interpolation | patch you up

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patch you up

Patch You Upshipping meme

Let's hope you're not squeamish. Even if you are, you're going to have to power through it, because your crush, significant other, lover, or fellow practitioner in romantic tension has been battered and bruised. The degree of severity, from a minor scrape to a life-threatening injury, can vary, as can the reason - they may even be hurt because of you. If that's the case, you have all the more reason to tend to their wounds with your own two hands.

No one can take care of them like you can.

Bust out the bandages, even if they don't want you to worry over them or can't believe that anyone would. Though it's not your intention, if you're genre savvy, you may know that your best Florence Nightingale may be the final push if you're not together-together.

That's assuming if you both don't pass out from botched first aide before any of that happens. Don't forget that a kiss to make it better is critical!

Comment with your character, preferences, and the role you'd like to play - the injured or the attending. Also, would you like a pre-established relationship? One just on the cusp of becoming realized? Etc?
Reply to others.
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[ He'll believe that, after seeing her in action robbing him and stealing one of those balls from right under his nose. Toreth grunts noncommittally, quiet as he -- surprisingly gently -- takes her wrist in his hand, thumb rubbing over her skin to check the injury and where it might be swelling. It'll be a lot easier if the bones are all in alignment and it's a clean break -- he isn't too confident in his ability to realign it without it being an incredibly painful process, and even then, he'd only be willing to go for a closed reduction. ]

Christ, I'll never understand you types. It's fucking nice being on the right side of the law, you know? Less of this. [ It's said fairly conversationally. ]

Different laws around here.

[The swelling might suggest otherwise, but she doesn't actively recoil any until he finds the break -- maybe she forced it back in place herself? Its hard to tell.

The reply he gives her means she doesn't have much in return for him. She isn't a thief because she ever wanted to be, it was just the only option she ever had. 29 years of stealing to eat and survive doesn't train out easy.

But the way her lip curls in reply and the way he avoids his eyes in favor of watching him fiddle with her wrist indicates that she doesn't want to talk about it.]

[ It doesn't take being an interrogator to pick up on her reluctance to talk about it. He decides not to press, trying to find something else to talk about that she might be more receptive to. Something to distract from the pain as his fingers gently press and locate the break. Clean. Clean as you can get a break, or at least his manipulations don't find anything more out of the ordinary.

One hand still holding her wrist, he shoves around the contents of the first aid kit, searching for a splint, or something as close to one as he would recognise. First aid is apparently lagging way behind here, because he doesn't find it straight away. ]

The hell were the laws like where you're from? They seem just about non-existent to me.

[The whiskey had disappeared faster than she thought it would, leaving her focused on not flinching while he tries to continue conversation. The sigh of pain comes out of her nostrils, forced but an easy sign that she really detests broken bone pain.]

You're right. They are.

[Laws, no. Rules? You learned those as you went.]

[ Mm. That explains... well, a lot about Fiona. ]

So that's why you've got no sense of privacy, is it? [ Referring to her digging around his fucking room. He pauses, locating something that he's pretty sure is a splint, and then he starts speaking again as he brings it to her wrist, holding the two together as he reaches for the bandage with his other hand. ] And it explains why you were so touchy about the ball and being called a lady. This must be some sort of lap of luxury for you in comparison, though. No?

I don't know if I'd call it a lack of respect for privacy.

[Girl's gotta eat. Bills to pay, mouths to feed. She's only a little offended by that assumption, not nearly enough to say anything else about it.

The splint doesn't really feel good -- she imagines it might be better once everything is steady, but she knows better than to bet on that.]

I don't exactly call sex slavery luxury, but everything else--I guess its close.

Edited 2015-06-27 08:30 (UTC)

Having a maid's not too bad.

[ It's a grudging concession, because of course they'd all rather be anywhere but here. Which is sort of scary for Toreth to admit, because hell, he likes sex, and he wouldn't have a problem with living the high life in return for fucking people if it weren't for the irritating power being exerted upon all of them.

Since Fiona's brought up the topic of sex slavery, he decides to ask as he begins wrapping the bandage firmly around her wrist, fixing the splint in place. ]

Are you doing a lot of that? Fucking for them. Fighting for them's one thing, but fucking? That's the golden ticket, isn't it? [ Really, he's just curious as to the who, and also what her standards are. ]

Meh.

[If it hasn't already been obvious, Fiona didn't like having things done for her. There was always the lingering thought in regards to how the makes were getting paid, but she doesn't opt to bring that up. Maybe they weren't getting paid at all.

She doubts it though.

By some miracle, she manages not to attempt to jerk her wrist from him when he opts to move to the topic she's wanted to avoid. Her teeth grind a little uncomfortably, and her eyes shift down to the bandages he's wrapping.]

