[ Astarion always used to hate when Iorveth would speak in his language, paranoid that there was something Iorveth was keeping from him, that there was some private joke he wasn't in on. He doesn't feel that way anymore. Iorveth's native tongue is precious, musical, all him. It would be sexy, if he had the capacity to find anything sexy right now. Astarion murmurs back poorly-accented I love yous, focusing on the sound of Iorveth's voice and the feel of his palm against his until he manages to— not drift off, exactly, but relax enough that it's close to resting. It's restorative, by any means.
At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
[ "Hm? Oh? So it was, so he is." The halfling squints up at Iorveth, tapping the side of his face with his cane (surprisingly impudent for a cleric, Iorveth thinks) before nudging him aside again. Triage instincts, perhaps.
"Later, for him. I sense a lot of unpleasantness on you."
Popping by Astarion's side like a mustachioed gopher, the cleric― "Master Reginald is an expert at his craft," Gale explains once he finally catches up, huffing and puffing― mumbles a few spells under his breath and hovers his hands over Astarion's chest, palms glowing a soft gold. The magic seems to peel away at some spiritual mud still left clinging on Astarion, attacking residual corruption from parts of him having been cased in the (now-destroyed) soul bag. The sensation will be like momentarily dipping into cool water― a blink, and the feeling abates.
"Dealt with a malevolent creature, did you? A lich, maybe? Very bad things," he continues chirping, scooting over to Astarion's legs. "Now, off with your trousers, please! I heard there was some more unpleasantness with your leg."
Iorveth boggles at the halfling's tugging at Astarion's pant leg, and not-so-gently displaces him with an elbow to the man's side and a shove. ]
Mind how you speak to him, [ he snaps, then glances towards Astarion. ] Should Gale and I leave the room for this?
[ The biggest hypocrite in the world: Astarion would be gravely offended if Reginald focused on nearly anyone else during his time of need, but because it's Iorveth, he's actually gravely offended that Reginald doesn't give proper attention to his most precious, specialest boy in the whole world. He scowls at the pushing aside, although he doesn't have much time to be irritated, because the cleric works incredibly fast. An expert at his craft, indeed.
More accurately, it feels like being dunked into cold water. Astarion shivers at the sensation before it abruptly dissipates, and he begins to feel the return of those unnameable, intrinsic parts of himself that had felt stolen away. (Not like it really matters. His soul is never going to see any use.)
He bristles at the tug on his pant leg, pushing himself up so that he's vertical once more. ]
Don't wrinkle that. [ In actuality, he just can't stand the feeling of someone who isn't Iorveth trying to undress him. It's been a very long time since he felt it now, but the reaction is still just as visceral. ] —Gale, go. [ A wave of his hand. ] You wouldn't want to become overcome with wild lust and ruin our friendship, hm?
[ Gale sputters and gawks, clearly flustered by the mere implication, but he seems to get the picture. As he walks out, Astarion can hear him grumbling something along the lines of, "...think very highly of yourself..." ]
Darling. [ To Iorveth. ] Help me, if you would.
[ A less pathetic way of saying that he'd prefer Iorveth to stay for this, actually. Reginald seems nice enough, but he'd rather not be alone and pantsless in a room with a stranger. ]
[ Iorveth watches Gale slink away like the saddest golden retriever, then kneels next to Astarion on the couch to help him out of his trousers－
－which is slow going. Iorveth hadn't been able to see the extent of the damage done to the leg until now, but the more he sees of it as the pants shimmy down, the worse it looks. Bruising from internal bleeding along almost the entire length of it, horribly stark against such pale skin.
Iorveth doesn't wince, but he feels inclined to. Reginald, on the other hand, pipes up with an "oh!", impressed-adjacent as he scurries around.
"Hm, hm! A nasty break, nasty indeed... I'm surprised you aren't screaming in pain right now. Most people would have fainted from the agony."
