[ it's embarrassing, in immediate hindsight. she shouldn't have messaged Quentin at all, should have just quietly expired here among the cars and the stench and the sickly green moonlight, the flickering lights from the gas station. it might have been peaceful, except for the pain. maybe even in spite of it. instead she'd gone and dragged Quentin into her business, and she doesn't trust that that won't have some kind of ramification.
but she takes the water bottle anyway, knows it's Claudette's, not only because of the peeling plant emoji sticker on the side, but because Claudette has got to be the only person in this shithole that really cares about her, in spite of everything. ]
We haven't processed any more yet.... [ There was a reason they were out foraging. Supplies are getting low, growth is coming back from the last time they were out in force. Laurie really could have timed this better. Even so, it's better that she called. Better than disappearing and reappearing more ragged than before, death-drunk for the next few days while they all know. At least if she's going to sulk, they'll all see why, plainly.
[ He fishes for a wrapped bundle that tries to spill open when he unlaces it in his palm. The pale green lichen inside is hard to see but--luckily--plentiful. Quentin pinches out enough that he has to fit it sideways to get it into his mouth to chew. His own water bottle gets tipped over his hands to wash before he grabs his knife. ] Gonna cut these pants. Can you pull'm for me?
[ 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?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
my very strong laurie claudette friendship headcanon
but she takes the water bottle anyway, knows it's Claudette's, not only because of the peeling plant emoji sticker on the side, but because Claudette has got to be the only person in this shithole that really cares about her, in spite of everything. ]
Probably for the best. Didja bring the bonesaw?
[ but actually: ]
Do you have - any styptic powder?
no subject
[ He fishes for a wrapped bundle that tries to spill open when he unlaces it in his palm. The pale green lichen inside is hard to see but--luckily--plentiful. Quentin pinches out enough that he has to fit it sideways to get it into his mouth to chew. His own water bottle gets tipped over his hands to wash before he grabs his knife. ] Gonna cut these pants. Can you pull'm for me?
no subject
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?