[ Quentin scowls more freely from behind the safety of the flashlight as he shines it on Steve's face, mutters for him to close his eyes. Predictably, everything seems to be there, but...something isn't quite right. It all moves with Steve's expression, brows pinched and sloped from worry, mouth tight where a wound draw pulls his lips then. What's odd, Quentin observes quietly, mouth barely moving: ]
You're a little bruised. [ He wets his lips and breathes in deep. That's odd. It's rare for people to bring back marks when they've died. Not impossible, but not common at all. Maybe she hasn't ironed out the Singularities work yet. Quentin's palm braced along Steve's jaw, though he might only feel the tips of Quentin's ring finger and pink brush near his ear. A thumb gingerly sweets the hollow of his eye socket, which is a sickly yellow-blue mottle. ] Not crazy, it just looks like--I mean. It looks like someone slammed a pinball around in here. How long since you noticed you can't feel your face?
( Steve is also aware that coming back with injuries is abnormal. he's been in the fog long enough to know. sort of like Vegas, what happens in a trial is supposed to stay there. and he's also aware that things like this have started sticking with him more. waking up without a finger, or his chest painted purple from that livid Japanese giant breaking every one of his ribs. it's not like it lasts forever, but that it sticks around at all...
it's sort of avoiding to the doctor with a growing dread of something being wrong. maybe he shouldn't have come at all. the schrödinger's cat of physical deterioration, as long as he doesn't think about it too hard, it can't be that bad. still, having his face sealed on sideways is terrifying enough he can't just leave that one to the unknown. Quentin's fingers feel distinctly strange, far away, and somewhat reassuring in that he can feel them at all. weird combination.
Steve grimaces at the prodding, breath caught behind his teeth. tries looks at Quentin, squinting through the overly artificial glare of the flashlight, and then looks up because it's too hard and too weird to try and look the guy in the eye. ) Since I woke up. I dunno. Twenty minutes. ( his watch doesn't work in the fog, and it's always thinking of new inventive ways to be nonfunctional. so that's a guess at best. fog time is pretty wiggly. but, not that long, is at least a fair estimate. )
Mmm. [ Both of their eyes will need to readjust once Quentin turns the flashlight off, but Steve can certainly hear his wary grimace. It's always kind of touch or go to suggest this sort of thing to people from his time, but: ] I don't like that the bruise is still there, but I mean, how often do you have...panic attacks?
Panicwha--? ( Steve asks, articulate as ever, face scrunched up as his brain chugs somewhat over the meaning of simple words. panic attack i it takes longer than it should. his frustration is not immediate, but when it hits it is palpable. )
Panic attack. It wasn't — it was a robot attack, asshole. ( HE HAS BEEN VERY CLEAR ABOUT THIS HASN'T HE ??? this is not an PANIC attack, how can you panic about something that HAPPENED? )
Thanks, thanks for the clarification. Steve, I'm serious, what do you have, uh--
[ He takes a precautionary step back, both hands coming up for a second (easy, easy) before he counts off on his fingers: ] Agitation, obviously, since you're acting like a pill. Anxiety? Numb in the face, we know this. How's your chest feel? Is it tight?
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You're a little bruised. [ He wets his lips and breathes in deep. That's odd. It's rare for people to bring back marks when they've died. Not impossible, but not common at all. Maybe she hasn't ironed out the Singularities work yet. Quentin's palm braced along Steve's jaw, though he might only feel the tips of Quentin's ring finger and pink brush near his ear. A thumb gingerly sweets the hollow of his eye socket, which is a sickly yellow-blue mottle. ] Not crazy, it just looks like--I mean. It looks like someone slammed a pinball around in here. How long since you noticed you can't feel your face?
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it's sort of avoiding to the doctor with a growing dread of something being wrong. maybe he shouldn't have come at all. the schrödinger's cat of physical deterioration, as long as he doesn't think about it too hard, it can't be that bad. still, having his face sealed on sideways is terrifying enough he can't just leave that one to the unknown. Quentin's fingers feel distinctly strange, far away, and somewhat reassuring in that he can feel them at all. weird combination.
Steve grimaces at the prodding, breath caught behind his teeth. tries looks at Quentin, squinting through the overly artificial glare of the flashlight, and then looks up because it's too hard and too weird to try and look the guy in the eye. ) Since I woke up. I dunno. Twenty minutes. ( his watch doesn't work in the fog, and it's always thinking of new inventive ways to be nonfunctional. so that's a guess at best. fog time is pretty wiggly. but, not that long, is at least a fair estimate. )
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Panic attack. It wasn't — it was a robot attack, asshole. ( HE HAS BEEN VERY CLEAR ABOUT THIS HASN'T HE ??? this is not an PANIC attack, how can you panic about something that HAPPENED? )
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[ He takes a precautionary step back, both hands coming up for a second (easy, easy) before he counts off on his fingers: ] Agitation, obviously, since you're acting like a pill. Anxiety? Numb in the face, we know this. How's your chest feel? Is it tight?