tushanshu_logs | it may take two to tango, but boy, it's just one to let go

Sanzo was not near so fortunate. Not when it came to the distance of his fall anyway. That sickly golden fucker! That was about all he had time to think before he hit the ground with a sickening thud and a soundless, open mouth look of shock on his face.

A moment later the pain of his shattered elbow, the broken arm, and whatever he had done to his ribs sank in. His body shuddered, his breath escaping as a rattling wheeze. For several dangerous seconds his consciousness nearly faded, his vision shrinking to a pinprick of white light. A thick, wet cough jerked him back, everything so bright in the daylight that it stung his eyes.

He could feel the damp warmth of blood soaking into his clothes, a deep red spreading slowly along the side of his white robes. Left arm, left side, of course it had to be. He wheezed, eyes desperate and wide as they searched for any familiarity of the area. Right arm down, how was he going to handle this?! A growing pressure in his chest told him he didn’t have long to think of a solution.

There! Drake's desperate Empathic scanning for the monk -- why wasn't it working? -- pinged. The dull ping was close enough that he heard the noise of Sanzo's impact with the ground. He was on his feet before the cough even hit the air, running toward that sound, and the scent of blood, and--

"Ke'chara!" he slid to a halt beside the priest, and to his knees in the same motion. Bells chimed in his hair, a strange counter-point to the horror of the situation. "Hold on Genjyo, you'll be fine just as soon as I... can..."

The Healing Gift wasn't working, at least not as it should have. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that his Empathy hadn't reached out even a fraction as far as it should have, either. Not important, right now. The Healing Gift was far more critical! His bright blue eyes raked over Sanzo's state, and there was no second Sight. Shit! What was--

Not important!

Amberdrake immediately set a hand on Sanzo's forehead, even skin contact barely letting him see anything with the Gift. It was moving too slow. His hand was off as fast as it had landed, the kestra'chern moving at full combat medic speed. Now his eyes assessed as a chirurgeon, not with the fragments of his Gift. That arm had broken, definitely. Why was the other not moving? Shoulder broken?

...Paralyzed?

Shit, not the spine-- please, not the spine!

"Can you feel your legs? Can you move your feet?" The veteran was already -- with speed, but also care -- feeling around on Sanzo's ribs. The prodding went around the bamboo breastplate, as though he was completely used to its presence. The ribs, of course. Always the ribs... yep, broken. Oh, no.

He'd found the spot where a piece had broken off and gone inward. That explained the way Sanzo was breathing...

Who? What? Pain muffled some things but he swore he heard his name. His actual name. How the fuck dare- Sanzo snarled and Drake’s question about his movement was answered as his body jerked instinctively at the prodding, legs and right arm included. That fucking hurt!

Sanzo was used to pain, used to worse injuries than this, but why was this asshole touching him and why the fuck did he know and use his name?! He could taste blood, another wet cough bringing up more. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, but like hell he wasn’t going to jerk his head enough to the side to glare up at the stranger.

His gun- he couldn’t move his hand. Shit! Could his right arm even handle it? If the stranger would even let him try to grab for it. Unlikely. Who was this?! He bore only the slightest resemblance to Gat with his darker skin, broader build, and something about the structure of his face; all in stark contrast to Sanzo’s pale skin, narrow body, and delicate features. Sanzo didn’t know this man and he did not want him the least bit near him while so defenseless. He really did not want all this touching, injured or not!

The sutra maybe…? The struggle he had to breathe would making chanting difficult and his mind was so clouded. Fuck.

“Piss off,” he growled past the blood instead, a dangerous look on his face. Or it would have been had he not been so obviously helpless. “Murderous” summed up that look nicely.

"Not until you're stable," Amberdrake's response was completely unruffled, despite his desperation. His gaze shot for a second to Sanzo's face... or rather, to the blood on his lips. Was that... air bubbles? Shit.

"You have a punctured lung," Drake didn't hesitate for more than a second. Just one second, and then he grabbed the sutra from Sanzo's shoulders -- and pressed it into the monk's right hand. He even folded those nicotine-stained fingers around it for him. The breastplate came next, pulled off over Sanzo's head and tossed off to one side.

