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Gwenog Jones (haveyoumet_) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

"Of course they are," she said, grinning a little wickedly. "But it's always so fun to see their little faces when they realise I don't just have a lilt, I know the language too." It had happened more than enough in communities where she wasn't known that she sort of enjoyed sometimes, provoking a reaction.

Gwenog watched him with observant eyes, scared she was going to have to go against his wishes and take him to St Mungo's after all when he went from uncomfortably pale to positively ashen when she lost her grip. Bile rose in her throat again, especially as she realised he wasn't hearing the words she was saying. She repeated a quiet litany of "It's okay, you're safe, my name is Gwenog and you're safe," until his focus returned and began casting some healing spells of his own. That made her exhale with relief. She'd kept her hands where he could see them, almost certain that touch wouldn't be a comfort given what he'd just gone through. His laugh made her search his face again, unaccustomed to attempting comfort she just shifted slightly in her crouch.

"You're welcome, I'm glad you're... your hands are better." She was going to say she was glad he was doing better, but she wasn't so sure about that.

She shrugged, pushing up to standing again and spelling away the dirt on her jeans. "I was on my way home, and despite what the papers sometimes say I'm not actually a bitch, especially to people in need. And you can always owe me a favour." Not that she really thought she was likely to need a favour, but never let it be said that she couldn't find a little advantage in a situation. Even if she only asked to talk to him in Welsh some time.

She considered him and the mess of clothes. "You want me to transfigure you something to wear? Help you stand? Get you somewhere?" she asked. She was happy to do all or none of them, perfectly capable of each one whether by her own hand or not.