Alana Fenwick (hermanita) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-08-12 00:37:00 |
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Having not heard from Caradoc in over twenty-four hours, Alana found herself plagued by a worry tugging at the back of her mind. No matter how many times she told herself that he was fine, that he had said so himself, and that Pepper had seemed convinced that everyone but Moody was well enough, she could not keep herself distracted enough to forget about him. It had not, after all, been so long ago that her brother had gone off, giving her very few details and coming back with a gash all up his arm and no answers at all. She had not asked questions then, and perhaps that had been her mistake. If she had only asked, insisted on knowing, insisted on caring more deeply-- well. She couldn't think like that. The past was past. But so too, the present was just before her and she could not let it slip away. In some strange way, Caradoc Dearborn had wormed his way through the hole in her heart Benjy had left (however much Alana refused to consider herself so damaged), and as such she had certain duties to make sure he truly was all right.
She had spoken with him earlier and received disclosure of his residence (perhaps, she had thought, in case of emergency), and so she Apparated to the nearest point she had a clear image of, and walked a while from there. Her eyes roved over the buildings for blocks until she spotted the tell-tale wisteria vines curling prettily over walls, and she searched for a red door. Upon its discovery, she rapped sharply, smarting her knuckles. "Caradoc!" she called, for good measure.
Bruised enough to be sore - to be sick of walking, moving and otherwise aggravating his angry muscles - Caradoc simply unlocked the door with his wand. He couldn't help the looks of himself, the looks of his flat or the fact that he was glad someone was coming. He was only getting information through those blasted journals and it simply didn't come quickly enough.
Alana was surprised to hear the door unlock but not open, but, undeterred by uncertainty, twisted the knob of the door and pushed her way inside. She peered about the flat, ignoring the state of it in favour of finding what (who) she was after. She shut the door quietly behind her, and locked it, before stepping quietly inside. Hesitantly, she called out again. "Caradoc?" It made her uneasy not to see him at first. Surely, if he was feeling all that well, he might've answered the door himself? She tread carefully, quietly, until she came across an open door to a bedroom containing a rather haggard and bruised Caradoc. She couldn't hide her shock, especially at the ghastly black eye. "Caradoc."
" ... it's been worse," he assured her, though that statement was muffled in the fluff of a pillow as he gathered his quilts more tightly around his body. "You should be with Moody."
"Moody's got Healers and probably half the DMLE, among others," Alana responded, moving quickly to the side of his bed and peering down at his face. "You're a right mess, is what you are. Why didn't you tell me? Have you got ones like that-" -and here she pointed at the rather ugly and painful-looking bruise that encompassed his eye socket and part of his cheek- "-elsewhere? Worse?"
"Raw knuckles," he said quickly, and uncovered them for her inspection. "And another one - some burly arsehole threw me into a wall."
She grimaced, reaching forward without a second thought to examine his hands. She wasn't a Healer, but Benjy had taught her the rudimentary spells. And, as was practical, she had come prepared. She conjured a wet cloth to gently clean each one in turn, before she rummaged about in her bag. "Is it a habit of yours to let yourself feel miserable for no reason?"
She got a hiss for her trouble as he tried to jerk away from her (though not unkindly, he was merely smarting from her ministrations). "People worse off need attention more than me. Bruises and cuts heal. Moody'll be lucky to keep his leg."
"I can't do anything about Moody's leg," Alana said reasonably, producing a jar of salve from her bag at last and retrieving his hand, holding it more firmly to encourage him to keep still. She smeared it over his knuckles methodically. "But I can do this. This isn't hard. Now what else?"
Quieter, he allowed her to do that before she asked him about other wounds. But with Alana, there was no shame. Pushing the quilt down, he revealed the fantastic bruise that spanned the length of his ribcage and travelled over his side and down his hip. "Well," was sheepish, a little embarassed to have received such a gift, "there's this."
There was a sympathetic wince, and she reached out with some hesitation to gently feel the bruise with tender fingers. Anyone else with her age and inexperience, might have felt uncomfortable or awkward, or at least a little flustered about an older (and admittedly attractive) man exposing even this little part of flesh, but it was to Alana's credit that it did not even cross her mind. It helped, of course, that this piece of him was bruised beyond being appealing. She sighed and withdrew another jar, this one containing a salve smelling heavily of foreign spices. "Well, I guess it could be worse," she said simply, and began carefully applying the salve. More quietly: "We're still waiting for word about Moody. He's still out."
Stretched out beneath her hand, he let his eyes wander the uneven cracks in his ceiling. Moody. "Did you see him?" he whispered, breath hitching when she hit a particularly sore spot.
Alana shook her head, and murmured a quiet apology for his pain. "Haven't been to see him. Figured there'd be enough people there, and it's not like I know him very well, anyway." She shrugged, and once she was finished tending to the bruise, she fastened the lid back onto the jar and sat carefully on the edge of his bed. "Pepper told me over the journals. He's okay, too. I just hadn't heard from you in a while, so..." She picked at a loose thread on her pants. "I was a little worried."
Sitting up slowly, he leaned his upper body against the headboard and nodded. Laid his palm against his shoulder for a moment with a soft "Thanks".
"It's nothing," Alana insisted, replacing everything inside her bag before looking up at him with the faintest of smiles. "Just ask, next time, instead of making me come barging in."
"I don't know how to ask," he admitted, shifting to lean on the not so hideously bruised shoulder. "You'll just have to know."
Alana sighed, then, scrutinising his position. "Your shoulder, too?"
"You took care of it!" he insisted, knowing that it was just jammed and there was nothing she could do for it. Short of a long, hot soak, he'd be fine by morning.
Alana regarded him with a frown. "I took care of your hands and your ribs, not so much your shoulder." But she did not persist further. She smiled wearily up at him. "Should I let you get some more sleep?"
It was odd that he didn't want to be alone - his life was solitude, and since Meaghan's confession to him a few nights before, he had found himself becoming more philosophical toward it. He wanted her to stay - he desired it. A few stutters fell from his lips before he narrowed his eye and smirked. "The couch is a futon, you know."
Alana blinked, caught a little off guard, and her lips parted slightly before her brain had time to completely process the request - and it was a request, she thought, even as a statement. She closed her mouth without saying anything, more warm in the face about him wanting her to stay than she had been about his brief excursion into near-shirtlessness. It was nice, she realised, to be needed - or at least, wanted.
"Aye," she said finally. "That's where I'll be, then. Let me know if you need something," she added, hoping that despite his apparent inability to ask, that he might, anyway.
"There's sheets in the closet and you're welcome to anything in the house," he murmured, already well on his way to sleeping as he fell back beneath the covers and curled away from his pain. "Thank you, Alana."
"It's nothing," she repeated quietly, pushing herself carefully off of the bed so as not to disturb his rest. She padded toward the door, considered shutting it but favoured hearing him if he were to call, and did not. She merely observed his descent into slumber for a moment before retreating to the futon. She collapsed with a sudden exhaustion she'd been ignoring for too long, and she was asleep before she could think to unfold the thing properly.