tom (bargains) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-28 13:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, miles baines, rhys kinlan, thomas miller |
Who: Tom, Miles & Rhys (Otherwise known collectively as the Three Musketeers)
What: Post-battle whining.
Where: A makeshift medical clinic somewhere in the city
When: Backdated to 4/20
Rating: PG with swearing
Status: Complete.
The smell of antiseptic hung thick in the air, as well as sulfur, which permeated Tom's nostrils like a bad perfume ever since that brutal day. It clung to him, to his clothes, to his hair, and Tom strained to remember the number of bullets he fired that day. Or the number of bones he had broken. Truthfully, it was a miracle that he was still alive; a miracle of timeliness and magic, performed at one of the countless makeshift clinics set up around the city for the benefit of its people. If Tom had not been found by some anonymous angel as quickly as he had been, he may very well have died, and would not have this day to know to complain. It was the first day he had been awake, not fading in and out of consciousness, and truly cognisant of himself and his surroundings. "Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh," Tom moaned like some gothic monster created in a lab. He attempted to move, to sit up, to do anything, but found that, having a broken back, a shattered femur, internal wounds, and various other injuries which he could not recall at that moment, limited mobility quite a bit. He moved his head to the right, and spotted a familiar face from the cot beside his. It took him a moment to connect thought to speech, and even then-- "Rhys," he rasped, his voice harsh-sounding from his throat. He strained in his cot. "Fucking Faram-damned--" he tried again, his speech propelled by the powerful pain that surged throughout his body even despite the Mages' aids. The thief knew that he was definitely going to pass over to the nicer place after death, but he wasn’t expecting to hear his friend’s voice so close to him soon after. He sounded like he was in a lot of pain, which made sense. Rhys could feel the pain himself, now that he was being called to consciousness. Why couldn’t this person let him swim in not so blissful blackness. No, he painfully opened his eyes to the light and realized that his limbs were strung up by various contraptions in an attempt to keep him from moving. Not that he believed he could achieve such a thing. The inside of his mouth and throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, so talking was not really conducive to comfort, not that anything was conducive to comfort at this stage of their… what the mages might refer to as, recovery. The sound he made was not a joyful one. If he was going to wake up in one of these places, why could it not be a woman who had called to him instead. He couldn’t turn his head to see who it was, but knew it was Tom none-the-less. He grunted in response, the action alone causing pain to wrack his torso. The sound that came after was only a pitiful whimper. “Both… of you... shut up.” That sound came from the other side of Tom, a parched croak from someone who had evidently been awake for a while and was none too happy about it. Miles was similarly swaddled in immobile casts, rigid and unmoving in his cot like a mummy. Some doctor along the way had had the brilliant idea of rooming them together—in all likelihood, perhaps it was simply compartmentalising the nurses’ annoyance by keeping them all quarantined, leaving their irritation and misery to bounce and rebound off each other like ping-pong balls in a small space. “I would’ve expected,” each word was an agonised wheeze through Miles’ shattered jaw but he squeezed it out anyway, syllables slithering out of his throat, “more,” wheeze, “flowers. For us.” The room was clinical and empty, bare of decoration. The clinic outside the door bustled with noise and activity, packed to bursting; suppose that explained them sharing a room meant for only one patient in the best of times. These were not the best of times. But neither were they the worst of times. "Heh," Tom laughed, near to breathlessness from the effort, and winced in pain. He wished he could clutch at his side like he wanted to, but the movement was not possible. "Remember Lachlan Town?" He asked Miles, attempting to spot his friend on the other side. Lachlan Town had been a disaster, indeed, when Tom had spent the better part of two weeks in the hull of a ship, without any medical treatment whatsoever, thinking he truly might die. Here, he supposed, was a better hope. "Wish there were prettier faces to look at than yours, though," he added, addressing both men with him. Rhys hadn’t noticed the spartan condition of the room. But now that his eyes were coming into focus, he saw that there weren’t any flowers at all. Where the hell was everyone? A feeling of dread flooded him as the mental image of a slew of dead comrades flashed through his mind. Considering where he was and