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Entry tags:

† gaius septimus

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Characters: Sep and Aisha
Date: May 28th-ish
Location: WA-3A (Sep's suite)
Situation: Dried fish is the gift of a friend or something, right?
Warnings/Rating: None

Sep has been rather more tired out after crafting, lately, and if his watercrafting isn't always as informative as usual... well, blocking the emotion takes less effort, too. Still, the enforced uselessness and feeling something's off has been wearing him down.

And something tells him it won't get better.

(And he misses home.)

Between the feeling and the stress of the last few days, he is just flopped on a couch idly drawing maps of Alera from memory. Time for a break and some indulgence.

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Aisha does not knock. That implies that she requires permission for entry. Instead, she simply opens the door and steps inside. She doesn't bother to remove her boots, or anything of the sort, she moves like she owns the place, without preamble.

"I know you are home. I have something for you."

One thing watercrafting is useful for: at least he's not caught off-guard, or on edge. As it is, he doesn't bother looking up.

"Feel free to come in and make yourself at home." His tone is wry. Okay, so the medic's door is generally open. Not the point. "Especially if you come with a bribe."

She dumps a bag down on the countertop. It's full of dried fish, expertly salted and packed. "I do. In exchange, I require your skills." That accomplished, she goes to sit down in front of him, seemingly having no difficulty in displaying her back. There's a large gash diagonally down across her shoulder and over her spine, the result of a thankless fight with a local gang in Earth.

It's only the fact that she can't personally reach it that brought her here.

"Fix this, and we will call it even."

At that he looks up, laconic amusement dropping from his demeanor. "Bloody crows, woman, what did you do?"

Even as he says it, he's moving toward a basin; since things started going downhill, he's kept a reserve of clean water on hand for emergencies (and spends a lot of time in between work purifying more). A short flick of his fingers has some moving from the reserve in the floor to the basin.

"In. How old is the wound?"

"Nine hours. Does it matter?"

She's never actually seen him heal, and so she watches him curiously as he moves about. She wrinkles her nose a little at the waste of water it would be, and then simply shrugs. "Do you need me unclothed?"

She gets a flat look in return. She needs to ask if it matters?

He shrugs fluidly. "Works better, but it's not necessary. Apparently healing doesn't work like this for most people's homes and they can get uncomfortable." He really does try to be considerate, even if from his tone he finds it all a big fuss over nothing.

She strips out of her clothes without ceremony, no more self-conscious of being naked than she'd show for being well-armed. She eyes the basin and steps into it.

"You have been keeping to yourself lately. I thought you more sanctimonious than that."

The lack of ceremony unconsciously relaxes him, and his smile is faint and wry as he rolls up his sleeves to put his hands in the water.

"I've been called that before," he admits, "though not usually in this context. I've been preoccupied with the water. It puts a serious obstacle in the way of socializing, if I try to stay significantly ahead of it."

"You can purify it?" There's a faint note of surprise to her voice, and she tilts her head to one side, holding her hair out of the way for his inspection.

He nods absently, hands moving to rest lightly on her shoulders. "To some degree. It's not as easy as I'd like, and it's time consuming, but I can get it at least usable to heal."

As he talks he's getting a feel for the extent of the damage, idly cleaning it out as he goes. (Nine hours she waited; he could throttle her for this.)

She does not tense beneath his hands. That would be a tell, and she has worked long and hard to eschew anything that might give her away. It's the curious thing about being a spy, you understand. One learns to swallow themselves down beneath the ocean of their assumed persona.

"Yet you are not a creature of isolation. Foolish."

He's quiet for a long moment, during which he starts focusing on the healing itself. It's not the worst he's dealt with by a long shot. She'll probably feel the muscle re-knitting itself as he works. He can take his time, at least, and do the job right; it's less tiring that way than simply bludgeoning it into responsiveness.

"I suppose. But it helps me feel--useful. I've found it trumping sociability lately."

"You are not useless to anyone if you're but a husk of who you are. Don't be foolish. Is that meant to hurt as it does?"

Her tone is sharp, definitely implying she thinks he's doing something wrong. Even if she knows better.

He lets out a short, sharp laugh with no humor in it at her observation--however true it may be--before he rolls his eyes.

"If you don't want it to hurt, don't get yourself slashed up. Otherwise, grit your teeth and live with it. This won't take long."

(Yes, he's ignoring her entirely-too-accurate comment on his isolation.)