Grim. It makes Iorveth think of all the impossible things Astarion had to endure under Cazador's thumb, which makes him grit his teeth. ]
[ The leg is tender enough that even the peeling away of fabric hurts, and Astarion finds himself caught between his desire to seem unflappable and his desire to throw a fit about anything unpleasant. He settles for scrunching up his face and grinding his teeth, only opening them once his leg is exposed to the air, which isn't much more comfortable.
He looks at Iorveth first, who looks like he's about to shatter his molars if he sets his jaw any harder; not a good sign. His eyes follow Iorveth's, and— ]
Oh, gods.
[ It's not his first injury of this sort, but it's the first that he's ever really gotten a good look at. He'd spent most of his time recuperating in the kennels where he couldn't look if he wanted to, and the rest of the time, he avoided getting undressed at all costs. This, though... ]
It's hideous.
[ A bigger problem than the pain by far. He looks up with a start, wide eyes beseeching Reginald for good news. ]
[ Oh. Iorveth blinks, stares, then laughs in a gallows-humor way, like he simply cannot believe that Astarion is worried about aesthetics instead of the fact that his leg is fucking shattered, but also, like. Of course he is. It makes Iorveth want to strangle him a little, but at the same time, the consistency makes Iorveth want to punch Astarion in the mouth with his own mouth. A familiar feeling.
Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
He reaches out for Iorveth's hands, an instinctive comfort-seeking, but it ends in less comfort and more squeezing his fingers so hard that it's a wonder they don't shatter, too. Iorveth's only saving grace is Astarion's utter lack of strength, because he's gripping as hard as he can, seeking some sort of outlet for the pain. He'll feel bad about it afterwards, surely, but at the moment, there isn't a coherent thought in his head.
His teeth gnash with such intensity that he's surprised he doesn't bite off his own tongue. It's not just the physical discomfort, although there's certainly a lot of that. It's the feeling of having someone inflict pain on him—no matter how good their intentions—and having to sit here and take it. It lights up something terribly unpleasant in his brain, and after what must be a fraction of a second but feels like forever: ]
Iorveth doesn't know that he's ever heard Astarion scream like this before, and it jolts him into an immediate sense of ice-cold urgency, uncaring of whether Astarion breaks his fingers in an attempt to vent pain. Not even the hag inspired this sort of visceral reaction, and Iorveth turns to Reginald with his teeth bared, fury staining his one eye. ]
Stop, he said.
[ Despite the dramatics, the cleric remains unfazed. Unrelenting, even. His calm is the calm of a healer who has seen every permutation of physical atrocity that the world can offer, and finds it a little ridiculous that these elves are kicking up a fuss over a broken leg (albeit a very badly broken leg, Reginald will give them that).
"Must keep going if he ever wants to walk again," the halfling replies without skipping a beat. His fingers dig harder into Astarion's bruise, finding the worst of the fracture to grind it (the only word for what the process must feel like) into submission.
Iorveth, meanwhile, hisses a very genuine: ] Stop, before I take your head, [ to which Gale appears from the doorway, looking rumpled and flustered and very, very concerned as he tries to hold Iorveth back from literal murder.
"Iorveth! I understand how you must feel, but you must let him work." ]
[ If only Astarion were in a better state of mind, he'd find Iorveth's protectiveness very sweet and terribly endearing. He really cares, which of course Astarion knows, but it's always a strange and amazing realization every time Iorveth does something that proves it. Except he can't appreciate it now, because Iorveth is saying to stop and it doesn't stop, which sends the cold feeling of helplessness up his spine, and—
Rationally, he knows this is completely different than any sort of pain he experienced in the past, but it feels so similar as to make the distinction negligible. He wants to thrash and fight and wring Reginald's neck for doing this to him, but he doesn't. He does what he's always done: endure.
He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes inside himself to wait for it to be over, fingernails digging into the flesh of Iorveth's hand sharply enough to draw blood. ]
[ And thus, there's a strange pile of people holding other people down: Reginald, who works his hands over the broken leg with meticulous (and agonizing) precision, Gale, who has his arms around Iorveth's middle, keeping him from lashing out at Reginald, and Iorveth, snarling at Reginald with every intention to bite his impertinent fucking head off, but also staying put so as not to dislodge Astarion's deathgrip around his now-bleeding hand.