He knew his way around a Sanzo's traditional garb, somehow. "I have to get to it and start a drain, or your own blood will kill you," he explained with a voice that somehow did not tremble with tension. "The Healing Gift isn't working right -- I can't just stop it from the outside like usual--"

Even as he spoke, he was yanking open the white robes and rolling Sanzo's leather top up to expose the ribs on that side. How to access it? Gods. He didn't have a scalpel, or even a tube! He... oh, this was going to be horrific. He had those ink pens... was there anything else at hand? Anything at all?

Nope, of course not.

Toughen up, Drake, and do your damn job! Flinch too long, and he dies! This isn't Haven! Amberdrake rocked back on his heels and dug around inside his own, much more colorful robe for the pack of pens. That his hands were slick with blood didn't even register. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

The first spike of panic, past the fear that came with his vulnerability, came when that fuck, whoever he was, grabbed his sutra! And… It was put in his hand, was the man mad? Sanzo was quickly distracted from the question by both the intense fatigue crippling his movements and the alarm of how easily this man was disrobing him. Literally.

He was used to Hakkai or whatever doctor (or innkeeper) he was dragged to having to get past his robes to tend to his injuries but none of them knew how to get them off him quite this fucking fast. How familiar was this “healer” with Sanzo priests and why?

Sanzo’s pulse was rapid and fluttering, a rushing sound in his ears and his breaths crackling and wet. His left hand twitched, desperate for a grasp on his gun, panic fueling his need to get this man away from him. And now. As addled as his mind was right now, he didn’t even consider how much he needed the help. Drake wasn’t wrong, Sanzo would die if his lung wasn’t treated soon.

“Leave-” His voice was broken by another crackling wheeze and a cough. He was sounding like that damned golden mage that got him into this shitty situation! He needed the stranger away now! Right now! His mind was scrambled, thoughts scattered.

Sutra. Another rough cough. Shit.

Edited 2016-04-03 12:54 (UTC)

"I'm sorry for this, enar ves'tacha," Drake allowed his soft heart only that much leeway. He allowed it as he unscrewed the pen in his hands, plucking out the ink tube and the writing tip. That was unfortunate, right there. As much as that tip could help with the puncturing, it wouldn't allow for the drainage. "Brace yourself, this is going to be bad."

He felt for the gap between ribs that he wanted with one hand, and then stabbed the pen down between his fingers. It was with enough force to reach the dangerous, growing pocket of blood... no more and no less. But with such a blunt tube, that force was quite considerable!

Sanzo’s chest seized, body rigid and eyes wide for an agonizing moment that could have dragged on for an hour for all he knew. What a way to clear his head, if only for a short while. He wheezed out several jumbled swears between fresh, wet coughs. The only thing he could think of was to get the fuck away.

That he was being helped was far beyond him, he needed to be in control and as far from this man that knew how to disrobe a Sanzo with frightening speed and used his name freely. He would have to try.

And try he did. Barely able to get words past his lips or not, Sanzo was chanting. Weakly. In broken chunks. The sutra in his hand began to move in response all the same, though Sanzo was unaware of how feeble it was right now.

"I swear to the Gods, Genjyo, if you Makai Tenjou me..." Drake said through his teeth, holding the pen steady. It began draining the fresh blood that had sought to suffocate Sanzo from the inside. "You self-destructive bastard," the kestra'chern had never cursed so much, before he'd met this walking injury magnet! "You had better wait until I've gotten your rib out of your lung!"

Much like Sanzo's reactions were often hostile, Drake as a Healer -- no, as a chirurgeon, at the moment -- had to choose his way. Wince in sympathy, or growl with determination. He chose the latter. It let him get more done, and if he'd had Gesten here he'd have been snapping his orders at the little hertasi. This was how he always was, in such an emergency!

With his hands soaked in Sanzo's blood, pressed around the wound he'd just made with the pen, Drake finally managed to thread in the Gift. It was feeble, weak, like he'd been recently drained. But he could use it for what he couldn't do with his hands... like pulling that shard of bone back into position. The wound it had made was actually small, thank the Star-Eyed, and Drake strained to knit the delicate tissue together. It was like picking up a pebble and finding it weighed as much as a gryphlet, the Gift was so uncooperative! But he forced it to work anyway, feeling his energy all but pouring out. It felt like he was bleeding out, complete with the world beginning to tilt.

