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)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.