wolflord_andain | (no subject)

There's no one in the hallway just now.

Which is why River feels it okay to slip her arm around his waist again.

It's not that Galadan would actually fall over before he had a soft surface to do it onto -- he has more than enough pride and willpower for that -- but River prefers to make it easier for him to avoid it.

Also, Milliways's ever-changing hallways are kind today. The key Bar gave River matches a doorway right near the top of the stairs.

Galadan takes advantage of the open door, reaching out to press his hand against the doorframe.

It's an easy way to brace himself, and to try to clear his head. The pain makes that difficult.

So it goes.

It's a simple room, along the standard Milliways lines: bed, chair, small attached bathroom, and not a lot else. There are no windows, although there are a couple of framed pictures on the wall where a window might have been.

River gives Galadan a moment (or three) before she moves forward into the room.

Galadan will never outwardly acknowledge the sense of gratefulness that he's carried since halfway through the bar downstairs.

It is not as if he particularly needs to, all things considered.

And speaking of considering --

In better times he might be inclined to sit in the chair before removing his boots, but today --

Today he will settle for the bed.

Carefully.

River's never been particularly attached to outward demonstrations, anyway.

With Galadan safely settled, she moves on to the small bathroom. She brushes her hands over the counter, until her fingers close experimentally around the glass resting on the sink.

She fills it with water, double-checking with a finger that it's mostly full -- River doesn't rely with certainty on either vision or hearing, if she has a back-up -- and then carries it back into the room. The care with which she holds it, two-handed like a child, is somewhat at odds with the streaks of blood on her hands and shirt and boots, and the gunbelts slung comfortably low on her hips.

Galadan flicks a quick glance in her direction, brow furrowing as the too-quick movement causes something unpleasant to happen in his skull.

Then, even more carefully, he finishes untying his boots and removes them. Sitting upright is another source of effort, which may impact the speed with which he reaches for the glass.

He appears oblivious to the blood and the gunbelts, or at least oblivious to their potential incongruity. And the glass, of course, is accepted with every indication of solemnity.

He does not have the energy for being ironic at this juncture, and a dehydration headache is definitely not in the cards.

River will pretend there was sardonic irony voiced at every stage of this, if he likes.

Or, you know, never mention the fact that there wasn't, at least.

She glances at him, and she doesn't ask anything aloud, because she doesn't need to: is there anything else he wants?

(Besides a refill on the water, if he finishes it. He gets that anyway.)

One corner of Galadan's mouth quirks fractionally as he hands back the empty water glass.

It may be his way of saying 'no, but thank you'.

Or it may just be acknowledgment of the ridiculousness of his current circumstances, knowingly chosen though they are.

Still, he has had worse days.

River smiles faintly in response, turning away with the water glass in her hand. (Just one hand, since it's empty.)

Galadan may not be able to actually see her expression, but that's not strictly necessary anyhow.

Galadan's own smile broadens a fraction.

Then he begins the work of swinging his legs up onto the bed and settling himself on the pillows.

It may take a few moments.

That's okay. River has to get water anyway.

She deposits it on the bedside table, this time.

The light clicks off behind her, and the door snicks very quietly shut.

The next morning, River gives it a few hours.

But eventually, around mid-morning, she slips back upstairs, and heads for Galadan's room instead of Duo's. She doesn't knock, let alone let herself in.

She just waits outside. Either Galadan's asleep, or he's not; if he's awake, the door is irrelevant, and if he's asleep she'll leave him to it.

"Feel free to make yourself at home, if you will, River."

Galadan's voice is pitched just loud enough to make it through the door.

The chances that he does not feel up to moving much are quite, quite high.

River kind of guessed that might be the case.

"Breakfast," she says to the wall, "is an optional side agenda."

"And hardly an objectionable one."

There's a wry twist to his words, both in his mouth and in his mind.

There may also be a request for River to bring her own key when she returns -- provided she has enough hands, of course.

