[ the blood loss is getting to Laurie, so that she doesn't have the proper energy to bitch at Quentin for something that isn't his fault. she would if she could, because no good deed goes unpunished, but right now she just tilts her head, looking impassively at the dead grass, her blood jeans, and then how he starts to chew the lichen up. she can imagine how it tastes - bitter and chalky and earthy, so unlike the ever present flavor of blood between her teeth. ]
Yeah, okay.
[ all at once Laurie wants to snarl and snap at him with the last of her energy, something feral ready to chew its own leg off rather than be touched by a hand - helping or otherwise - but instead she watches as Quentin cuts the leg of her jeans, bends forward a little to take the fabric and tug. it rips with a satisfying rrrrrrr, revealing her bloody leg, the wound grisly and weeping. it doesn't bother her anymore, the site of meat and muscle and bone, all too common in this place. ]
[ Which means he had to come for his conscience's sake. Which means she needs to deal with the consequences, whether she likes them or not. He doesn't say always, even if that might be true. He mutters cold around the plant before drizzling water over the wound. One pass of his thumb to loosely scrub it clear of debris (this time it's an apology muttered for the pain) and he pours another, longer rinsing drought. There's still a sluggish, steady bubbling of blood that makes him wary, but he takes the pasted lichen out of his mouth and packs it to the wound regardless.
[ He winces. The aftertaste is worse than when it's in his mouth. ] Why'd you text me?
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Yeah, okay.
[ all at once Laurie wants to snarl and snap at him with the last of her energy, something feral ready to chew its own leg off rather than be touched by a hand - helping or otherwise - but instead she watches as Quentin cuts the leg of her jeans, bends forward a little to take the fabric and tug. it rips with a satisfying rrrrrrr, revealing her bloody leg, the wound grisly and weeping. it doesn't bother her anymore, the site of meat and muscle and bone, all too common in this place. ]
Thanks. For coming.
no subject
[ Which means he had to come for his conscience's sake. Which means she needs to deal with the consequences, whether she likes them or not. He doesn't say always, even if that might be true. He mutters cold around the plant before drizzling water over the wound. One pass of his thumb to loosely scrub it clear of debris (this time it's an apology muttered for the pain) and he pours another, longer rinsing drought. There's still a sluggish, steady bubbling of blood that makes him wary, but he takes the pasted lichen out of his mouth and packs it to the wound regardless.
[ He winces. The aftertaste is worse than when it's in his mouth. ] Why'd you text me?