Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2013-01-07 10:06 am
flint_garou) wrote2013-01-07 10:06 am
You're family.
Flint happens upon Riley in the lobby.
7 January, 2013
The moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (31% full).
The lobby is quiet this morning, relatively speaking. The light rain falling outside the building drums up a little persistent ambient noise, but otherwise there's no sounds of conversation or the like to look forward to. Curled up in the near corner by the door to the Tenement Building is a massive pile of black fur that looks more than a little out of place. The hispo's back is pressed into the corner, and she's watching the door in stoic silence, her breathing strained.
The stairwell door swings open, admitting Flint, carrying laundry. Apparently it's laundry day, except that he pauses and stares at the hispo form of the ragabash, for a moment, brows furrowing in obvious concern, and then the laundry is set down. Attention turns to Evac, and the cliath asks, quietly, "Can I… get you anything? Do, anything?"
The gaze that the ragabash has trained on the door couldn't be called anything less than hateful, as though she's anticipating at any moment to surge into action and rip apart the next thing that steps through it. Her heavy head jerks at Flint's voice at a considerable delay, and her fur bristles. With her entire body language speaking of anger even prior to the Galliard's intervention, it's difficult to tell where those feelings begin and end in regards to Flint. She stares back at him for several moments before grating out, ~Water.~
Flint nods, and disappears off to the laundry room to do just that. There are several long minutes of the sound of rummaging through cabinets in the laundry room, and then the faucet running. What he comes back with is a 5 gallon bucket half-full of clean water that he lugs and sets down near Riley, approaching rather cautiously until it can be set where the fostern won't have to move too much in order to drink from it.
Even when the bucket is placed in front of her, Evac isn't exactly keen to go right after it. When she begins to move, her motions feel jerky and inconsistent, her forelegs slightly trembling as she settles them around either side of the bucket and lets them fall back to the ground. It's like watching an arthritic, half-dead wolf rather than one that's easily in the prime of her youth. Lifting her heavy head seems an effort, and when she settles her thick muzzle into the bucket and begins to drink, it only lasts for a few seconds. Then the hispo's head inelegantly jerks downward, and the bucket upends, sending the water spilling out over her paws, the floor, and her belly.
"What happened, Riley-rhya?" Flint asks, even as he moves to right the bucket before the rest of the water spills, and wanders back to the laundry room, coming out with an arm full of towels that he dumps inelegantly on the spilled water to mop it up. Brow is still furrowed with worry for his tribemate. One of the towels is set on Riley's forepaws, as well.
In spite of the dark look in her eyes, all Evac does is slowly curl back into the corner, letting the water pool around her, a brief baring of her teeth the only real indication that she's even noticed it. She doesn't budge the towel that's set on her forepaws. ~I am ill, and the Uktena not-kin is not welcome here.~
Flint crouches to continue mopping up the water, and carefully rubs the towel over the hispo's paws to dry them too, gently. Teeth are bared, "Stuck up shitface," Flint mutters. "Can I do anything else? Stay around a bit? Blankets, o-or? Anything?" Regardless of whatever tensions between himself and the fostern in the past, Flint's concern is genuine, if awkwardly expressed as he moves to gather the wet towels and carry them back to the laundry room, returning with more to mop up the remaining drips.
It's clear that her discomfort and her anger seems to be focused in an entirely different realm from Flint at the moment. As such, she's not sending any sarcastic quips or simpering glares in the Cliath's direction. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, and in a darker place. ~This is not helping.~ She finally concludes. ~It is just making me feel heavier, and he will not be coming.~ The shift from Hispo to Homid is uncomfortable to watch. Where Riley's shifting speed is generally as fast as they come, today it is most certainly not. Everything seems to take effort and force of will to make happen, joints popping and sounding as though they're painfully cracking into place through each transition, Riley ends up in homid after an excruciating process. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes look distant and unfocused, and what had been happening in Hispo looks only more pronounced - her muscles are occasionally seizing and pulling tight, and she's shivering softly. Sweat beads along her forehead, and she still seems heedless of the pool of water she now kneels in.
