14th of Roalis, 2717
KING'S COURTHOUSE | EVENING
If he'd expected some sort of objection to his impolite form of helpfulness used to assist Niccolette into the carriage with, selfishly distracting himself, Corwynn was certain that the normally outspoken Bastian would have surely had some chastising to say when he intentionally and deviously didn't shy away from testing the same waters a second time upon exit. Instead, curiously enough, she smiled and said nothing. The older galdor didn't have the time to waste on interpretation—perhaps she was simply humoring him, but even that seemed out of character—so, honestly, he didn't bother.
He took a fair breeze whenever it blew, after all.
Dizzy now that he was back on his feet, the blond gunman found his equilibrium slowly and glanced to Wavorly, aware that he had an entire carriage to dispose of. He smirked up at the other man, the two men coworkers, shipmates, and friends for for long enough that words weren't necessary. The wick pirate would be back, probably with fresh clothes and full report to Silas in his stead, but the Circle only knew how long that would be.
Turning to lead the way in, Corwynn wasn't a stranger with the proprietors of the Courthouse (with anyone in the Harbor, really, after nearly two decades of his life spent serving his choice of Crown in the Rose), and the sight of the bleeding Bad Brother was more than enough to set the staff into a flurry of motion. No, he didn't require much. Yes, he had help with him. No, just somewhere private and out of the way would do. Yes, all the drinks. No, just stop fussing. He was mostly even-tempered, navigating conversation with a steady enough hand even though he'd now spent too much time out of the action, adrenaline draining into shock and clouding over both his patience and his focus.
He shrugged off his coat in the hall, wobbling a little when the sleeves seemed stubborn and his motion stiff. The burning sensation from the hole in his side was tolerable enough, nothing new, hot and angry and present, but it was the chill in his fingertips and flutter in his heart that kept him from thinking too lightly of his wound. Not the first time, and certainly not the last.
The door closed behind himself and Niccolette and he tossed the ruined finery over a chair, hovering long enough to loosen buckles and slip off his own firearm, dropping it all with no small amount of gentleness onto the same chair. Corwynn would certainly have continued undressing, hands moving toward bloodstained hems of his pants to set a thumb against fastenings, fingers slipping to untuck his shirt instead, but there out of the corner of his eye was Mrs. Ibutatu, the pulse of Living mona so strongly attuned to her person thrumming through the entire room.
He paused, coyly so, grinning at the doctor's orders, "Oh, if you insist." Blue eyes followed her hands, followed the sparkle of liquid into a glass, and followed her fluid movement to set the drink on the side table as he settled into the chaise lounge with a frown of discomfort, utterly unconcerned for the ruining of upholstery, "It's quite a pleasure to be treated to such lovely bedside manner. A rare treat."
The blond gunman couldn't help himself, his words a mischievous but quiet form of flattery while he reached for the glass and watched the way silk flowed behind the Bastian galdor while she went to fetch herself a stool. He swished the first sip through his mouth, feeling the sting of his bit cheek from the one-eyed witch's elbow to his face, swallowing hard before he drained the rest. A second, longer swig, and he set an empty glass back down with a hiss, Niccolette settling herself in necessary proximity, dark hair daring him to touch it, tempting him to reach up and move it out of the way—ah—but, she was just a step ahead, perhaps aware of his crystalline gaze not focused on her face.
So, he watched her tie it back instead, suddenly made aware of just how unhelpful of a patient he was being once there were fingers on the buttons of his shirt,
"Well, only because you're asking so nicely, Niccolette." His words implied he wasn't new to pain, implied he not only understood but perhaps enjoyed the edge between various levels of discomfort and pleasure, "Although, I see you have no desire to make it easy."
The young woman grinned and Corwynn's tone of voice fell in volume, watching with more than just casual interest as her hands moved downward over the freckled, tanned landscape of his torso. Fresh bruises and old scars, some clearly poorly healed from years ago, were on display and the older galdor was hardly shy. He was still, though, breath catching and lips forming a taut line on his windswept, well-aged face while the young woman seemed to skirt the edge of medical necessity and unintentional flirtation—it was, surely, all completely unintentional.
While the blond gunman was known for his lack of concern for the marital status of those he'd bedded, especially among his own kind, he wasn't incapable of respecting boundaries—he knew when it wasn't worth his time. For all of his blatant and unapologetic promiscuity, his pursuits were far more in line with a curious connoisseur than an insatiable beast.
He tensed at the knock, the reaction instinctual and well-honed, only to relax again slowly as their host quietly made his exchange, settling back into the chaise while pretending he didn't regret the sudden movement. It was simple enough, grinning instead of grimacing while someone pretty cleaned him up proper-like, and it was distracting enough, watching someone else cast. Watching a galdor cast, specifically.