Perhaps tomorrow he will be more inclined to get breakfast under his own momentum.

An andain can hope.

"Provisioning is healthsome," River agrees placidly, to all of that, and turns away from the door.

It's a few minutes before she returns. When she does, she has a key in one hand, and a bag in the other. (It's got plates, silverware, and sturdy flat-bottomed takeout containers. Bar knows River.)

Again, she doesn't bother to knock or speak up, but this time she lets herself in.

She'll find Galadan seated in the room's single chair, with the lamp at its lowest illumination. (It makes his head ache less.) He gives the impression of someone who has not moved from that chair in quite some time.

This would not be an incorrect impression.

The fact that he licks his lips as she enters, gaze flicking to the bag in her hand, has nothing at all to do with a sudden, sharp pang of hunger.

It has still less to do with the empty water glass resting on the table next to the bed.

And there's this bridge . . .

Right. Of course not!

And the fact that River passes him the larger container -- and its raw venison -- before she sets the rest of the bag down is also PURE COINCIDENCE.

The bag also has another glass in it, and she snags the other off the table as she goes. Water for all!

A hand-towel may also be quite the thing.

It's not that Galadan lacks a knife -- nor even a fork, plastic though it may be. It is merely that raw meat is raw meat, and there will be some amount of blood.

Paper napkins will not cut it.

Alas.

Edited 2012-01-14 06:32 (UTC)

Apparently, Galadan's goal of the week is to make the Loompas launder as many bloody Milliways towels as possible.

There are worse aims. (And River is fresh out of handkerchiefs.)

Having fetched everything -- in a couple of trips, because River has to take care when carrying things that aren't weaponry or very hard to damage -- she settles down crosslegged on the bed, tucking bare feet beneath her, and bends over to fetch her fruit salad.

mmmm, kiwi. Galadan can keep the bloody venison.

Galadan is perfectly content with the division of foodstuffs as it now stands. River is welcome to all the fruit she likes.

As for the Wolflord, once he has made his way through most of the meat, he wipes off his fingertips, cleans off his knife, and pushes his plate away.

He'll wait for River to finish her own meal before speaking.

Out loud, at least.

River's mostly done with hers; she's to the point of desultorily poking at the last few blueberries with her chopsticks.

They're apparently interesting. If you're River.

"You are well, I hope?"

His brows are lifted in an expression of polite interest.

Just in case anyone should be observing.

"And Mary, too, of course."

River directs a look of affectionate tolerance at the last slice of kiwi in her takeout container.

"Everybody's shiny."

"She had soup. It's a precursor to sleep."

And now that it's morning, Mary has a bar full of opportunities to acquire food, hang out with friends, and ignore human beings in favor of her greenhouse.

"Good."

And if one corner of his mouth should tilt ever-so-faintly upward --

What of it?

River is surely entirely oblivious.

Yes.

That.

That's why she looks satisfied, no doubt.

Galadan just barely stifles a laugh.

There is not much point in it, really.

It's not like River doesn't already know.

"Gonna fuss," River warns him, amiably.

About Mary.

('Fuss' may have a few definitions here, but Galadan doesn't actually need this warning. All it takes is knowing Mary Lennox.)

"Yes, well."

One eyebrow remains arched.

"Provided we lack an audience, I suppose I shall cope."

River rolls her eyes. Affectionately!

Galadan may feel free to choose who the intended target is.

She eats a blueberry, idly. (Mm, blueberry.) "You're very brave," she agrees.

"I might have thought that went without saying."

As if to prove his point, he steals one of her blueberries.

Carefully. Almost as if moving too fast will set his head to throbbing again.

It's certainly coincidence if River happens to nudge the container closer to him, too.

"We'll call it redundancy."

"How very generous."

And speaking of generous --

He'll take another blueberry, thank you very much.

River, of course, beams.

She is the soul of generosity! How kind of Galadan to notice.

Some things Galadan is not at all inclined to miss.

Very few of those have anything to do with blueberries, strangely enough.