Flint crouches, picking another towel up to put it on the pool of water, and a smaller one that's raised to gently wipe Riley's forehead. "You should go lay down," the galliard says, quietly and with some apparent amount of effort in the words. "Do you want me to call Nieve-rhya, to. If, she can help, maybe?"
Though her facial features aren't much reacting to the muscular seizes, it's clear that they can't be particularly comfortable. When the towel is pressed to her forehead, her eyes flutter closed and she gives a soft little noise of pleasure, her breathing picking up slightly as she leans into the cool rag. She closes her eyes and gives a subtle shake of her head, with as little movement necessary as possible. "…for this? This isn't serious. What it is," She breathes, "Is a slap in the face. If you see that racist asshole in here again, you call me."
The cliath nods, and looks at Riley. "Come on, you'll be more. Better, on the couch, than. Than this," he says, quietly getting to glabro to simply carry the Fostern to the couch unless she protests too much. The cloth is adjusted against Riley's forehead for the cool side once more.
SMACK. Riley's palm slapping against Flint's face is plenty audible in the echo-prone environment of the building's lobby, and it comes as the cliath has already hefted her off of the ground. She's scowling up at him, her breathing strained. What's clear from how little the blow actually hurts as well as the fact that she doesn't attempt to wriggle free or even attempt a second blow is that Riley isn't being especially truthful about how much this is effecting her. Her skin is hot to the touch.
Flint turns with the slap nonetheless, letting it bounce off, and murmuring an apology. He's gentle, really, surprisingly so as he settles Riley onto the couch. "Beat the shit out of me for it when you're. When. You're, feeling better," he informs her as he shifts down to his birth form, a little bit apologetic. There's a blanket on the couch which Flint drags halfway over Riley, refolding the towel over her forehead. "Back in a moment. Water, you need. You need water."
"Not… a fucking damsel in distress," She grinds out, "Don't pick me up like one." She lowers her hand and tugs the blanket over herself, clenching her eyes closed. As it turns out, it's hard to look especially tough when you've got a high fever, no matter how little one lets their discomfort show on their face.
Flint looks at Riley a moment and then moves off to the laundry room again. "I didn't," Flint calls back to Riley. "Picked you up easiest way for me not to, hurt myself doing so. Couch better, than. Than. Ill. Different." The effort to form whole sentences has stopped with the beginning of multitasking. When Flint returns, it's with a mug of water, and he's found a straw somewhere, a few more damp cloths and a dry one, and he brings the water to Riley, holding the cup where she can get to the straw. "The fuck did he do, anyway?"
Her pride is getting in the way of making this a painless process for herself. When Flint hovers the cup and straw in front of her, she jerks a hand out and grabs it from him, clenching it with white-knuckled effort and resting it down against her chest. She settles the straw between her lips and drinks, breathing only through her nose when she takes a break in sips. Only when she's making slurping noises at the bottom of the mug does she break her lips from the straw and glower up at Flint. "Some petty, black-magic shit, because it's the only way he can feel like he's a man."
Flint has the good grace to show something that resembles submission to the fostern, even if it's coupled with carefully moving to rotate the cloth on Riley's forehead with a cooler one. The only answer is a nod, though, and Flint moves a little of Riley's hair from where it fell in her face.
Riley doesn't reach up to smack the Cliath again, possibly because it would take far too much effort. She does, however, turn her head to the side when Flint moves to brush aside her hair. "Flint." Her tone is clearly cautionary, like a mother's warning to a misbehaving toddler. The 'Stop' isn't spoken, but it's sharp and very evident in the bite to her tone. And saying one word is easier than raising her voice to say a handful again. When she does choose to speak, she economically murmurs, "I need sleep. Go."
The cliath doesn't argue this time, just making sure that the few extra cloths are within very easy reach for Riley, and nods. "K." He pauses. "And I'm texting Mouse," he adds, once he's out of reach or range. "I'll be in the office. If you need."
Turning gruffly on her side so that her back is to the back of the couch and she can passive-aggressively continue to watch the door when she's not sleeping, the ragabash grunts in response to the galliard, at least at first. "Flint." The croaked word comes when the Cliath has started walking away. When he turns, he'll notice that Riley is frowning deeply, her eyes turned to the side. "Thanks."
Flint nods to Riley. "Family. You're family," Flint points out succinctly, as if that's explanation enough for his action, and then the cliath's disappeared into the laundry room.
