Trowa’s eyes widened, as his gaze darted down to the boy’s unconscious form, before nodding slowly. He’d seen the phenomenon before; some people, when faced with unbearable pain, retreated inside themselves to seek any kind of refuge they could. “Where did you find him?” he asked, in a much softer voice.
Heero looked back down, rinsing the washcloth in the bowl before wringing it out and returning it to its task. He frowned as he felt how thin the arm under his hand was; he could have easily encircled the boy’s upper arm with his thumb and forefinger. “In the tent of the late Treize Khushrenada.” He heard the hiss of indrawn breath as Trowa recognized the name, and no doubt the reputation associated with it, but didn’t need to look up. “Since I was the one who killed the General, then all his possessions are mine by right.” He’d have to remember that line. It made a good excuse.
Trowa searched Heero’s expression, a question unvoiced on his lips, but before he could ask, the sound of someone rattling at the front flap of the tent stole his attention. “Trowa?” called an anxious, familiar voice from just outside. “Are you there? Is Heero there?” Trowa hastily dropped his washcloth into the darkening water and headed for the entrance as the voice was followed by a slender blond man, overbalancing against the weight of the bag he carried. Immediately Trowa reached out and relieved his lover of some of his burden with a reproachful glare, which the other man acknowledged with a harried nod as his attention was arrested by the two strangers in the center of the room. “He hasn’t been waiting long, has he?” he anxiously asked. “I came as quickly as I could. Who did he bring?”
“Hello, Quatre. Yes, he’s here, and no, not long,” Trowa responded to this string of babble. “Be warned; it’s pretty bad.”
“Well, I sort of figured,” Quatre said with a trace of humor as he headed to the table in the back, closely followed by Trowa. “Heero never comes to me with anything less than arrow shards embedded in his chest. But if -- Gods!” he gasped, as he got his first clear view of the unconscious man. Practiced eyes ran over the filthy, battered form, and widened as he took in the sheer extent of the injuries. His face paled, and Trowa quickly took a step closer to his lover as he swayed on his feet.
One of the things that made Quatre so good at his job was his pronounced talent for empathy;1 he could sense what was wrong with his patients even if they themselves didn’t know -- or, in Heero’s case, wouldn’t admit it. Unfortunately, feeling the pain of others wasn’t always a good thing, useful as it might be as a diagnostic tool. Quatre grabbed onto Trowa for support for a moment, before he managed to reassert a clinical detachment. Still, the look of horror lingered in his eyes as he moved to the side of the table and began to examine his new patient.
Re: Spoil of War, prologue
Date: 2006-02-27 11:15 pm (UTC)Trowa’s eyes widened, as his gaze darted down to the boy’s unconscious form, before nodding slowly. He’d seen the phenomenon before; some people, when faced with unbearable pain, retreated inside themselves to seek any kind of refuge they could. “Where did you find him?” he asked, in a much softer voice.
Heero looked back down, rinsing the washcloth in the bowl before wringing it out and returning it to its task. He frowned as he felt how thin the arm under his hand was; he could have easily encircled the boy’s upper arm with his thumb and forefinger. “In the tent of the late Treize Khushrenada.” He heard the hiss of indrawn breath as Trowa recognized the name, and no doubt the reputation associated with it, but didn’t need to look up. “Since I was the one who killed the General, then all his possessions are mine by right.” He’d have to remember that line. It made a good excuse.
Trowa searched Heero’s expression, a question unvoiced on his lips, but before he could ask, the sound of someone rattling at the front flap of the tent stole his attention. “Trowa?” called an anxious, familiar voice from just outside. “Are you there? Is Heero there?” Trowa hastily dropped his washcloth into the darkening water and headed for the entrance as the voice was followed by a slender blond man, overbalancing against the weight of the bag he carried. Immediately Trowa reached out and relieved his lover of some of his burden with a reproachful glare, which the other man acknowledged with a harried nod as his attention was arrested by the two strangers in the center of the room. “He hasn’t been waiting long, has he?” he anxiously asked. “I came as quickly as I could. Who did he bring?”
“Hello, Quatre. Yes, he’s here, and no, not long,” Trowa responded to this string of babble. “Be warned; it’s pretty bad.”
“Well, I sort of figured,” Quatre said with a trace of humor as he headed to the table in the back, closely followed by Trowa. “Heero never comes to me with anything less than arrow shards embedded in his chest. But if -- Gods!” he gasped, as he got his first clear view of the unconscious man. Practiced eyes ran over the filthy, battered form, and widened as he took in the sheer extent of the injuries. His face paled, and Trowa quickly took a step closer to his lover as he swayed on his feet.
One of the things that made Quatre so good at his job was his pronounced talent for empathy;1 he could sense what was wrong with his patients even if they themselves didn’t know -- or, in Heero’s case, wouldn’t admit it. Unfortunately, feeling the pain of others wasn’t always a good thing, useful as it might be as a diagnostic tool. Quatre grabbed onto Trowa for support for a moment, before he managed to reassert a clinical detachment. Still, the look of horror lingered in his eyes as he moved to the side of the table and began to examine his new patient.