his condition, this was hardly the state of mind he needed to be in if he ever wanted to get out of the bed. He couldn’t help but worry, though. The thief only made another sort of pitiful sound as he attempted to speak. He remembered Lachlan. He didn’t know what was worse. Not being able to verbally gripe, or being subjected to listening to these other two men do it for him. Then there was the wondering of the well-being of all the people he’d come to care about. It was quite an extensive list. And being trapped here as they were -- statues rooted painfully in their beds -- the men were afforded a wealth of time with which to pore over the list. Miles stared up at the ceiling, the mottled white whitewash, chipped and dusty. From the cringing sensation in the rest of his body, he'd be looking at the ceiling and counting those dots a lot over the next week. "I think this is purgatory," Miles finally muttered, "or possibly hell itself." It looked like not all of the Pharist nuns' teachings had gone in one ear and out the other. "Come on, brother," Tom responded, not unkindly. "Hell itself would be quite a bit warmer, don't you think?" It was not like Tom to be cruel, even though he often joked at his good friends' expenses, and they had endured so much. He tried to move his head a little to shake the hair from his eyes (his hair probably needed some washing, he mused) but to little effect and caused more pain. This was going to be an unendurable recovery period if he couldn't scratch an itch, brush his hair away, or shave. "Oh," Tom uttered aloud. He wasn't going to be able to shave. "I've an idea," he posited. "Let us see which of us can grow the fullest beard while we nurse ourselves back to health. Hm? I'm not a betting man but I think I might change that position today. One hundred gil on myself." There were so many things Rhys would have loved to have added to the conversation, but the mere thought of speaking made his teeth ache to the roots. To say he was displeased with this situation was a complete understatement. Why couldn’t whatever fates that existed just let him die? That would have been merciful, at least. None of his lovely assistants were in the room, and he’d thought at least Audrey would be good on checking up on her “husband” to be. He wasn’t really surprised that Chloe wasn’t there. She always did have sense. Tom’s joke made him grimace. He was sure that the attempt to frown was making his face hurt. This was clearly all of Tom’s fault and somehow Miles. Collectively their faults in some fashion. He didn’t know, since they weren’t there to watch him do something stupid. What was that nice feeling he was being flooded with? Somewhere in the haze, Miles’ voice still wheedled out into the room. “We’ll look like bedraggled mountain men. Very dashing. Wager… taken.” But the exhaustion grew too much and he let his head sink back onto the pillow, no longer concerned with the other pair. It would presumably grow tiresome over time, but for now, their presence was tolerable: the sight and sound of these two, at least, reassured him that his friends were still alive. That they’d all pulled through, despite a guesthouse being dropped on him. Like the Wicked Witch of the East. Miles barked a laugh out of nowhere, his thoughts rambling and disconnected, now curling down the path of children’s literature before he dozed off to the reassuringly infuriating sound of Tom’s voice. "...taking Rhys's silence as agreement, so then it's all settled," Tom finished, grinning lightly and completely unaware that Miles had fallen asleep on him. (Though Tom would find it quite typical of the brute, really, if he had known.) With no one else to answer him, Tom continued to speak, his voice still raspy, but found it somewhat easier to do so as he struggled along in his monologue. Still, it was rather apparent that he was on the cusp of a bout of rambling. "I'll have to do something better than my blue moustache and mutton chops for milord's wedding, so we'll have to ponder on this some more. Do you know, it was impossible to remove that spirit gum? Quite embarrassing, actually, I had to tell people I'd had an unfortunate encounter with a dwarf I mistook for a child, backstage at one of the latest productions. That was around the same time that I stole Miles's prop sword and replaced it with a rubber chicken, if you remember." Rhys had vaguely believed he was being volunteered for something. That was nothing new considering the company he was in. Unfortunately, he was drifting too far off to protest or question what was happening to him. That’s when he saw her. The attending mage was not comely in even the loosest sense of the word. The thief frowned sharply, even as she smiled, upping the draught that put him to sleep. Hearing someone new enter the room, Miles struggled and managed (barely) to crack open one sleepy eye, only to notice that she didn’t conform to the image of a sexy nurse whatsoever. Bloody figured. He groaned and then passed out once more. |