Seconds stretch, turning into minutes; small, shattered bone start to realign where they should, and all the torn sinew and veins revert to their original states, albeit tentatively. Raw, aching.
After a few more beats of pure, white-hot pain, the cleric pulls his now non-glowing hands back. A bead of sweat has formed on his forehead, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
"―There. That was quite bad, wasn't it. Adventurers really should learn to take care of themselves better."
Iorveth really could kill him. He doesn't, obviously, but there's still murder in the glint of his eye, and he spits a rather harsh obscenity in his native language between his teeth before turning to Astarion. ]
[ A moment passes, then another. It's only then that Astarion finally opens his eyes, letting himself become reacquainted with the feeling of physically existing again. It's been ages since he separated himself from his body to such a degree, and he had forgotten how disorienting it can be trying to come back into it. He blinks, grip on Iorveth's hand finally loosening. ]
Oh.
[ His leg does feel better. Not good, but improved. Sturdier, like the shattered pieces have fused back together, but still sore, like they aren't exactly happy about the fact. It still looks awful, but he supposes he'll have to trust Reginald on the recovery timeframe.
Speaking of Reginald, Astarion doesn't have it in him to thank him, despite his kindness in coming over here at the crack of dawn to heal some stranger he doesn't even know. All he can say is: ] Gods below, I know it's an enticing sight, but surely one of you can hand me my trousers.
[ It feels like he's sitting in his underwear with half of Waterdeep as witnesses. ]
[ Gale relinquishes his hold on Iorveth once he's sure that the deranged elf won't turn around and try to slit the cleric's throat, and that's Iorveth's cue to shove away and slide closer to Astarion, trousers in tow to pull them back on and over long legs. The bruised one is still noticeably more swollen than the other, presumably still sore and uncomfortable; it conjures the sound of Astarion's scream again, deepening the frown-crease between Iorveth's brows.
Reginald, still chipper: "I'll be back again tomorrow to make sure everything's settling alright with the leg." Then, he glances towards Iorveth. "As for you..."
Migraine-wracked, face cut, hand bleeding, Iorveth looks every bit like a rabid fox. If he had fuzzy triangular ears, they would be sitting flat against his head, fur on end and hackles raised. ]
I don't require your help, [ he says with furious obstinacy, even though it really would be prudent to let Reginald tend to him. Iorveth is grateful, of course, that the cleric came all this way to heal Astarion in the only way that was likely available, but he's still furious that the halfling was so flippant about Astarion's pain. ]
[ "Iorveth," Gale says, face red with embarrassment that he sought out Reginald only for his two guests to be so impolite. "Surely it wouldn't hurt to let him take a look!"
The right thing to do would be for Astarion to admit that he overreacted, and to encourage Iorveth to allow the healing. At least a little bit — perhaps his head might be more unpleasant, but to heal at least the marks Astarion left on his hand should be painless enough. But Astarion still feels shaken from— well, he's still shaken from murdering that man, much less the hag and now this. It isn't the worst day of his life by far—nothing could be, with Iorveth by his side—but it's not winning any awards for best, either. ]
I hate to see you in pain, [ is the most encouragement he can offer. He presses cool fingers lightly over the scratches on Iorveth's hand, frowning. He doesn't remember squeezing Iorveth quite this hard. ]
But it's your choice, my love. I'll tend to you if he doesn't.
[ "Far be it from me to minimize the healing power of love," Gale says, "but I'm not certain it cures a concussion." ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
no subject
"Later, for him. I sense a lot of unpleasantness on you."
Popping by Astarion's side like a mustachioed gopher, the cleric― "Master Reginald is an expert at his craft," Gale explains once he finally catches up, huffing and puffing― mumbles a few spells under his breath and hovers his hands over Astarion's chest, palms glowing a soft gold. The magic seems to peel away at some spiritual mud still left clinging on Astarion, attacking residual corruption from parts of him having been cased in the (now-destroyed) soul bag. The sensation will be like momentarily dipping into cool water― a blink, and the feeling abates.
