Heather Mason (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
foolishwren) wrote2010-12-13 06:09 am
foolishwren) wrote2010-12-13 06:09 am
Entry tags:
- *ace attorney: phoenix wright,
- @phoenix,
- aaaaangst,
- action,
- all my fault,
- anger management issues,
- brooding mcbroodypants,
- bye bye big bros,
- daddy issues,
- goldenrod city,
- heather is a masochist,
- heather why would you even do that,
- holding my heart out but clutching it to,
- ic,
- image attached,
- is daddy still a good man?,
- private message,
- prose,
- shaking fists at the sky,
- shoulda coulda woulda,
- silent hill survivors club,
- so ronery,
- storybit,
- unecessary levels of anger,
- voice
46. Prose (Voice/Action) (Sunday evening)
[ooc: Hey guys! Like most tl;dr stuff I post, THIS IS OPTIONAL READING so feel free to completely skip over it, although those with characters in the hotel are also free to say that they saw Heather leaving her hotel room with a really, really dark expression. She will not be deterred or particularly receptive to any attempts to engage in conversation. If you would like to, however, here's some appropriate listening material.]
Heather's thumb hovered over the 'Connect' button, but didn't press it again. She'd already done it about fifteen times, hoping to hear something else, but she'd already known that the message wouldn't change, no matter how many times she called. The truth was that it wasn't even a surprise, no matter how much she wished it could have been, nor how much she simultaneously dreaded and expected it.
With each passing day, she had known it more and more.
Hearing this now was only a confirmation.
The last nail in the coffin.
He was gone.
It had been evening when she'd gotten it in her head that hey, it had been a few days since the last try. Maybe she should try calling Dad up again. It wasn't that she was actually expecting a result-- it had been an entire month since she last heard from him, after all.
And that had been it.
But when that hideous dial-tone and automated message came buzzing out of the speakers on Heather's PokeGear, it was as though something very heavy had slid down her throat and settled somewhere low in her stomach, lying there like a bowling ball. Or a big rock.
It wasn't too late in the day, but the early winter evening had already crept in, turning the sky outside to that deep ocean blue and bringing lights all over the city to life. Still, Heather's hotel room was dark, lit only by the lights outside, shining from the windows of other tall buildings. She had been reaching for the bedside lamp as she had been dialing the number, and when the message turned on, her hand had stopped, then slowly returned to her lap.
So this was it.
After a month of waiting, he really was gone.
The decision she'd made to finally stop hesitating, to actually try to appreciate this strange second chance she had, was made too late. Just like everything else decent she'd ever done.
Oh boy, Mason. You sure did blow it this time. You haven't changed at all.
She swallowed, hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat.
Just the same as ever. You never do appreciate what you have. Not till it's too late. Well, now it IS. Are you happy?
She snapped the 'Gear shut with a click and stood up. It was an automatic motion-- and it hardly even felt like she herself was the one doing it. Shoving the 'Gear into her pocket, she grabbed up her recently-discarded coat and yanked it on, buttoning it up with fingers that hardly felt the metal.
As she made her way to the door, there was a sharp whine and a cold wetness in the palm of her hand as a big moist nose was shoved into it. She looked over her shoulder sharply and was met with Cujo's wide-eyed stare and hopeful wagging tail. Walk? Walk? WALK??
"... No, Cujo. Stay," Heather said, her voice feeling thick and sounding even thicker as she shoved his snout back and turned to the door. He made a few wuffling sounds and tried to latch onto her sleeve playfully, like he always did when they were about to go out. A hasty intake of breath rattled the cords in Heather's throat in a surprisingly growl-like fashion and she yanked her arm upwards, hissing at him through gritted teeth. "I said STAY!"
The Growlithe let go with a startled woof and shrank back, bushy tail sinking between his legs.
Heather did not stop to glare further. She clamped her mouth shut and opened the door, slamming it loudly behind her as she went out into the hallway, leaving silence in her wake.
After a couple moments, the orange dog crept forward and pawed a little at the closed door, a high-pitched whine shuddering out of his throat and piercing the dark blue quiet. When his scratching proved fruitless, he curled up on the carpet. All right... he would wait.
The cold was the kind that hurt.
It nipped sharply at her face, bare hands, and the gaps between her coat's buttons as she left the hotel's lobby and strode through the snow, breath steaming in front of her. She didn't know where she was going. Maybe that was the point. There weren't many people out tonight, leaving the sugar-glazed streets bare. That was fine with her. Familiar faces were not something she wanted to see right now. The bitter air was creeping through the fabric of her jeans, making the material stiff and sinking into her legs as she walked, and her boots skidded and squeaked in the snow, but she ignored it all.
Her crooked path took her down streets and alleys that she didn't even notice-- the wind was already yanking moisture from her eyes and scraping at her cheeks like an incorporeal cheesegrater, reddening them. She could have been walking for fifteen minutes or it could have been an hour-- but by the time she stopped, it felt like no time had passed at all, the journey was such a blur. Her feet, numb-toed and aching from the cold, had brought her to a secluded alley, lined with the occasional trash can and walled in brick.
