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Rolf Scamander (outofthewild) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

"If you don't pull me in on that one, you'll break my heart." He gave her a pouty face. "After all the times I've worshipped one after being in the field for two weeks straight, I would deserve to visit the altar of The All Powerful and Mighty Bathtub. We should make a shrine anyway, for future generations to discover!" There were times he had so much dirt on him he didn't know if it'd ever come off.

He gave her another faintly pouty look, for he'd enjoy having her around even more often. Maybe if he could get a reliable and knowledgeable assistant, he could do it more. He liked the store, no doubt, but it'd be nice to play hooky on occasion and drag her away for some fun. She was his bestfriend, after all, and he absolutely adored her.

"They're saying that I'm lucky they managed to save the major ligaments and tendons, and that eventually the scar tissue and muscles should stretch and I might not have a limp anymore." He grimaced faintly. He hated any show of weakness, and she was possibly the only person he'd admitted how he felt about the injury to. It didn't always hold up to a lot of strain, still, and he would HAVE to build up to major field work. And even then, he might not be able to completely do some of what he used to. It was a wait and see game. "For now, it's work the muscles and scar tissue carefully, and it will probably start to work better." He hadn't shown her the entire set of scars -- he'd have to strip for that -- but they were among the most impressive he carried, all down his right leg on the whole, with others scattered about. He did wonder if the hot-stretch-pain-soreness would ever go completely away, though. They never quite said. "Oh, that would be great." He perked up slightly. "Is there anywhere you want to visit? We could go be tourists for a weekend of something."

Rolf took a moment to top off her wine a little more, and his as well, and listened with an attentive expression even as he cooked. Lovely, spicy smells started to come from the pan. "Well, shite," he said. Not one to curse over nothing, it was nonetheless a succinct summation of what had happened. "Typos, hell." All of that over a typo, good Merlin and Nimue. He wiped his hands and bent down to look keenly at her back, fingers moving to soothe over the scars, gentle and caring. "Oh, Rosie, ouch. That had to hurt like a son-of-a-sphinx. I'm so sorry."