Normally, it's the other way 'round. It happens as such: he's hunched over the fire while Evelyn mops up a fresh wound with the remains of yet another shirt, needling at him both verbally and physically, reknitting flesh and trading terse words for his recklessness. This irony here is that she too often leaps before looking, but certainly not because she has a death wish.
Just over the ridge, they spoke beforehand, raider camp. In and out, no firefighting, it'll only attract more attention. Miscounting the number of people abed had done them in when someone who should have been unconscious turned on their bedroll and grabbed her ankle as she stepped around sleeping figures in spite of Will's reservations. She had pulled her boot knife then, seeing no sense in making excessive noise, to dispatch the interloper and gotten a blade in her calf for the trouble. Things went downhill from there.
It didn't matter now when they had what they came for, miles away. The blood that seeped from her leg was long-covered by sandy winds, no trail to stalk after, their niche in one of the outlying canyons warmed with body heat and a small hearth flame. Evelyn chews on the side of her thumb and watches him, all furrowed brow and set frown, picking detritus out of her cut with a thin skewer of metal. Each new touch elicits a sharp inhale, her jaw tightening as the gash is agitated.
He's angry with her.]
Are you going to give me the silent treatment all night?
[ Normally it's the other way around, and it's the way he prefers. He cares less about himself getting hurt than he does her getting hurt. They can both be equally reckless at times, but it's rarer for her to be the one landing the consequences like this and he absolutely hates it when she does. Sure, this time it isn't anything life-threatening, but who's to say about the next time? She's the last goddamn thing out here that he cares about and not something he wants to lose.
So yeah, he's angry.
Ever since they returned, he's been tersely silent, not trusting himself to speak. He'd known it had been a bad idea, even if they did need the supplies, and he doesn't trust that he won't go ranting off on how he'd been right, what they'd done was stupid, they could have both gotten themselves killed. He doesn't want to shout at her because he knows it's not really her fault. They'd both agreed, they both knew the dangers, no one could have known what happen, and ultimately, her injury isn't even that bad. All that would happen is that he'd end up irate with himself for verbally taking his fear-based anger out on her. Silence seems the safer option.
The sky is just beginning to lighten when Evelyn speaks, bringing Will to a pause in his actions. His lips purse and his gaze remains on the cut on her leg. There's no answer right away, though he does resume cleaning the sand and dirt from her wound, working steadily as ever through her pained inhale. ]
No.
[ Though it technically isn't night any longer, meaning that he has essentially done exactly that. ]
I don't know what you want me to say. You have to be more careful.
[Will could reexamine the logic behind his desire to keep her safe, in that it usually puts his own life on the line. Evelyn isn't helpless, and she isn't his express responsibility - conversely, the thought of losing him is equally horrifying. He's being hypocritical and what's more is that he knows it, would be an idiot not to recognise it in himself.
One of the last small pieces of grit is flicked out of the cut and onto the sand, little specks of red dotting the ground around them and as much a reminder of the incident as her cut trousers, which are rolled up to accommodate his first aid. Evelyn watches the tense line of his shoulders and how they shift when he speaks, finally breaking his silence as dawn does the same with a faint pink edge on the horizon.]
You don't think that sounds a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?
[She tips her head to one side to appraise Will's handiwork: a tidy cut, not too deep and now as clean as it may ever be. If it sat there festering she might be more concerned about sepsis, but he has a generally steady hand. Reaching out, Evelyn scuffs a knuckle against the edge of his forearm. His nails are stained red with her blood, tacky as it dries and sticking to the implement that dangles from his fingers.]
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uncalendula) wrote2016-07-08 02:12 pm
no subject
Normally, it's the other way 'round. It happens as such: he's hunched over the fire while Evelyn mops up a fresh wound with the remains of yet another shirt, needling at him both verbally and physically, reknitting flesh and trading terse words for his recklessness. This irony here is that she too often leaps before looking, but certainly not because she has a death wish.
Just over the ridge, they spoke beforehand, raider camp. In and out, no firefighting, it'll only attract more attention. Miscounting the number of people abed had done them in when someone who should have been unconscious turned on their bedroll and grabbed her ankle as she stepped around sleeping figures in spite of Will's reservations. She had pulled her boot knife then, seeing no sense in making excessive noise, to dispatch the interloper and gotten a blade in her calf for the trouble. Things went downhill from there.
It didn't matter now when they had what they came for, miles away. The blood that seeped from her leg was long-covered by sandy winds, no trail to stalk after, their niche in one of the outlying canyons warmed with body heat and a small hearth flame. Evelyn chews on the side of her thumb and watches him, all furrowed brow and set frown, picking detritus out of her cut with a thin skewer of metal. Each new touch elicits a sharp inhale, her jaw tightening as the gash is agitated.
He's angry with her.]
Are you going to give me the silent treatment all night?
no subject
So yeah, he's angry.
Ever since they returned, he's been tersely silent, not trusting himself to speak. He'd known it had been a bad idea, even if they did need the supplies, and he doesn't trust that he won't go ranting off on how he'd been right, what they'd done was stupid, they could have both gotten themselves killed. He doesn't want to shout at her because he knows it's not really her fault. They'd both agreed, they both knew the dangers, no one could have known what happen, and ultimately, her injury isn't even that bad. All that would happen is that he'd end up irate with himself for verbally taking his fear-based anger out on her. Silence seems the safer option.
The sky is just beginning to lighten when Evelyn speaks, bringing Will to a pause in his actions. His lips purse and his gaze remains on the cut on her leg. There's no answer right away, though he does resume cleaning the sand and dirt from her wound, working steadily as ever through her pained inhale. ]
No.
[ Though it technically isn't night any longer, meaning that he has essentially done exactly that. ]
I don't know what you want me to say. You have to be more careful.
no subject
One of the last small pieces of grit is flicked out of the cut and onto the sand, little specks of red dotting the ground around them and as much a reminder of the incident as her cut trousers, which are rolled up to accommodate his first aid. Evelyn watches the tense line of his shoulders and how they shift when he speaks, finally breaking his silence as dawn does the same with a faint pink edge on the horizon.]
You don't think that sounds a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?
[She tips her head to one side to appraise Will's handiwork: a tidy cut, not too deep and now as clean as it may ever be. If it sat there festering she might be more concerned about sepsis, but he has a generally steady hand. Reaching out, Evelyn scuffs a knuckle against the edge of his forearm. His nails are stained red with her blood, tacky as it dries and sticking to the implement that dangles from his fingers.]
You know the risks.