[ It's not a question of what's wrong, or if Danny wants help, or whether Quentin can do anything about it. He'll fix it. Don't worry. Just don't move. For the length of the trip, twelve minutes with his haste and the awful tightness in his lungs, Quentin updates him with all the warmth of a telegraph: what the Duchess offered, what's happening around town, regulars at the clinic, interspersed assurances of I'm almost there.
[ He isn't sure if his lungs are going to release or collapse when he gets eyes on Danny. Each footstep feels like the forecast is changing. Once Quentin sees him, it's a beeline across the sparse campsite, not even skirting the long-dead firepit on his way over. Danny can rise or stay seated; Quentin's arms lash around his neck either way, even if he has to drop to his knees to get there. His ribs are relaxing. His lungs loosen as he sucks a breath in from the crook of Danny's neck. ]
Everyone says--everyone says people come back. [ No sobbing. He's got it together with one determined snuffle, pulling back and dragging his palm over Danny's jaw--thumb smearing the stubborn stains on his cheeks. Quentin scowls, kisses under his eye and over it and into the corner of his mouth before looking closer. Something is wrong. ] ...The waiting's just a fucking bitch.
Danny, does this-- [ It's in his eyes, Quentin sees. There's mud under his ear, in the corner of his mouth. He's already been drinking. ] --are you hurt, or--
no subject
we'll fix it, don't worry
I can help
[ It's not a question of what's wrong, or if Danny wants help, or whether Quentin can do anything about it. He'll fix it. Don't worry. Just don't move. For the length of the trip, twelve minutes with his haste and the awful tightness in his lungs, Quentin updates him with all the warmth of a telegraph: what the Duchess offered, what's happening around town, regulars at the clinic, interspersed assurances of I'm almost there.
[ He isn't sure if his lungs are going to release or collapse when he gets eyes on Danny. Each footstep feels like the forecast is changing. Once Quentin sees him, it's a beeline across the sparse campsite, not even skirting the long-dead firepit on his way over. Danny can rise or stay seated; Quentin's arms lash around his neck either way, even if he has to drop to his knees to get there. His ribs are relaxing. His lungs loosen as he sucks a breath in from the crook of Danny's neck. ]
Everyone says--everyone says people come back. [ No sobbing. He's got it together with one determined snuffle, pulling back and dragging his palm over Danny's jaw--thumb smearing the stubborn stains on his cheeks. Quentin scowls, kisses under his eye and over it and into the corner of his mouth before looking closer. Something is wrong. ] ...The waiting's just a fucking bitch.
Danny, does this-- [ It's in his eyes, Quentin sees. There's mud under his ear, in the corner of his mouth. He's already been drinking. ] --are you hurt, or--