milliways_bar | (no subject)

(Somewhere Under Milliways: Sunshine's large, lovingly-collected library of gothic vampire lit will likely never be the same refuge of fantasy escapism ever again. She may burn them all when she gets home. If she survives to get home.)

From the kitchens come the sounds of startled, squeaking rats, of a large basket of paradoxes overturning as someone runs unsteadily towards the reassuring light and noise of the bar. The door to the kitchen slams open a moment later, letting through a pale and shaking Rae, clutching her wrenched and bruised right arm to her chest as she runs.

Her head is still reeling, her eyes watering and blurring her vision, the realization of what had just happened - what she had done - and to whom - causing her stomach to rebel violently.

Luckily, the cleaning crew prefer a clean bar and have put trash cans up at strategic locations, for Sunshine doesn't make it to the restroom before being physically ill. She falls jerkily next to it, clutching the trashcan rim with a white-knuckled grip in an effort to steady herself and counteract the tremors she can't seem to stop.

(Warnings in OOM for... well, gothic horror.)

(Tiny tags: A Gothic Winter Tale, Vlad Dracula)

(OOC: Mun has gone to bed. Will return to tag up on threads tomorrow. EP is open for new threads/tags forever and ever, amen. <33333)

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Trowa crouches, still a yard or so away. "Are you all right?"

The answer, very obviously, is no.

But she's not bleeding to death or anything, at least visibly, so she can tell him to go away if she wants.

Her pupils are dialated in fear, her skin pale with a faint sheen of sweat, her breathing ragged and uneven.

"No," she manages, through her chattering teeth.

That answers that, then.

"Just a minute."

He rises, moving slowly and deliberately -- as he usually does, but with the extra calm stillness he'd use around a lion or an unfamiliar dog. (Or, for that matter, a deer.) A few steps towards Bar, and a few quiet words.

When he returns, it's with a blanket in one hand, and a mug of peppermint tea in the other.

The smell of tea makes Sunshine blink, her face clearing slightly as she looks up at the returning Trowa. Clearly, Trowa is an angel using some really unlikely-looking hair as a disguise.

"Th-thank you," she says, her voice rough.

You'd be surprised how many people have not thought that about Trowa.

"Sure," he says, and crouches down again to offer her the blanket. (It's fluffy. Bar is like that.)

The tea he puts down within easy reach. It's warm, but not too hot to gulp if she wants to.

If she maneuvers a bit, she can lower herself to the floor without falling, then wrap up in the blanket and take the tea in her left hand. The peppermint-scented steam helps banish lingering scents of myrrh and roses, and the taste helps settle her twisting stomach and clear the bad taste from her mouth. The shaking is less, coming and going.

It's a big mug.

Trowa waits, settled comfortably, watching the room rather than Sunshine. (That's what peripheral vision is for.)

The tea helps.

Not having to talk, just letting the noise and light and life of the bar surround her, helps more.

The tea is gone quickly, and Sunshine is afraid of the moment when the need to talk also returns.

Luckily, Trowa is not exactly a person to force that one.

A few minutes pass, before he says quietly, "Want any more?"

There's a glance at the mug, for context.

"Please," Rae says, and manages a small grimace-like smile that carries more politeness and gratitude than... well, any happiness at all. She knows one cup is likely sufficient, but two would be an extra safety precaution. Ballast, against the shaking terrors.

Yeah.

Trowa stands.

When he returns a minute later, it's with another mug -- slightly hotter, for slower sipping and holding onto.

And a bag of crushed ice, wrapped in a towel. That one he keeps, for the moment. (It might not be needed, if he's wrong about that arm of hers, but it sure looks like some kind of soft-tissue injury. Ice helps with a lot of those.)

She clings to the mug, one-handed. Her breathing is evening out, her thoughts clearing despite the freshly-remembered terror.

"Thank you," she says again. For the tea, for the blanket, for the ice-pack, for not asking her to talk.

Trowa glances at her.

"Sure," he says again in turn, lightly, and it means no problem.

Because it isn't. And none of this help is because he's been there, in his own way, but that doesn't hurt.

He lets at least another minute pass by, in this pocket of silence and stillness in the middle of Millways's crowded afternoon, before he says, "Can I look at your arm? I know some first aid."

She can say no.

Sunshine has her eyes closed, breathing in the sharp, peppermint-scented steam with deep breaths as slowly as she can.

"Sure," she says, after a long moment of... something. Thought? Shoring-up her defenses of mental and emotional fortitude?

Trowa isn't close enough to touch; he shifts closer with the same deliberate lack of haste.

His fingertips lightly press against her upper arm and shoulder, gentle and impersonal. It might still hurt, but probably not too much more than it already does; he's not putting much pressure at all on her. What he's really checking for is whether the joint is dislocated. (And, to a lesser extent, if she reacts very strongly to any particular touch -- if so, this is more serious than the sprain or tear it looks like.)

After a moment, "Can I ask what happened to it?"

The words, like the touch, are both gentle and businesslike. Trowa's got a decent bedside manner when he bothers to; it's much like talking to animals, to his mind.

She doesn't flinch or move away, simply lets him check her shoulder and arm with a slight grimace on her face at the continuing pain.

"I wrenched it, while looking for flour in the cellar," she says, though it's clearly not the whole truth. "Like this."

She raises her left arm, only slightly bent and with her fist closed, as far back as it will go. It's not beyond her range of movement, but when put in that position inside a split-second while putting all your strength and momentum into moving your arm in the opposite direction, as if to stab something, really... it doesn't really have a good effect on your muscles.

Trowa only nods, hands dropping away from her arm as it moves backwards. And doesn't comment on how she might have managed that kind of wrenching while looking for flour.

"Nothing's dislocated. But you might've torn a muscle or tendon."

He reaches behind him for the towel-wrapped ice. "Ice will help it. And keeping it still for a while."

She certainly won't be moving her injured arm like that any time soon. Her left arm is fine, thankfully, her right arm still held immobile against her chest.

"Oh, I'll be sure to keep it still. Thanks for looking at it, and for the ice," she says.