faderift | closed; i get eaten by the worms

WHO: Benedict, Colin, Leander
WHAT: grippe club for men
WHEN: now-ish
WHERE: Gallows Chapel, a side room reserved for early quarantine
NOTES: gross. (if you want a starter, ask.)

for benedict;

Perhaps Benedict slept through the arrival, or perhaps he witnessed it. He might even have tried to say hello, and found his neighbour unresponsive, either too ill to acknowledge him or unwilling to expend what little energy he had for the sake of being polite. Now, though...

Now, should Benedict turn to see the cot newly installed some feet away, he will find Leander's face likewise turned toward him, strangely flushed and bloodless, heavy-lidded eyes fixed in a bleary stare. Pale lips parted just slightly. Sweat-dampened curls dark on his forehead. Thin inside the loose sleeves of his linen, most of his body a few peaks and valleys beneath the infirmary blanket, and utterly listless.

One may forgive him for assuming the worst.

for colin, after benedict is removed;

—The other nurse, meanwhile, will be given no opportunity to think the worst as long as Leander is awake, for he keeps himself stoic, blandly arranged in repose and lacking expression, following the young man with only his eyes. In contrast, he looks boyish in sleep, lacking some indefinable tension beneath his skin, with only a slight crease between the eyebrows to belie his peaceful rest.

Or seeming rest. He has ample eyelashes to disguise a pair of watchful slits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His eyes follow Colin all the way, locked in focus despite sleepy lids. Feverish to the touch: yes. Pliant for any necessary movement: yes. Happy about being touched: absolutely not.

"Ill."

A smile as if nothing is wrong.

"Exactly as you should, with the grippe turning into a robust winter lung fever. But we'll nip that short in quick order if you keep rested and breathing in that steam. Let me know if there's anything that would make you more comfortable."

A slight shift in energy as he changes from healer to person.

"I have something for you." Without waiting, he stands and ventures toward the fabric-wrapped package he set aside earlier.

"I don't want anything."

Not at all true. He wants some very particular things, none of which are achievable in this location, in his present condition, nor with present company. It might sound like mere cantankerous opposition born of discomfort, were he not calm in his delivery, which he is, as usual.

Colin simply brings it over.

"A peace offering. I tried to get your old box from Yseult, but I had no luck. So I went shopping in Kirkwall. I know it's not the same, but Lexie said you like things with esoteric value some months ago. So I found this."

He passes him a jet-black cigarette box, bog oak inlaid with enamel and intricately carved.

"There was an old man who'd died and they were selling his things, and that's where I found this. You get this kind of wood in Ferelden, and it's hundreds of years old. I also have cigarettes to go in it, and you can have them after you've been discharged from here."

He looks straight at Leander. "I did not steal the old one from you. I only told Athessa about it to get her opinion on what you might trade for it. If you throw this across the room, or..." a smile "...into the ocean, that's your prerogative. But it would be rather a shame."

He follows the gift with his eyes, but makes no move to take it. Wherever Colin decides to set it down, if anywhere, is where it will sit. Listening patiently. No shift in expression, no answering smile or frown.

"Sell it," he answers, almost without delay. "A collector will pay more for this than you managed to scrape together. Sell it and pay the difference to the infirmary." Reedy, beginning to cough, "They could use it."

Colin nods and picks the box back up, setting it back where it was without question.

"As a healer working for that infirmary, thank you. And as a person..." His head bobs. "I'm sorry I spoke to you the way I did."

"That's fine."

That he's sorry. He ought to be. Whether he's genuinely remorseful or only moved to the feeling by having been subjected to Flint's authority, Leander isn't inclined to care; it's well to know he himself won't be subject to any more moral pantomiming while he's confined to bed.

"You said it's lung fever?"

If Leander is determined to remain a martyr, Colin decides, at least an attempt was made to bury the hatchet.

"It's trying to be," he says lightly, "but we're working very hard to nip it in the bud. Speaking of, I have a tea I would like you to drink."

He picks up a cup he prepared earlier and goes to the fire. Aside from the large kettle producing herb-infused steam, there's a small pot of hot water. He uses a dipper to transfer some water to the cup before bringing it over.

"Once it's cooled enough for you to drink," he says, "I'd like you to drink it all. It will help your body balance the level of phlegm."

In addition to numerous herbs, added via a small fabric bag that keeps the loose leaves from escaping into the water, there is honey.

If plain indifference makes Leander look a martyr, so be it; he is no more touched by the attempt to make amends than he is by this blanket's willingness to keep his legs warm. Colin's presence is not offensive, it is simply there. Like interactive furniture.

"Very well. Thank you." The cup, he does take, after sitting himself up without audible complaint, and simply holds it for its warmth. "How awful is it? I'd like not to be surprised."

"I'm afraid I can't predict the future," Colin says. "This might be the worst it gets, or it might yet get worse, depending on how you respond to treatment. Compassion does seem to ease the discomfort, if you'd permit me to cast on you."

"I meant the brew. If we had a fortune teller on hand to direct, this might be less of a slipshod company. Although we'd probably find a way regardless." Lifting the cup, inhaling the vapour, "And I do know how healing works."

Another polite smile. He is going to be kind and professional if it kills him.

"It's actually quite a pleasant tea, for most, but it may not be to your taste. Long pepper, ginger, lemon peel, elfroot, and honey. Would you like for me to cast on you?"

"No, thank you. Conserve your energy for someone else."

Not that he doesn't need it, probably, but he is more tolerant of discomfort than some are apt to be. No nurse will hear him complain for the sake of complaint.

Clearing his throat, "So we're clear, while I harbour no resentment, it's unlikely we will become friends. If it's in your nature to try, fine. But in this case you ought to save yourself the disappointment."

Colin gives him a Very Patient Look.

"I am not trying to be your friend," he says gently. "I am trying to get you well.
And you let me worry about my own energy."

This exchange is ripe for transformation into another argument; instead, just as patiently, ever so gently,

"I am asking you... to leave me alone."

"Of course." A bob of his head. "You get some rest. I'll be right over there."

And he goes to his chair and picks up his book about medicine and continues reading it.

closed; i get eaten by the worms

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