Quantitative mona surely had the sense of humor in the collective consciousness they were theorized to have, and the dark-haired Bastian clearly didn't get the answer she wanted, not with a snort like that. Corwynn quirked a fair eyebrow, only to shrug at her warning,
"Please, there's no need to be gentle with me." He hummed without a hint of innocence, shifting slightly in order to better brace himself, fully aware of what to expect. She prodded, investigating what magic had refused to make clear, and he hissed but didn't otherwise complain, the blond gunman hardly inexperienced. He gave his opinions while she investigated by touch, closing his eyes for most of it and actually attempting to pay attention, "It feels like a clean shot. Just close quarters and a shitty firearm. I'm rather disappointed in how that conversation went for many reasons, but the consequences seem to be messier than they are damaging."
The older galdor did as he was told, however, making a show of himself folding the cloth as if it was an innuendo all on its own, "I don't think pleasant thoughts will be a problem from this angle, Niccolette."
He winked, making sure he kept himself from saying anything else (at this particular moment, anyway) with a chuckle.
There was something both disquieting and fascinating about watching another galdor cast, something both personal and terrifying listening to the intent in the Bastian's tone and following the Monite. He was aware of her talents, already having been impressed by her skill as a sorcerer on more than one occasion. Corwynn felt the shift in Living mona like a held breath finally taken, knowing that Niccolette's methods of stitching broken bodies back together was just as brutal and effective as when she took them apart. Perhaps there was a bit of thrill in that understanding, a momentary excitement in his bright blue eyes for the experience, a selfishly destructive interest in the sensations that would surely not fall into his usual range of pleasures.
Hurt was a generous understatement, a euphemism when used in the context of healing torn flesh without any anesthetic spells at all. That familiar burn of hot metal, that sharp objection of every nerve, only in slow motion, only in agonizing detail. He kept still and, surprisingly, his well-aged, sea-hewn features kept a rather even expression, curling one hand into the already bloodied upholstery of the lounge, it was with no small amount of boldness that he set the other, less whole hand on her knee, though he didn't squeeze or cling for any sense of comfort, no, four fingers tangling in red silk in case guidance became necessary.
He didn't whine or cry out, not for this sort of exquisite suffering, no, but he huffed and cursed against folded cloth, eyes narrowed, sweat trickling down his face, etched as it was in a mask of pained concentration. The older galdor didn't look away, didn't close his eyes and attempt to travel elsewhere in his mind, however, choosing instead to watch closely, intently: Niccolette's face, her determined poise, the blood on her hands, the motion of her lips, and his own tissue slowly brought back together. Ever so slowly.
"Godsdamn."
He panted hoarsely, echoing the phrase once even quieter, rag tumbling from his lips—lips which curled into the faintest hint of a smile before calloused knuckles dragged the expression away, "You weren't fucking kidding."
Corwynn sighed, still watching, not complaining, attention drifting from the Bastian's face to her hands as she wiped blood from a tender set of bruises instead of an open pair of holes. A fair trade, really, and the fingers that released both furniture and fabric reached up to crawl over his face and rake through blond curls with a ragged breath. Face hidden for a moment, he felt Niccolette slip away with the whisper of silk and the warm, languid trails of awakened Living mona in her field, tangled like strong tendrils everywhere, still pressing against his senses, writhing in the buoyant but dampened weight of his own.
The petite brunette served herself gin and he considered sitting up, glancing at the dark-haired woman's back, following the flow of her hair in the dimly lit room, only to be caught in his curiosity. He was not apologetic, not by the second glance in his direction, no, the other galdor's expression warming into—into something that wasn't just a grateful smile, not when Niccolette wasn't rushing to dismiss herself, matter-of-fact and efficient as he knew her to be.
"You're welcome, by the way—" The blond gunman sat up slowly, dull aches an acceptable trade, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt with a casual ease before shrugging the bloody thing off, holding her hazel-eyed gaze as he did so, letting his words hang in the air for longer than was necessary. Reaching for his empty glass with a sharp inhale, he stood, letting the dizziness fade before he crossed the room with purpose. Still quiet, grin mischievous but subtle, he brushed his way into the petite brunette's personal space to pour himself more gin, ignoring unsteady hands,
"—for a more exciting evening than whatever you had planned. Though I'm glad for your, hmm, arrangements, considering."
Corwynn was anything but naive. He knew when not to ask questions, and his way of offering gratitude in this moment was not at all masked in subtlety. Instead, his quiet baritone explored opportunities with the same knowing experience as her hands had explored his flesh for further injury. He paused for a sip of gin, the gravitational confidence of his field steady and reliable like the tide, mingling with hers in their proximity with all the force of some unseen undertow,
"So, also, thank you, Niccolette."