Instinct and shock was enough to stop the chanting as Sanzo gulped for air instead, the awful pressure in his chest lessened greatly. It was for the best. The Maten sutra, could, at best, give Drake a nasty paper cut in its current state. It wiggled away menacing enough but went right back to being harmless as Sanzo’s vision spun, the blue tint to his lips starting to fade.

Somewhere in the fog of confusion that clogged Sanzo’s mind currently, he registered the use of his name again. And even naming his attack. How would this fucker even know that unless he’d personally seen it in action? Sanzo wanted nothing to do with this asshole that was currently saving his life, but he sure as hell wanted to know why he knew so much!

Yet he was still helpless, much to his frustration and distress. With what bit of strength he could muster from sheer orneriness, he spat blood in the vague direction of Drake. Too drained himself, he couldn’t tell how much this was taking out of Drake, only barely aware he was being healed with magic at all. Not that that was uncommon for him.

“The hell-” Wheeze. “-do you-” A desperate gasp for air. “-think you are?” Dying on the ground after a several story fall, Sanzo was as much of a prideful, defensive asshole as ever.

Edited 2016-04-03 14:07 (UTC)

“Well, for starters, the guy healing you," Amberdrake scoffed, not yet realizing that Sanzo didn't recognize him. He was far too busy trying to ensure he survived that long to be watching his face or analyzing his words much. Empathy was barely more than a dull trickle; not enough to clue him in while he was so distracted!

"So the ribs and left arm are from the fall," Drake continued, "what happened to your other arm? You can barely even hold the sutra in that hand." It was a little accusatory. Doze off for a second -- take your eyes off Sanzo for a second, and he'd go get himself hurt! He was worse than Amberdrake's toddler back on Velgarth, he swore, and they lived in homes dug into cliffs!

Sanzo bared bloodied teeth at Amberdrake, healed enough to be even more of a pissant about all of this. It was bad enough that both his arms were so injured without this nosy shit pointing it out. And that tone?! There were very few allowed to talk to him like that and, even to them, he’d be pissed.

“Not your-” It had to be so hard to talk to top this all off. “-fucking business.” And as far as Sanzo was concerned, it wasn’t. He didn’t ask for this man’s help. He especially didn’t ask him to start questioning his injuries! Or anything about him for that matter!

Drake got the lung fixed and slumped in place as he finally pulled the Gift back. Whatever was dampening his abilities, he hoped it was temporary. For Sanzo's sake, if nothing else--

That reaction was odd enough to make Amberdrake finally take a good look at the priest. Bared, bloody teeth and all. He actually blinked, hard, and sat back on his shins. "Ke... ke'chara?" the Healer asked, finally sounding hesitant. His voice was almost quiet enough to count as a whisper.

Sanzo hadn’t the faintest clue what that meant and he was only getting angrier as time passed. It still ached to breathe and both arms were varying degrees of fiery pain. Now he was less starved for oxygen, he had all the more brain power to be a complete brat about the situation.

His eyes held no recognition. Pain and anger, but no sign he had a damned clue who Amberdrake was. One didn’t need to be an Empath to feel the hostility Sanzo was giving off. He was afraid and weak and in considerable pain, it was unlikely he’d be able to walk on his own without more healing than Drake could possibly provide with his Gift so weakened. Completely at the mercy of this stranger and that was the last place that Sanzo ever wanted to be.

“What do you-” Fuck. Ow. “-want?”

Amberdrake spent a few moments just... looking at those familiar eyes that held no familiarity for him. "Oh," he said, his voice quiet.

His heart clenched in on itself, the emotion hitting so hard it made his hands hurt. Right in the palms, like Sanzo had driven knives through them. And then Amberdrake looked down, and away, and shut his eyes for a moment to think. He snapped his shields up, defensive.

Sanzo didn't know him. Not anymore. He knew this could happen, of course. It had only been an accident that he'd been sent back to his world with his memories intact, that one time...

But we were just in Baedal! his thoughts raced, On the roof at the old dojo, with tea! No more than half a candlemark ago!

He felt like his heart was going to fold in on itself. Like it could make a vacuum at its center, and suck everything else in...

