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[ COMM: MCCOY, LEONARD. 1741. ] Hey BONES we’re going out tonight hope you didn’t fall asleep in the clinic or something
[ COMM: MCCOY, LEONARD. 1741. ] 👨⚕️😴💤
[ COMM: MCCOY, LEONARD. 1741. ] That’s you, Bones, right now. Wanna see what you'll be like in two hours?
@rethadim
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@rethadim
“No, I mean it --- for once I’m not being snarky or sarcastic.” She is smiling, but eyes are plaintive enough to indicate that she speaks truthfully ( for once ). No sense in lying to Morrigan about her son, after all. “He seems like a wonderful boy. You’ve clearly done well with him.”
continued from here.
He sat as he was gestured to, without complaint, though he offered Morrigan an arched brow as she continued. He hadn’t realized an offhand comment of his could inspire such deep thought in the witch. Interesting. He’d have to try more often so that he might enjoy whatever rise he could draw from her. What other poetics did she have within her?
Zevran hummed, lightly, considering the question. He would not answer her last; let her wonder, let her draw theories in the dirt if she so desires. That secret was his and his alone. “Enemies are rather universal, no? They try to kill you, you try to kill them in turn. Very simple.” He shrugged a shoulder, loose. “How do you know you were not worth killing? I certainly tried very hard. You wound me, my dear.” // @rethadim
@rethadim. call.
‘ I was hoping I’d run into you, ’ she says with the friendliest of all smiles. It’s also perhaps one of the tiredest, but Gróa’s been helping refugees all day. It’s only to be expected. ‘ Help me carry these-- ’ She gestures to a few baskets of supplies. ‘ --and we can chat while we walk? I can pay you back in, er, stew? ’
@rethadim liked the thing
“I know I should have an idea as to what are we dealing with here but... I am afraid I do not know. The prints, the scent and the nest do not match to just one creature. Do you think there is more than one? I’ve read that is a real possibility.”
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→ @rethadim // s.c. ( for fenris )
"Shit, shit shit shit---” small fingers manipulate long, fine tools, searching for the latch of a broken window. Heartbeats pass and the window creaks open, and Zina hauls herself through. She may be bleeding: she doesn’t know, can’t know. She slams the window shut behind her. “Shit shit shit shit.”
‘ did you throw the first punch? ’
HURT PROMPTS // @rethadim // accepting!
“Bones!” He’s shocked, hurt, offended. A hand splays against his chest, nerves twinging with the movement. Jim laughs; the most he can manage is a laughing huff, but it’s a laugh. He dodges one of Bones’ probing swaps and resolutely doesn’t fall back onto the examination table. He’s fine, really, and he goes to hop off of the table.
Steady on his feet. Nice. “Me? Throwing the first punch? Please. Do you even know me?”
‘ i’ve got you. just stay awake. can you do that for me? ’
HURT PROMPTS // @rethadim // accepting!
“Mm, yeah, yeah,” Jim coughs, lungs rattling in his chest. He battles with unconsciousness, dodging its sweeping attempts to tug him under. He doesn’t want to whine— he rarely does so if he’s seriously injured, they both know it, but God, if it doesn’t fucking hurt worse than the last time he got beat to hell and back.
Another cough, and he has no idea if he passed out for half a second. “God, Bones, it hurts.”