7 January, 2013
The moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (31% full).
The lobby is quiet this morning, relatively speaking. The light rain falling outside the building drums up a little persistent ambient noise, but otherwise there's no sounds of conversation or the like to look forward to. Curled up in the near corner by the door to the Tenement Building is a massive pile of black fur that looks more than a little out of place. The hispo's back is pressed into the corner, and she's watching the door in stoic silence, her breathing strained.
The stairwell door swings open, admitting Flint, carrying laundry. Apparently it's laundry day, except that he pauses and stares at the hispo form of the ragabash, for a moment, brows furrowing in obvious concern, and then the laundry is set down. Attention turns to Evac, and the cliath asks, quietly, "Can I… get you anything? Do, anything?"
The gaze that the ragabash has trained on the door couldn't be called anything less than hateful, as though she's anticipating at any moment to surge into action and rip apart the next thing that steps through it. Her heavy head jerks at Flint's voice at a considerable delay, and her fur bristles. With her entire body language speaking of anger even prior to the Galliard's intervention, it's difficult to tell where those feelings begin and end in regards to Flint. She stares back at him for several moments before grating out, ~Water.~
Flint nods, and disappears off to the laundry room to do just that. There are several long minutes of the sound of rummaging through cabinets in the laundry room, and then the faucet running. What he comes back with is a 5 gallon bucket half-full of clean water that he lugs and sets down near Riley, approaching rather cautiously until it can be set where the fostern won't have to move too much in order to drink from it.
Even when the bucket is placed in front of her, Evac isn't exactly keen to go right after it. When she begins to move, her motions feel jerky and inconsistent, her forelegs slightly trembling as she settles them around either side of the bucket and lets them fall back to the ground. It's like watching an arthritic, half-dead wolf rather than one that's easily in the prime of her youth. Lifting her heavy head seems an effort, and when she settles her thick muzzle into the bucket and begins to drink, it only lasts for a few seconds. Then the hispo's head inelegantly jerks downward, and the bucket upends, sending the water spilling out over her paws, the floor, and her belly.
"What happened, Riley-rhya?" Flint asks, even as he moves to right the bucket before the rest of the water spills, and wanders back to the laundry room, coming out with an arm full of towels that he dumps inelegantly on the spilled water to mop it up. Brow is still furrowed with worry for his tribemate. One of the towels is set on Riley's forepaws, as well.
In spite of the dark look in her eyes, all Evac does is slowly curl back into the corner, letting the water pool around her, a brief baring of her teeth the only real indication that she's even noticed it. She doesn't budge the towel that's set on her forepaws. ~I am ill, and the Uktena not-kin is not welcome here.~
Flint crouches to continue mopping up the water, and carefully rubs the towel over the hispo's paws to dry them too, gently. Teeth are bared, "Stuck up shitface," Flint mutters. "Can I do anything else? Stay around a bit? Blankets, o-or? Anything?" Regardless of whatever tensions between himself and the fostern in the past, Flint's concern is genuine, if awkwardly expressed as he moves to gather the wet towels and carry them back to the laundry room, returning with more to mop up the remaining drips.
It's clear that her discomfort and her anger seems to be focused in an entirely different realm from Flint at the moment. As such, she's not sending any sarcastic quips or simpering glares in the Cliath's direction. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, and in a darker place. ~This is not helping.~ She finally concludes. ~It is just making me feel heavier, and he will not be coming.~ The shift from Hispo to Homid is uncomfortable to watch. Where Riley's shifting speed is generally as fast as they come, today it is most certainly not. Everything seems to take effort and force of will to make happen, joints popping and sounding as though they're painfully cracking into place through each transition, Riley ends up in homid after an excruciating process. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes look distant and unfocused, and what had been happening in Hispo looks only more pronounced - her muscles are occasionally seizing and pulling tight, and she's shivering softly. Sweat beads along her forehead, and she still seems heedless of the pool of water she now kneels in.
Flint crouches, picking another towel up to put it on the pool of water, and a smaller one that's raised to gently wipe Riley's forehead. "You should go lay down," the galliard says, quietly and with some apparent amount of effort in the words. "Do you want me to call Nieve-rhya, to. If, she can help, maybe?"