Stop being selfish, the kestra'chern scolded himself. All those times he'd pieced Sanzo back together again emotionally and mentally came back to his mind. Holes, left by that disgusting creature...

This is for the best.

Yes. It was. What else was there for him to remember? Affection for a man who'd aged a decade without him? No, this was truly for the best. The best for Sanzo. And what more could Drake want?

When he re-opened his eyes and looked at Sanzo again, the kestra'chern mask was firmly in place. None of the heartbreak leaked through; not on his face, nor past his raised shields.

"My apologies," he said gently, "for being so familiar, priest Sanzo. As a healer, I wondered if it was acid, or fire, or something else that hurt your arm that way. I can help you with it in time, if you choose. For now," his gaze went to Sanzo's shattered elbow, "there are more pressing matters. I'll need to splint this in place until it can be taken care of."

He knew Sanzo knew field medicine enough to know that, but he was letting his own calm -- so, so calm -- voice sooth himself, too. Any little bit could only help. "After this drains and I suture it, of course." Blood was still flowing out of the pen, the hole not big enough to drain it all at once. In a medical tent, he'd have secured it and left it open, but without his Gift being reliable enough to burn away all infection…

Sanzo let his neck rest finally, his cheek against the grass and one eye still fixed on Drake, suspicious, glaring. Not that he was able to see through that mask, he had no hope of doing so, even if what little natural magical talent he had wasn’t reduced to a mere ember currently. But there was still plenty to be suspicious of. Of how much this healer knew.

And, damn it all, he was also right on top of all this oddity that made Sanzo’s skin crawl. He was in a bad place. Without help he wasn’t going anywhere and would be easy pickings for anyone with darker motivations than this asshole. If he didn’t have this wound sealed, at least partially, he was open to infection and that would be a whole new disaster that Sanzo wouldn’t be able to fix on his own.

The string of swears running through his mind during this contemplation was impressive to say the least.

Once patched up he could get the knowledge he wanted. That weird golden shit from before he wouldn’t have gotten a thing out of. This healer? Maybe he had a chance. And like hell he wasn’t going to figure shit out this time. Were it just one thing, he could let the subject drop and avoid Drake while he figured out where he was. But no; his name, the familiarity with which he spoke to Sanzo, and even knowing what the Makai Tenjou was!

“Fine,” he snapped, disinclined now to speak more than he had to. Questions could wait. He would find out what was going on here.

"Thank you," Amberdrake was glad enough to have the monk's cooperation, considering. "This looks to have drained enough... I don't even carry a belt knife, or this would have been easier," he was apologetic. But still, it filtered through that mask that was older than Sanzo himself was. The kestra'chern mask was what Hakkai wanted his facade to grow up to be!

He pressed in on Sanzo's skin around the pen with one hand as he slid the smooth -- at least it had that going for it -- plastic tube free. More blood welled out, but from the stab itself instead of from the pocket that had been forming inside. The healer tossed the pen aside. He applied pressure with one hand while he fished out his suturing kit from his feather-patterned robe with the other.

"What is prepared for never occurs, as they say where I am from. How true that is, hm?" It was chatter for the sake of chatter, his bedside manner taking over. The calm kestra'chern voice helped to slow his own heart-rate, bit by bit, as though his own emotions were a skittish animal. "If my abilities return to me, I can purge any infection from this. But let's not take the chance."

He set up the needle and thread while keeping a few fingers on the narrow stab wound, and began stitching. It wouldn't take many to seal this off, especially with how neat and tiny his sutures were. They'd been the envy of his teachers as a child. "You should know something... I don't think we are on your world. And I know we are not on mine. This has happened to me a few times before."

The good news was, no youkai attacks were imminent. The bad news was, neither of them knew the lay of the land. Not literally nor figuratively.

Sanzo was a compliant enough patient throughout this, if moody and disinclined towards chatter. What was he going to do? Other than be frustrated. That and the desire to huddle up and pretend he wasn’t weak and helpless. What was the Maten sutra, which banished and bound evil, going to do against a peaceful healer? A healer that was strong enough to stab him in the lung with a ballpoint pen, but that didn’t make him evil. Just impressively strong for a human doctor. If he was human, he could well be wearing limiters that Sanzo couldn’t see.