Golden ticket, yeah.

[It wasn't really a secret that she was doing the bare minimum in that department. Maybe that was why the jobs were getting tougher.]

[ Of course, she offers a complete non-answer to his question. He smiles slightly, undeterred. If he's going to do something nice for someone, he's going to get his enjoyment out of it, whether it be by watching that person squirm or enjoying a favour owed.

He's taking his time with the bandages. Being careful with them, for one thing, wrapping them snugly, but maybe he's also drawing out the moment. ]

You didn't answer the question.

Not my style.

[Her sister was the flirt, not her.

There's no aggression in her voice -- she's unfortunately stuck at this point until he finishes wrapping her wrist whether she wants him to or not. There is a noticeable attempt to pull her fingers in and she flinches very lightly for it.]

Anyway, what does it matter to you what I do?

[ His grip is fairly firm, so even if she does try to yank away in earnest -- not advisable -- she wouldn't get very far. ]

Just curiosity. [ A pause, and then: ] I think we also came to the conclusion that you found me attractive. Despite the 'ugly personality'.

[Fiona gives him a long look, which does a less than excellent job of arguing the point. Yes, he's good looking -- he's already gotten her to admit that once, she's not going to do it twice.

And yes, he's also a pain in the ass -- but so is everyone she associates with, so it doesn't really refute the point he hasn't explicitly stated.]

I'm not really looking for a golden ticket.

[Its a partial lie, but the topic is uncomfortable enough that her pokerface isn't as straight as it could be. She avoids looking up and instead focuses on his fingers, like she's waiting for him to finish.]

[ He doesn't hesitate in calling her out, but his tone isn't accusatory, either. He states the word as if it's a simple fact: ]

Lie.

[ He keeps his eyes trained on hers for as long as she bothers to look at him, and then continues watching her when she looks away, fingers working slowly. ]

You're after some kind of golden ticket, taking a beating for the witches like you did. Besides. They've made everyone want it, at some point or another.

You are not my golden ticket.

[There's a little voice in the back of her head arguing with her. He's one of Evelyn's. He very well could be her golden ticket, just as much as Rhys could maybe even more than Rhys if he was on Evelyn's good side. The difference there being that she knew Rhys and at least trusted him enough not to take advantage of the situation, and to protect her assets at the end of the day.

Most of the time. She never really trusted anyone fully outside of Sasha (not after Felix had betrayed them), but it was more than she could say for most.

Worst of all is that she still can't deny the point about the witches. They all want the golden ticket at the end of the day.]

Whether I am or aren't is entirely up to you.

[ He talks about it like it's just straight business, as if there's no pleasure to be mixed in. There is pleasure, of course, but that's not the angle that'll work on her. She's too practical for that.

Really, he just wants her because she's a tough one to crack, and that's always appealed to him. He genuinely likes her on some level, though, or at least respects her. Smart head on her shoulders. She reminds him of one of his team. ]

I do a lot of dirty work for her, you know.

[Fiona tries again to pull her wrist back out of reflex. She knows what he's trying to do, and she really wishes he wasn't so good at it. Resisting temptation has never been a strong point of her's even if she had a level head on her shoulders most of the time.

But pulling makes her want to vomit with pain, so she finally allows silver eyes to flick upward in order to continue giving him the most impressive glance of indifference the world has ever seen.]

And I'm sure you're proud to wear that badge.

[ Easily, as he shrugs slightly: ]

What can I say? I take pride in everything I do. My job, my body. Fucking people. What's the point in doing something if you don't do it right?

[ His blue eyes meet hers, and he's smiling wolfishly. He watches her for a few seconds, hands completely still during that time... and then he looks back down at the bandages, reaching for a bandage clip to secure his handiwork. He keeps the hold on her wrist, even though he's done. ]

Relax. How's it feel?

You'll never convince me that you're proud of everything you've done in life. That's not how humans work.

[She doesn't take her eyes off of him when he looks away, though its not an entirely conscious fixation. As Fiona often does, she's rotating through outcomes in the back of her mind -- though the wrist is the worst of the damage, she's pretty beat up in general. Even if she wanted to start a fight (she kind of does), she'd lose in a matter of seconds and her dignity isn't worth just a few seconds of amusement.

The question distracts her and pulls her eyes back down to her wrist. She tries to rotate it, but the bandages keep her from moving it much -- thankfully. Her eyelids draw just a bit because whether she wants to admit it or not, he helped her and managed to do a good job in the process.]

Better.

[There's just a second of silence before she decides to extend the olive branch herself for once.]

Thanks.

