stubbornly. The mirror helps, but he almost certainly still misses places. He doesn't bother to unwrap the ribs, though he slips fingertips coated in salve beneath the edges. He brews the tea in the cup Oliwer pours for him, with a quiet, "Thank you." And then the inevitable. He strips off his pants to check his thigh wound. The stitches are not pretty but they're holding the flesh of the ragged inch long cut together toward his outer thigh a hand above his knee. He got lucky. "Good." Oliwer settles back into his chair, holding onto his mug as it brews. His brows furrow deep as he watches the pants come off and sees the most obvious injury they reveal. "Did you tend to that yourself?" he can't keep himself from asking. But he, too, is being kind of stubborn, possibly against his true desires, about offering the greenrider help. "No." Although he doesn't say who did. "Couldn't curl forward without too much pain to have a steady hand." G'laer looks at it a long moment. Finally, he lifts his head and looks to his weyrmate. "Will you look at it for me?" Then, "Please." Probably neither of them want him to die from infection. Oliwer sets his tea aside as he rises without actually commenting on whether or not he'll look. He just will. He's a healer. G'laer is hurt. That's that. So he looks, probably prodding a little more than is strictly comfortable. And he doesn't look particularly happy about what he sees. "You're lucky," he says as he moves his fingers toward a more vulnerable point on the greenrider's thigh, "that it didn't go in here. Or we wouldn't be talking right now. And Teisyth would be gone." Despite the serious nature of his words, Oliwer leans in just enough to try brushing his lips against G'laer's. Then, once he draws back, "Was it at least cleaned properly?" Or at all? G'laer nods to Oliwer's talk of luck. "I was. Glass." He notes before accepting and returning the kiss. "It was stupid," he admits. "It was cleaned but the supplies were old." How long does redwort keep its potency anyway? "At least it's a cut." And not some nasty puncture that's even more likely to get infected. Oliwer studies it for another moment before he's moving to get his bag of supplies that are definitely fresh and probably used way more often than he'd care to give too much thought. When he comes back, he kneels down in front of the greenrider and goes about cleaning the surface of the wound as thoroughly as can be managed. Well, a deep cut, as it proves to be. The greenrider stays as silent as he can, but it does involve the piece of wood with many old bite marks to make it so, and even then there are escaped sounds as Oliwer cleans, despite his gentility. When the healer has finished, G'laer sets the wood down, and clears his throat, his voice still a little ragged and his facial muscles tight with unexpressed pain, "Would you please hand me the bottle of vodka?" It must hurt. Oliwer will, of course, hand over the vodka to G'laer. He doesn't bother putting his bag away in its usual spot, though, because it might be needed again sooner than he'd like. "You should get some rest. It's good for healing." Rather than going out and doing his usual duties like nothing's wrong. G'laer grunts. It's not the sort of sound that really gives a solid indication of whether that means he'll follow his healer's advice or ignore it. But maybe judging from the three shots worth of vodka he swallows down with barely a grimace speaks to his ability to follow just what the healer is telling him. He doesn't make move to shift away from his seat at the table. Well... sitting still is a kind of resting, isn't it? "Right," says Oliwer after studying G'laer for another few moments. He moves back to his chair, settling into it and reaching for both his cooling tea and the book he's been reading for the last few nights. Apparently he'll just pretend this one is the same as all the others. It's some time later (and a couple more shots later) that G'laer looks at Oliwer. And yet more time later before he asks bluntly, "Will you forgive me?" Oliwer doesn't look up from his book when that question is asked. His only response is a question of his own. "For what?" "Everything." The healer is quiet for a time. Long enough that G'laer might wonder if he'll respond at all. But Oliwer does, finally close his book and set it aside, even if he doesn't look over at the greenrider. "It does seem to be a weakness of mine. Forgiving you." Which probably means that he will, always, even if he knows he shouldn't sometimes. Other times, G'laer might quip something about how lucky he is, but not today, further evidence of just how different things are this time. He simply grunts his acknowledgement of the words and then shifts to push himself up out of the chair so he can relocate to the bed. The question, it seems, wasn't one of immediate expectation. That Oliwer will forgive him, in time, is enough to allow him to sleep-- well, like the dead for the next twelve or so hours. Oliwer might have to check for breathing. But it's there, steady and deep. As always. |
Leave A Comment