He couldn’t even use his gun! And without that he was on edge, so very on edge. He knew he shouldn’t be so tense while injured like this but- curse this fucking weakness.

What was this guy even on about? More shit about other worlds? He didn’t need this. He really didn’t need this. It was complicated enough like this without having to accept he was stranded. The last thing he needs to top off this shit was forcing denial over his concern for Hakkai, Gojyo, and, especially, Goku.

“Have any other good news?” Sanzo wheezed with venom fueled more by barely contained panic than anything else.

"Yes," Drake said, as he got to his feet and looked around them for something to use for the splint. They were near an orchard of some sort, so there was something. He stepped away a bit to find a suitable bit of deadwood. "If my abilities return to full force, I'll have your left arm fully-functional in no time. If they don't, I can still fix it, but it will just take longer."

Speaking of, he felt a bit woozy. Was his skin a little grey from the energy expenditure? Why yes, yes it was.

"Also, I am inclined to stick with you until then. It's up to you if that's good news or bad. Ah," there was a small branch, only a few feet long, snapped off a tree long enough ago that it had dried out nice and solid. He brought it back over with him, and sank gracefully back to his knees beside the monk. "I'll need to improvise the bindings, of course," he said, more to himself than to Sanzo. "The one time I don't have a full kit on me, of course. Let's see, there's my sash, your belt, and your right arm-warmer..."

Which he hadn't seen more of than the bit over Sanzo's hand, but he clearly knew it was there. And that it was long enough to help!

The resurgence of suspiciousness and anger about how much Drake knew was a welcome relief from the spiral of worry he had been heading for. He flashed bared teeth again before forcing himself to hold off. For now.

This “stranger” wasn’t looking so good and Sanzo needed his arm pieced back together. Hakkai had predicted a slow recovery for his right arm but just broken bones? That should be easier. So no pushing him yet. As much as he wanted to demand answers. With how shit he was feeling himself, just the effort of doing so might knock him out.

He wasn’t going to willingly make himself weaker. Thinking about that was handy for fueling his anger. Anger was an easier thing to feel than helplessness.

“Arm warmer,” he would have snapped but, again, it was more of a wheeze. Drake had an awful lot of knowledge about his particular clothing, worn by only five people at most at any given time. “Hand me my gun while you’re at it.”

His right arm could barely move, it was unlikely he could fire the gun with any degree of accuracy in this state, but, dammit, he’d have a weapon he could use in his hand if he could help it. Sanzo’s expression didn’t soften in the slightest at that demand. He was making it very clear how much he trusted Drake. Yes, he was going to be stuck with him for a bit while he healed up, but he wasn’t going to be happy about it.

"Of course," Drake didn't even pretend to not know what Sanzo meant by his gun, nor where it was. He reached up Sanzo's sleeve and retrieved the small but deadly weapon before he started rolling the arm-warmer down. The Healer did this without hiking the robe's sleeve up. He just seemed to already know where the top of the damn thing was and how to remove it.

Only once the arm-warmer was off completely, baring Sanzo's palm, did he press the pistol into his hand. The correct way, of course.

"Just don't shoot me until I've fixed you up, hm?" Any emergency war-healer could indulge in a little gallows humor, now and then. "My Healing Gift relies on my health. I don't know what's blocking it right now, but extra ventilation is unlikely to help."

He found a shorter but sturdy limb in reach, and lined it up with Sanzo's broken arm. Best to splint this, and then the rest to immobilize that shattered elbow. The arm-warmer was put to swift use. Drake's ability with knots and bindings was often considered impressive. It was a familiarity far more ingrained than his knowledge of Sanzo garb.

So, too, was his expertise in medicine. Sanzo's arm was only moved a fraction of an inch as he worked.

The health of the man that just saved his life be damned, it was Sanzo’s lack of lung capacity currently that kept him from releasing a volley of insults. He had some real cutting ones on the mind right now. Later.

For now he expressed his displeasure with both Drake’s excessive knowledge of his clothing and his “humor” by forcing his right hand to point the tiny revolver in the healer’s direction. The pain of doing so was enough to make him even paler than before and his hand was shaking so bad firing the thing would be nearly impossible. But he had a point to make. A point along the lines of go fuck yourself.