"I do not care that it hurts, it was merely an observation. One you are seizing upon to avoid your own issues. Clever." Although it's obvious she considers it to be completely the opposite. Never let it be said she's not direct when it so suits her.

Furies, he knows how that word sounds with that tone. Sextus did that to him all the time.

Which is why applying it to anything emotional actually makes him snicker for a moment. "It was not an observation, it was a question," he points out. "One you wouldn't have had to ask if it hadn't happened."

Semantics are not usually his thing. This time, apparently, they are.

"In that case, I was questioning your competence. Does that better please you?" She swishes one hand through the water as she speaks, watches the way it colours with blood from her wound. "You are still being avoidant. If you'd rather, I can beat it out of you."

"Questions, at least, I can answer," he replies calmly, before smiling slightly.

"You could try. I'd suggest waiting until I've finished closing this. It'd be a waste if you didn't. Ideally for your recovery, I'd say put off any beatings a day or two, but it's hardly necessary." He is nothing if not professional--or at the very least, good at pretending to be so for the sake of a weird sense of humor.

"You have not done so yet," she points out without rancour. Which is in and of itself remarkable.

"Do you honestly think I care for my physical well being? I've died twice now. There is nothing left about it that concerns me, and injury is at best a prelude to it."

"Let me finish and I will," he retorts mildly.

Then, however, he goes still for a split second. He keeps working through it, but it takes him a moment to ask slowly, "You've died twice? I've never known anyone to survive the first time." He pauses again, eyes flickering at an unpleasant memory. "Unless this place was involved somehow?"

"Once in my world. A nuclear blast." It occurs to her, belatedly, that he may not know what that is, so she clarifies with a shrug of her off shoulder. "An enormous explosion. I was in the process of fighting my way through an army when it happened. And then, during the zombie attack. It was unenlightening."

In fact, she was annoyed more than anything. She lost several good weapons that day.

The term 'nuclear explosion' is added to his list of 'words to look up and try to understand.' Potential weapons with devastating effect? Dead or not, this particular Roman prince and general wants to know.

His eyes tighten further. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I should have--" He shakes his head. "There was a fire in Wood Sector." And he trusted the civilians to a child who should never have been out in the field.

This look? This is guilt.

Aisha stills beneath his hands almost too perfectly. And then she throws back her head and she laughs. "You? Do not insult me by assuming responsibility for my wellbeing, Sep. I have weathered worse horrors than you can imagine. Do not martyr yourself on the blade of my indifference, it will only bring you harm and me, amusement."

His eyes flash briefly, and it's a good thing it's summer and fires aren't needed inside because it means there's none to flare up with his temper.

Still, after a moment he exhales slowly. His jaw is still tense and irritation still colors his tone, but it's under control. "Don't insult me by presuming to know what I can and cannot imagine, or by assigning motive to my regret at not being able to help someone I respect in battle," even if her suspicion is at least partially (if not wholly) correct, "and I will return the favor."

"Did I touch a nerve, perhaps?"

She tips her head to one side, lifts her hand to rub at the muscles there. The injury has knotted them, because although she is only irritated by pain it does cause her body to unselfconsciously favour what hurts.

"Stop that," he says with absent irritation--to her movement, as he slaps lightly at her hand. Now that he's sure it's clean and free of infection, he's working through it much faster. "I'm almost done, don't exacerbate it."

He can fix the smaller aches and pains once things are clean and closed.

She lowers her hands, though it's not exactly a gesture born of obedience. "Are you always so quick to command?"

He gives her a grin. "Where I come from, healers command in the healing tub, no questions asked."

As he speaks, his hand finally rests right over the cut--and he finishes closing it. Exhaling, he slides one last, far easier exercise of will to at least un-kink those muscles, make sure they're not strained.

"There. Should do it. It'll probably be sore for about a day. Lots of water, good sleep, and if you can meat," and the latter sounds like a rote recitation.

She flexes her arm and shoulder, lifting her hand over her head in one smooth gesture. She has a dancer's grace, despite how she employs it. "Very well. Thank you." She stands without preamble and steps out of the tub, off in search of a towel.

No, she doesn't care that it would be easier to ask. Deal with it, Septimus.

Septimus isn't a prude. However, he has a sense of propriety and also a wife.

The result: He sighs and practically facepalms.

"Crows, you could just," he begins under his breath, then in a normal tone, "Third cabinet, wall on the left."

She makes a 'hmm' sound that's almost a thank you, and she proceeds to go for the towels.

"How many have you treated thusly since your arrival?"

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