Though her facial features aren't much reacting to the muscular seizes, it's clear that they can't be particularly comfortable. When the towel is pressed to her forehead, her eyes flutter closed and she gives a soft little noise of pleasure, her breathing picking up slightly as she leans into the cool rag. She closes her eyes and gives a subtle shake of her head, with as little movement necessary as possible. "…for this? This isn't serious. What it is," She breathes, "Is a slap in the face. If you see that racist asshole in here again, you call me."
The cliath nods, and looks at Riley. "Come on, you'll be more. Better, on the couch, than. Than this," he says, quietly getting to glabro to simply carry the Fostern to the couch unless she protests too much. The cloth is adjusted against Riley's forehead for the cool side once more.
SMACK. Riley's palm slapping against Flint's face is plenty audible in the echo-prone environment of the building's lobby, and it comes as the cliath has already hefted her off of the ground. She's scowling up at him, her breathing strained. What's clear from how little the blow actually hurts as well as the fact that she doesn't attempt to wriggle free or even attempt a second blow is that Riley isn't being especially truthful about how much this is effecting her. Her skin is hot to the touch.
Flint turns with the slap nonetheless, letting it bounce off, and murmuring an apology. He's gentle, really, surprisingly so as he settles Riley onto the couch. "Beat the shit out of me for it when you're. When. You're, feeling better," he informs her as he shifts down to his birth form, a little bit apologetic. There's a blanket on the couch which Flint drags halfway over Riley, refolding the towel over her forehead. "Back in a moment. Water, you need. You need water."
"Not… a fucking damsel in distress," She grinds out, "Don't pick me up like one." She lowers her hand and tugs the blanket over herself, clenching her eyes closed. As it turns out, it's hard to look especially tough when you've got a high fever, no matter how little one lets their discomfort show on their face.
Flint looks at Riley a moment and then moves off to the laundry room again. "I didn't," Flint calls back to Riley. "Picked you up easiest way for me not to, hurt myself doing so. Couch better, than. Than. Ill. Different." The effort to form whole sentences has stopped with the beginning of multitasking. When Flint returns, it's with a mug of water, and he's found a straw somewhere, a few more damp cloths and a dry one, and he brings the water to Riley, holding the cup where she can get to the straw. "The fuck did he do, anyway?"
Her pride is getting in the way of making this a painless process for herself. When Flint hovers the cup and straw in front of her, she jerks a hand out and grabs it from him, clenching it with white-knuckled effort and resting it down against her chest. She settles the straw between her lips and drinks, breathing only through her nose when she takes a break in sips. Only when she's making slurping noises at the bottom of the mug does she break her lips from the straw and glower up at Flint. "Some petty, black-magic shit, because it's the only way he can feel like he's a man."
Flint has the good grace to show something that resembles submission to the fostern, even if it's coupled with carefully moving to rotate the cloth on Riley's forehead with a cooler one. The only answer is a nod, though, and Flint moves a little of Riley's hair from where it fell in her face.
Riley doesn't reach up to smack the Cliath again, possibly because it would take far too much effort. She does, however, turn her head to the side when Flint moves to brush aside her hair. "Flint." Her tone is clearly cautionary, like a mother's warning to a misbehaving toddler. The 'Stop' isn't spoken, but it's sharp and very evident in the bite to her tone. And saying one word is easier than raising her voice to say a handful again. When she does choose to speak, she economically murmurs, "I need sleep. Go."
The cliath doesn't argue this time, just making sure that the few extra cloths are within very easy reach for Riley, and nods. "K." He pauses. "And I'm texting Mouse," he adds, once he's out of reach or range. "I'll be in the office. If you need."
Turning gruffly on her side so that her back is to the back of the couch and she can passive-aggressively continue to watch the door when she's not sleeping, the ragabash grunts in response to the galliard, at least at first. "Flint." The croaked word comes when the Cliath has started walking away. When he turns, he'll notice that Riley is frowning deeply, her eyes turned to the side. "Thanks."
Flint nods to Riley. "Family. You're family," Flint points out succinctly, as if that's explanation enough for his action, and then the cliath's disappeared into the laundry room.