As angry as he was, he didn’t miss how much of an efficient field medic this man was. He added that to the checklist of things to increase his suspicion of the other. It was a harmless- quite helpful actually- trait but Sanzo was hardly in a charitable mood.

“Feh.” He should be grateful but he wasn’t.

Yes Sanzo, so scary. Amberdrake glanced up at the shifting gun, but then went right back to work. He knew Sanzo, after all. And he knew Sanzo was smart enough not to shoot someone he needed at the moment, no matter how much he hated that need.

The Healer made use of Sanzo's belt next, and then finally his own sash. He smoothed the lime-colored cloth out of its usual folds to make a wide band. This, he used to bind the whole mess to Sanzo's torso, in such a way that it didn't put pressure on that elbow.

Next came the part they were both likely dreading. Though it would have been perfectly normal and natural, if Sanzo remembered him...

But he didn't, so it was different.

But it was still necessary.

Drake scooped Sanzo up. It was like he weighed a third as much as he really did; not effortless, but close to it. And he lunged up to his feet, and started walking. He was careful not to jar that left arm, nor force the man's ribs to flex more than necessary. If they could just find someone with a working Gift, or even proper bandages...

Now, if the barrel of Sanzo's gun just happened to end up pressed to Drake's torso, well, he seemed skilled enough at ignoring it. What else could he do, in truth? He'd already made his case for not ventilating him, and he wasn't going to try to take the gun away from the monk...

The stubborn bastard he was, of course Sanzo had used the momentum of being lifted to get his right arm curled over his chest, the stainless steel barrel reflecting the bright colors of the cloth it was pressed against. He had no strength or stability to do much more than just hold it there, but he needed to do something to soothe his pride.

Oh did his pride sting at being carried like this. That the healer was being so careful was only making it worse. Something was wrong here and he didn’t like it one bit. Being overly well informed but otherwise innocent, as far as Sanzo knew of him so far, ruled out putting a hole in Drake. Putting holes in those that meant no harm was not something he enjoyed.

None of this he enjoyed and he kept his gun and scowl in place to cement that point. Drake could well be completely innocent and there be something that reasonably explained his knowledge of Sanzo, of Genjyo Sanzo at that, but he wasn’t going to bet on that.

Drake looked at the trees around them as he walked them into the orchard. "Neat rows, well-tended..." he was mostly thinking out loud, to be honest, "this orchard has to belong to someone around here. Let's hope they're either friendly or at least ambivalent."

This close, Sanzo could surely detect that his clothes smelled of Marlboro Reds. Not strong enough to mean he smoked, but enough to mean he was around someone who did. And Sanzo's brand, no less.

Beneath that, there was the assorted massage oils and herbs Drake came into contact with all the time. Not the most suspicious scents on him, by far.

Sanzo stayed silent, unsettled. Why was there so much to do with him involved with this man? He couldn’t even smell in a way that didn’t ping some concern.

His expression, somehow, grew even darker, and he forced himself to push the barrel of the gun harder against the cloth. His finger wasn’t even over the trigger.

Amberdrake glanced down, and for a second his mask actually slipped, so great was the sorrow beneath it. He looked... well, sad about something. Not alarmed, not worried, just... well, like someone holding back on mourning.

"I'm sorry, enar ves'tacha," he allowed himself to murmur, knowing that this Sanzo wouldn't have a clue what that meant.

What the shit was with Sanzo’s talent for attracting those that disturbed him, were desperately sad, or both? Why did the sad ones make Sanzo care? The answer to that question was buried under layers upon layers of denial so it was easy enough to pretend, for now, that this was another weird creep. He knew better but he needed to pretend otherwise.

“Explain-” He had to take a deep breath, a hint of a rattle still in his throat. “-what that means.” There was so much he was desperate to know but this question was easier than the others and he still needed to take his mind off the fact he couldn’t even walk.

Gods, if he let himself wallow he was going to lose it. Drake paused in walking so he could shut his eyes for a second, grounding himself. One moment of weakness, and he shoved himself back under the mask of his profession.

"I refuse," he replied, only after his eyes were back open -- and nice and dry, thank you! -- and they were moving again. That it was a response not unlike something the priest in his arms might say... well, 'shit rubbed off', as it were.