"Dealt with a malevolent creature, did you? A lich, maybe? Very bad things," he continues chirping, scooting over to Astarion's legs. "Now, off with your trousers, please! I heard there was some more unpleasantness with your leg."
Iorveth boggles at the halfling's tugging at Astarion's pant leg, and not-so-gently displaces him with an elbow to the man's side and a shove. ]
Mind how you speak to him, [ he snaps, then glances towards Astarion. ] Should Gale and I leave the room for this?
no subject
More accurately, it feels like being dunked into cold water. Astarion shivers at the sensation before it abruptly dissipates, and he begins to feel the return of those unnameable, intrinsic parts of himself that had felt stolen away. (Not like it really matters. His soul is never going to see any use.)
He bristles at the tug on his pant leg, pushing himself up so that he's vertical once more. ]
Don't wrinkle that. [ In actuality, he just can't stand the feeling of someone who isn't Iorveth trying to undress him. It's been a very long time since he felt it now, but the reaction is still just as visceral. ] —Gale, go. [ A wave of his hand. ] You wouldn't want to become overcome with wild lust and ruin our friendship, hm?
[ Gale sputters and gawks, clearly flustered by the mere implication, but he seems to get the picture. As he walks out, Astarion can hear him grumbling something along the lines of, "...think very highly of yourself..." ]
Darling. [ To Iorveth. ] Help me, if you would.
[ A less pathetic way of saying that he'd prefer Iorveth to stay for this, actually. Reginald seems nice enough, but he'd rather not be alone and pantsless in a room with a stranger. ]
no subject
－which is slow going. Iorveth hadn't been able to see the extent of the damage done to the leg until now, but the more he sees of it as the pants shimmy down, the worse it looks. Bruising from internal bleeding along almost the entire length of it, horribly stark against such pale skin.
Iorveth doesn't wince, but he feels inclined to. Reginald, on the other hand, pipes up with an "oh!", impressed-adjacent as he scurries around.
"Hm, hm! A nasty break, nasty indeed... I'm surprised you aren't screaming in pain right now. Most people would have fainted from the agony."
Grim. It makes Iorveth think of all the impossible things Astarion had to endure under Cazador's thumb, which makes him grit his teeth. ]
Enough talking. Fix it.
no subject
He looks at Iorveth first, who looks like he's about to shatter his molars if he sets his jaw any harder; not a good sign. His eyes follow Iorveth's, and— ]
Oh, gods.
[ It's not his first injury of this sort, but it's the first that he's ever really gotten a good look at. He'd spent most of his time recuperating in the kennels where he couldn't look if he wanted to, and the rest of the time, he avoided getting undressed at all costs. This, though... ]
It's hideous.
[ A bigger problem than the pain by far. He looks up with a start, wide eyes beseeching Reginald for good news. ]
Say that it won't be ugly forever.
no subject
Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
no subject
He reaches out for Iorveth's hands, an instinctive comfort-seeking, but it ends in less comfort and more squeezing his fingers so hard that it's a wonder they don't shatter, too. Iorveth's only saving grace is Astarion's utter lack of strength, because he's gripping as hard as he can, seeking some sort of outlet for the pain. He'll feel bad about it afterwards, surely, but at the moment, there isn't a coherent thought in his head.
His teeth gnash with such intensity that he's surprised he doesn't bite off his own tongue. It's not just the physical discomfort, although there's certainly a lot of that. It's the feeling of having someone inflict pain on him—no matter how good their intentions—and having to sit here and take it. It lights up something terribly unpleasant in his brain, and after what must be a fraction of a second but feels like forever: ]
I can't do it, stop.
no subject
Iorveth doesn't know that he's ever heard Astarion scream like this before, and it jolts him into an immediate sense of ice-cold urgency, uncaring of whether Astarion breaks his fingers in an attempt to vent pain. Not even the hag inspired this sort of visceral reaction, and Iorveth turns to Reginald with his teeth bared, fury staining his one eye. ]
Stop, he said.