[ Proud of everything he's ever done in his life? Maybe not, but he's certainly not been regretful about anything. They gave him a commendation for one of the worst things he's ever done, after all, and he certainly didn't feel any remorse or regret over that. A strange sort of pride, really. But he's not going to get into an argument over any of it. He's already aware that a lot of people balk at the idea that he could be proud of something so despicable, and having to justify it to people is one of the last things he'd want to waste time doing. Working for I&I isn't something to be proud of, either, but he is.

Better to focus on her rare display of gratitude. He shrugs the apology off, lets go of her wrist and retrieves her empty glass and his, nodding in the direction of the ensuite. ]

You look a fucking mess. There's towels in the bathroom. Get yourself cleaned up. If you can't do it, bring a wet towel here and I'll do it for you.

[ He's putting the decision in her hands, moving off to pour the both of them another drink. ]

[Fiona glares very slightly in his direction. You don't just tell a woman they look like a fucking mess, even if its true. But he's right, and she can see it even when she's actively avoiding looking at herself in a mirror.

So after just a moment of stubborn hesitation, she stands without argument and disappears into the bathroom. She won't be taking his offer of help, as expected. He doesn't need to fuss over her any more.

That said, she doesn't emerge quickly and the water is left running for too long. But what does he care? They're not paying the water bill. In actuality, she's sat on the edge of the bath slowly scrubbing crusted blood away from her arms, side, and face. One wet towel is left to rest at her bruised hip that she had obviously fallen on.

Warm, clean water is one thing Fiona will never complain about when it comes to the work they're made to do. She does, however, wish she had taken the drink before she had peeled her clothes out of her various wounds.]

[ When he's done pouring the drinks and setting them down on the vanity by the first aid kit, he makes his way over to his dresser, pulling out a lesser-worn shirt. Due to the height difference between them, nothing more than a shirt's really required to cover everything -- offering her a pair of his pants would be pure mockery.

And so he opens the bathroom door just a fraction to slide the shirt in where she can get to it, leaving her to her privacy -- see? He has a sense of fucking privacy -- before he returns to the vanity. He leans a hip against it, sipping idly at his drink as he waits for her. He'll give her five minutes, he decides, before he checks up on her if she isn't out by then. It's really not his fucking responsibility if she drowns in the bathtub or something, but that's not likely to go down well with the witches.

Christ, he was fucking sleepy, but. Had been sleepy before, even if he hadn't been able to get to sleep. He was exhausted. ]

[The one favor that Eros has done for her is made her a little more expectant to privacy invasions. It's why she doesn't immediately balk when she hears the door open, aside from a small and curious glance. She manages the barest smirk at the gesture, but she doesn't reappear quite in the restraint of five minutes.

She'll meet him as he reaches for the door, clad in shirt with her hair sticking messily to her head under the ratty hat she's far too attached to. The make up on her face has been washed off, which really only leaves the bruises that much more visible.

But their collision at the door only pulls an amused scoff from her, and Fiona holds her hand out expectantly for her drink.]

How sweet.

[ Sweet. That would've pulled a look of disdain from him if it had been under different circumstances, but seeing as it's Fiona he simply stares impassively before stepping back to let her out, seemingly unfazed by their little collision. He pretends she didn't even say the word. ]

Drink's by the first aid kit.

[ Toreth eyes the shirt on her for a few seconds. It's practically like a dress, but that's what happens when you're about 6'4" -- your clothes become fucking pyjamas on people. ]

You don't look that bad. [ He's referring to her injuries. Now that all the excess blood -- not her blood -- has been cleaned away, she looks a lot better off, even if the bruises have become more pronounced. ]

I told you it wasn't bad.

[She carries even the ugliest of the bruises like they aren't even there, focused instead on heading straight for the drink. The length of the shirt, that bothers her just a bit. It's not flattering, and Fiona happens to pride herself on her mismatched fashion statements.

Hence the hat.

She had been hoping to get a rise out of him with the comment, but she isn't overly disappointed that he manages to resist any glares in her direction. the drink is scooped up and she even manages to offer him a pleased grin when she tips it to her lips.]

Not a fan of bloodsport, huh? Seems to be a common ailment.

Edited (icon fail) 2015-07-01 06:38 (UTC)

Oh, believe me. I'm a fan of bloodsport. In the right context.

[ He's no stranger to rough sex, after all, and Christ, he's had an encounter with a fucking vampire here who thought it'd be a good time to drain him of a little blood.

Getting the shit kicked out of, though? No, he can't say he likes the aesthetic of that too much. Too messy. He might enjoy it for a flicker of a second under very specific circumstances, but then everything would be wrong because there was no going back from something like that, no--

He takes a sip from his own glass, still holding it in his hands as he turns with her, keeping an eye. ]

Guess you must like it rough.

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