Well this was acting as a good distraction for Sanzo at least. He was too annoyed at the answer to give much thought to how familiar the phrase sounded. The gun slid along the colorful cloth as he shifted to raise his head. No, fuck that, he was going to have at least one answer.

“Explain,” he rasped with the air of someone in the place to be making demands.

Drake didn't even glance down, threading his way through the orchard. "What happened to your right arm?" he countered, finding solid footing in being the kestra'chern.

Sanzo hadn’t noticed his gun had slipped off Drake’s torso all together at this point, instead resting on his uninjured upper arm. He still had a grip on it. He wasn’t going to let it out of reach anymore than he was going to let the sutra leave his person.

“Answer.” What he wouldn’t give to be able to snarl and snap at this asshole until he got somewhere on this. The sharp pain that every word brought with it was strongly discouraging that.

"Just because you want to know," Amberdrake stepped around a younger tree, still held up by a wooden framework. "Does not mean you need to know."

The healer did glance down, this time, but his mask didn't crack again. He wasn't wearing the fake smile he'd had to wear for so many years, but his features were smooth and calm. His heart, deep inside his expert shielding, was anything but smooth or calm.

I lost him. As surely as though the War took him.

And yet, here he was. And he'd need Drake's help going forward, he knew. He remembered what Sanzo was like when his companions weren't around. If he was left alone...

I must think of him as a client, this time. Answer the need... be his kestra'chern, nothing more and nothing less.

That answer got an annoyed grunt with a side of a cough.

With a following “Tch.” Still hurt but he was still incredibly peeved. Where did this asshole get off giving him that sad shit look and then refuse to explain what he said while sounding like he was at a funeral. Why did the sad ones have to be annoying?

Why did he have to be so damned annoying in general? He looked fine now but Sanzo wasn’t going to let that look slide.

“Explain.” If the healer was going to be like this he’d make a nuisance out of himself. Petty, but Sanzo never claimed to be otherwise.

"It takes a mule to repeat a mule's bray," Amberdrake just quoted a proverb in return. The k'Leshya Chief smiled, though it was faint, and more than a touch wry. He had a three year old daughter back in Velgarth, he knew this 'why' game quite well.

He thought he spotted a building, and adjusted his path accordingly. Could the natives be hostile? Of course. Was avoiding them on that chance an option? Not in these circumstances; Sanzo needed more help than he could provide right now. If it came to it, he'd be the distraction. Maybe Sanzo could manage some sort of... something, he didn't know. The sutra, or a well placed bullet or five.

“Shut up.” Okay maybe Sanzo didn’t want the answer to that one right now, not if he had to deal with this shit while only barely put back together. And, like Drake, he was unsure how hostile the locals would be. His right arm better be able to do something or they were screwed. He didn’t trust this man to fight...lack of fear of guns pointed at one’s ribcage aside.

If they just happened to land on a world populated by malicious in-human species, maybe they’d have a shot. He could speak well enough to use the Maten sutra. Still, he wasn’t eager to get into a conflict right now.

Amberdrake didn't reply! Instead, he concentrated on maneuvering them around to the side of the building. His steps grew increasingly quiet as he concentrated on old, old training. Even with a passenger, he was still the son of Kaled'a'in scouts. They had taught him what they could, as a child, even though he'd always been useless with a bow or a knife.

Sneaking, though, that had come in handy more than once in the past few years! And as a child, truth told. All the times he'd slipped past Ma'ar's troops as he tried to reach his family before the War did...

He wouldn't let himself dwell on that right now, either. Much more important things at hand, like the present. Rolling his feet like so, avoiding those leaves, those twigs, keeping his weight balanced...

Drake paused to brace Sanzo against the slant of a gnarled tree for a moment so he could free up one hand to pluck the little clappers out of the bells in his hair. Just another precaution. This wasn't the time for a peace-time kestra'chern. Once the clappers were out, and dumped in a pocket, he adjusted his hold on Sanzo and resumed sneaking.

What would sneaking accomplish? He wasn't sure, but it couldn't harm the situation to be cautious. If they caught a glimpse of the locals before the locals saw them, and the locals were imprisoning people, for example...

Well, that would be useful to know!