[ Despite the dramatics, the cleric remains unfazed. Unrelenting, even. His calm is the calm of a healer who has seen every permutation of physical atrocity that the world can offer, and finds it a little ridiculous that these elves are kicking up a fuss over a broken leg (albeit a very badly broken leg, Reginald will give them that).
"Must keep going if he ever wants to walk again," the halfling replies without skipping a beat. His fingers dig harder into Astarion's bruise, finding the worst of the fracture to grind it (the only word for what the process must feel like) into submission.
Iorveth, meanwhile, hisses a very genuine: ] Stop, before I take your head, [ to which Gale appears from the doorway, looking rumpled and flustered and very, very concerned as he tries to hold Iorveth back from literal murder.
"Iorveth! I understand how you must feel, but you must let him work." ]
no subject
Rationally, he knows this is completely different than any sort of pain he experienced in the past, but it feels so similar as to make the distinction negligible. He wants to thrash and fight and wring Reginald's neck for doing this to him, but he doesn't. He does what he's always done: endure.
He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes inside himself to wait for it to be over, fingernails digging into the flesh of Iorveth's hand sharply enough to draw blood. ]
no subject
Seconds stretch, turning into minutes; small, shattered bone start to realign where they should, and all the torn sinew and veins revert to their original states, albeit tentatively. Raw, aching.
After a few more beats of pure, white-hot pain, the cleric pulls his now non-glowing hands back. A bead of sweat has formed on his forehead, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
"―There. That was quite bad, wasn't it. Adventurers really should learn to take care of themselves better."
Iorveth really could kill him. He doesn't, obviously, but there's still murder in the glint of his eye, and he spits a rather harsh obscenity in his native language between his teeth before turning to Astarion. ]
Love. It's over.
no subject
Oh.
[ His leg does feel better. Not good, but improved. Sturdier, like the shattered pieces have fused back together, but still sore, like they aren't exactly happy about the fact. It still looks awful, but he supposes he'll have to trust Reginald on the recovery timeframe.
Speaking of Reginald, Astarion doesn't have it in him to thank him, despite his kindness in coming over here at the crack of dawn to heal some stranger he doesn't even know. All he can say is: ] Gods below, I know it's an enticing sight, but surely one of you can hand me my trousers.
[ It feels like he's sitting in his underwear with half of Waterdeep as witnesses. ]
no subject
Reginald, still chipper: "I'll be back again tomorrow to make sure everything's settling alright with the leg." Then, he glances towards Iorveth. "As for you..."
Migraine-wracked, face cut, hand bleeding, Iorveth looks every bit like a rabid fox. If he had fuzzy triangular ears, they would be sitting flat against his head, fur on end and hackles raised. ]
I don't require your help, [ he says with furious obstinacy, even though it really would be prudent to let Reginald tend to him. Iorveth is grateful, of course, that the cleric came all this way to heal Astarion in the only way that was likely available, but he's still furious that the halfling was so flippant about Astarion's pain. ]
no subject
The right thing to do would be for Astarion to admit that he overreacted, and to encourage Iorveth to allow the healing. At least a little bit — perhaps his head might be more unpleasant, but to heal at least the marks Astarion left on his hand should be painless enough. But Astarion still feels shaken from— well, he's still shaken from murdering that man, much less the hag and now this. It isn't the worst day of his life by far—nothing could be, with Iorveth by his side—but it's not winning any awards for best, either. ]
I hate to see you in pain, [ is the most encouragement he can offer. He presses cool fingers lightly over the scratches on Iorveth's hand, frowning. He doesn't remember squeezing Iorveth quite this hard. ]
But it's your choice, my love. I'll tend to you if he doesn't.
[ "Far be it from me to minimize the healing power of love," Gale says, "but I'm not certain it cures a concussion." ]