| [Jun. 13th, 2009|06:26 pm] |
If Raidou had been a religious man, he would have offered up a fervent thank you to the nearest available deity for that spark of battered, unbroken humour in Genma's eyes. The faint curve of cracked, dry lips that meant he could breathe again. Because there was laughter on the air, shaken and shivered thin, but there, and it was all Genma's.
"Guess we'll have to get new stuff," he croaked. "We can make the Quartermaster have his own little stroke. I think the bastard owes me one anyway, after the last fit he pitched."
Genma still hadn't taken his tags. His crooked fingers were wrapped around Raidou's, warming the metal as he traced out the letters. Raidou held his aching arm still, trying to quiet the shiver that was starting to work through muscle and bone. Along his left side, bandaged burns pulled.
"Kid--" It came out something like a choked grunt as his voice hit its lowest register and bottomed out. Genma's eyes widened; quickly, he unhooked his dogtags and pulled them free, tangling them around his wrist. Raidou let his arm drop, dogtags and chain clattering as they hit the sheets. He let out a ragged breath.
Behind him, the sound of pouring water had long since ended. But there was no sign of a medic to prove everything was kosher. Either Hiro wasn't familiar with Intel's occasional practice of using drugs to loosen a pained agent's uncooperative tongue, or he was being deliberately annoying.
Or Raidou was just paranoid.
He closed his hand around his tags, feeling the edge of metal he hadn't taken off for years press against his palm, and decided he was okay with that.
"Medic, Intel-brat." Genma's eyes clouded with confusion; Raidou flicked a glance in Hiro's general direction, explaining. "New water. Warm water. D'you need to write this down?" |
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