Baedal had not been a peaceful world, either. Rife with the beginnings of a civil war, in a police state... too familiar, it had been. Too much like Predain. But at least he'd had the ability to go out and help the wounded, in Baedal, even if it had almost cost his life on more than one occasion.

The more things change, the more they stay the same...

Sanzo had dropped his bratty act the moment things had gotten truly serious. He braced the revolver on his strapped down arm. It would hurt like hell if he fired but this was he could do some semblance of aiming if needed.

He didn’t even protest when he was against the tree, knowing better than to start snapping while the other was so intent on being quiet. Plenty of experience with such tense situations was enough for him to keep his temper in check. They didn’t need a test of how well he could fire in this state.

This world they were on at least didn’t seem to be teeming with hostile magical beings, not that he could feel. There wasn’t much to feel at all, somewhat disconcerting but for a reason Sanzo couldn’t place. Frustrating.

Growing tired of the wait, he forced himself up an inch or so, jaw clenched tight to prevent himself from shouting in the pain from his ribs and sealed but tender wounds. He could see a roughly human shape moving by what might have been a shed not too far from them. They should be plenty out of sight from it, whatever it might be. Hostile youkai looked plenty human from a distance. Closer than that too.

This Sanzo didn't remember him. He didn't remember any instances of working with Drake in dangerous situations like this. But Drake's memory was intact, and he tracked where Sanzo looked. Hm. He adjusted his hold to brace the monk up better in his arms, and shut his eyes for a moment.

His shields lowered, slow and cautious. As much as Empathy could potentially help him locate those near-by, it could also give him away. He wouldn't project, of course, but if there was another Empath involved...

Well, besides Sanzo, of course.

It was frustrating, though -- his Empathy barely reached past whispering range. It didn't even pick up on the shape the pair had both spotted, so feeble was it. That was beyond alarming; Drake's Empathy had always been so strong that it was a detriment to him. Why was it taking a vacation now?

Sanzo wasn’t getting anything from the maybe-a-person in the distance but he was sure getting something from Drake now. He didn’t know if he should be relieved or indulge his increased frustration. Why he could just now feel the healer’s good intentions, protectiveness, with alarm bright and clear, he couldn’t guess, but dammit it was annoying. Not annoying that he had something of a read on the man but plenty irritating that he had less reason to be an ass to him, as much as he wanted to.

The figure at the shed seemed, at least from sight, reasonably normal. Grabbing things that must have been tools. Plenty of traps looked perfectly normal but it could be a harmless villager as well. If he hadn’t fallen so far this wouldn’t be a problem! It would be easy to get himself out of a scuffle with his gun and sutra, if he even needed that!

Sanzo let out a soft, frustrated sigh.

Drake blinked his eyes back open at the sigh, feeling a bit of what was going through Sanzo's head, too. Well, any kestra'chern worth anything knew that dealing with people in absolutes was easiest. And any kestra'chern worth anything knew that no one was absolutely anything.

The read on Amberdrake remained active as he left his shields at their current level. It would help, if in a limited range. If someone snuck up on them from behind or something…

He crept forward again, giving the person at the shed a wide berth. Drake swung around to the side of the house that would put the structure between them. Losing sight of the unknown was unnerving, sure, but he needed to have the chance to get a feel for whoever was in the house, if anyone was. And -- yes, someone was inside. Drake stared at the wall as though he could see through it, though he couldn't. Just trying to get a feel for the situation with his flickering candle of an Empathic Gift. It was normally a bonfire threatening to consume him from the inside, by contrast!

Everything felt... normal, inside. Domestic. Peaceful? It was so hard to pick up on specifics right now. Someone felt busy, but in a clean, getting-things-done way. Chores, perhaps.

Deciding that if things went to shit he'd just turn and run, he eased around to the front of the house. If it came to it, he'd take the brunt of what could come at them to his back to shield Sanzo. Thus, that protectiveness ratcheted up a few notches as he shifted his grip on the priest again. This time, it was so he could rap his knuckles against the door -- under Sanzo's legs -- in a soft knock.

...

Thankfully for the pair of them, it didn't come to running. The native inside provided proper bandages, and directions, and then sent them on their way unharmed.

it may take two to tango, but boy, it's just one to let go

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