Heero removed the washcloth and started to step backwards, out of the healer’s way, when Quatre’s voice stopped him. “Keep doing that, Heero.” After a moment of hesitation, Heero rinsed the cloth out and returned to the task of cleaning the patient’s body. “Gods! He’s covered in open wounds, and he’s absolutely filthy! I don’t understand how he’s still alive, the condition he’s in...”
“Can you help him?” Heero demanded, cutting across Quatre’s running monologue. The water in the bowl was by now completely black, and Trowa wordlessly took it away and refilled it.
Quatre scowled, the expression out of place on his sweet-featured face. “I’ll do what I can, Heero, but I’m not a miracle-worker, and frankly it’s a miracle he’s not already dead. What in Hell happened to him?”
Heero and Trowa exchanged glances; Hell was a fair enough description, but there was no real need to tell the gentle blond healer that. Instead, Heero changed the subject. “Do what you can, but it would be best if you do it as quickly as possible. He’s going to be very difficult to control once he wakes up, and I don’t know how much longer he’ll stay unconscious.”
“Difficult to control?” Quatre repeated, a puzzled frown on his face. “Anything I do will be painful, I’m afraid, but I only want to help him.”
“I know that,” Heero replied, and hesitated. “But he’s... not in his right mind.” Unconsciously, Heero rubbed at the bite mark on his wrist. “Maybe you should give him something to keep him unconscious.”
Quatre shrugged, looking a little doubtful. “I could -- but not until he does wake up,” he qualified. He began to rummage around in the bag he’d brought, pulling things out and setting them on the table. “I can’t give knockouts to people who are already unconscious; they might not wake up again. Trowa, where did I put my...” he asked absently.
Trowa held out the satchel he’d taken from Quatre when he first arrived; Quatre flushed slightly and took it from him. “Thanks, Trowa. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Dither?” Trowa suggested, absolutely deadpan. Quatre’s blush intensified, and to hide it he turned back to his bag. He tore through it with ruthless speed, pulling out a small jar and a bowl; he emptied some of the contents of the jar into the bowl, and quickly filled the bowl up with water. Finished, he set it decisively down on the table, and glared at Trowa as if daring him to fault his efficiency.
The taller man gave him a slight smile, and then turned away and left Quatre to do his work. Trowa put one hand on Heero’s shoulder, and Heero reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled away, and settled down for an anxious wait. Trowa offered no conversation, and Heero was just as glad; instead, he kept all his attention fixed on the blond healer and his patient. He was more anxious than he could ever
Re: Spoil of War, prologue
Date: 2006-02-27 11:16 pm (UTC)Heero removed the washcloth and started to step backwards, out of the healer’s way, when Quatre’s voice stopped him. “Keep doing that, Heero.” After a moment of hesitation, Heero rinsed the cloth out and returned to the task of cleaning the patient’s body. “Gods! He’s covered in open wounds, and he’s absolutely filthy! I don’t understand how he’s still alive, the condition he’s in...”
“Can you help him?” Heero demanded, cutting across Quatre’s running monologue. The water in the bowl was by now completely black, and Trowa wordlessly took it away and refilled it.
Quatre scowled, the expression out of place on his sweet-featured face. “I’ll do what I can, Heero, but I’m not a miracle-worker, and frankly it’s a miracle he’s not already dead. What in Hell happened to him?”
Heero and Trowa exchanged glances; Hell was a fair enough description, but there was no real need to tell the gentle blond healer that. Instead, Heero changed the subject. “Do what you can, but it would be best if you do it as quickly as possible. He’s going to be very difficult to control once he wakes up, and I don’t know how much longer he’ll stay unconscious.”
“Difficult to control?” Quatre repeated, a puzzled frown on his face. “Anything I do will be painful, I’m afraid, but I only want to help him.”
“I know that,” Heero replied, and hesitated. “But he’s... not in his right mind.” Unconsciously, Heero rubbed at the bite mark on his wrist. “Maybe you should give him something to keep him unconscious.”
Quatre shrugged, looking a little doubtful. “I could -- but not until he does wake up,” he qualified. He began to rummage around in the bag he’d brought, pulling things out and setting them on the table. “I can’t give knockouts to people who are already unconscious; they might not wake up again. Trowa, where did I put my...” he asked absently.
Trowa held out the satchel he’d taken from Quatre when he first arrived; Quatre flushed slightly and took it from him. “Thanks, Trowa. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Dither?” Trowa suggested, absolutely deadpan. Quatre’s blush intensified, and to hide it he turned back to his bag. He tore through it with ruthless speed, pulling out a small jar and a bowl; he emptied some of the contents of the jar into the bowl, and quickly filled the bowl up with water. Finished, he set it decisively down on the table, and glared at Trowa as if daring him to fault his efficiency.
The taller man gave him a slight smile, and then turned away and left Quatre to do his work. Trowa put one hand on Heero’s shoulder, and Heero reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled away, and settled down for an anxious wait. Trowa offered no conversation, and Heero was just as glad; instead, he kept all his attention fixed on the blond healer and his patient. He was more anxious than he could ever