Snowflakes lit up like neon on the lights above the back-doors (shut, of course), and her breath was coming out in deep, shapely puffs of vapor with each labored exhalation that came out of her open mouth, which she wasn't bothering to close. She probably should have been shivering, but that leaden weight in her stomach was anchoring her whole body down, it seemed. Looking around with watering eyes, she saw no one around that could interrupt or stop by with well-meaning concern. Good.
Letting out a shuddery breath, she leaned against the brick, hearing its rough surface catch on the fabric of her coatsleeve and scuff it in a rich cacophony of breaking thread. The frosty air nipped painfully at her ears-- she'd left her hat behind. Oh well, whatever. Too late to worry about that now. Not that she was worried. There wasn't any room for worry in her head.
You're STUPID, girl, you're so goddamn stupid. That chance was practically GIFT-WRAPPED and you just sat there for months and DARED the universe to take it away again.
How can you even feel sorry for yourself?
You practically spread your arms to the sky and yelled HEY, I'M NOT GONNA DO SHIT WITH WHAT YOU GAVE ME! HAHA, PSYCH! MIGHT AS WELL TAKE IT BACK!
You stupid, stupid kid.
Heather turned her forehead to rest against the wall-- hard enough that she could feel the rough grain of it scraping her scalp.
Sad wasn't what she was right now. Sad was what happened when Grandpa died or your best friend moved away.
Shame.
That was what that leaden weight in her stomach was. The lump in her throat and the growing tightness in her chest, too. Good, old-fashioned, guilt-tinged, hot, sick shame.
Gritting her teeth, Heather pounded a fist helplessly against the wall, her shoulders hunched.
"You stupid, stupid..."
But the sentence died in her throat with a tight squeak, because words just didn't do it this time. Somehow, they made it hurt worse. Wasn't letting any of that pressure out-- just emptying her lungs and somehow making it tighter.
The butt of her fist hit the wall again with a feeble smack as she stood there, every muscle tensing to the point of pain. Had to get it out, somehow. Couldn't show her face back around anywhere unless it had come out-- that was just how she knew it had to go. Go off somewhere by yourself and have a good cry or something and then once it's over, you can go back to battling on through whatever it was and nobody would be any the wiser unless you told them.
But talking wasn't working.
It hurt too much, and it was the kind of hurt that Heather wasn't good at dealing with.
Throat tight, she drew her fist back-- far this time-- and let fly.
Her bare knuckles met the brick with an explosion of hot pain that she could practically SEE painted on the inside of her eyelids.
Her fingers tingled and stung as she pulled away-- and then slammed them into the wall again.
And again.
Now with the other hand.
And again.
Now both at once.
And again.
And again, harder this time.
Something popped in one of them-- and crunched in another-- but she kept going-- each swing more and more vicious until she was muffling a howl with each new blow, eyes shut tight and raspy, sobbish snarls ripping their way out of her throat with the exertion.
Finally, she just couldn't do it anymore.
Sagging against the wall with her clenched fists resting above her head, Heather just crumpled, her chest heaving in and out and her breath floating away into the night.
There were tears streaming down her face now, although the heat was sucked out of them long before they could finish rolling down to her chin.
She didn't dare look at her hands-- she could feel the swollenness of the fingers and the bite of the cold where the skin had broken and turned to a nasty, meaty mess. They probably looked like ground hamburger. She didn't want to see it, even though she knew she'd have to look eventually, so she just kept her head pointed straight down at the floor of the empty alley and panted as though she'd run a dozen miles, gulping in lungfuls of the frigid air even though it made her wheeze.
She couldn't stay here all night, she knew.
She had to go back.
Had to face the reality of the situation.
The leaden weight had lessened, but it had been replaced with a sickening sense of embarrassment, one that crawled through her hotly and made the prospect of lying awake in that bedroom by herself, not sleeping, just mulling over and over on her own pathetic behavior, absolutely unbearable.
Gingerly, she removed one arm from the wall and dipped her swollen, bloody fingers into her pocket to withdraw the PokeGear.
Otacon. She wanted to talk to Otacon-- but no, this wasn't-- she couldn't. She could hear his voice, plain as day, talking to her right before he left-- he'd told her to call him if she needed ANYTHING-- day or night. Well, she needed something all right, but... no. Just... no.
He had also told her, months before, to take advantage of that incredible, blessed chance she'd been given-- a second chance to be with her father. Something he'd have given the world for. Had she followed that advice? No. And that was why she was here right now, standing by herself in some alley with pulverized roadkill hands. She couldn't call him. She couldn't face him. How could she look him in the eye and tell him that her father was gone, and that it was her own damn fault that she hadn't taken advantage of his presence here sooner?
The sobs between breaths grew shuddery-- the cold was starting to creep in now and her shoulders were shaking.
Flipping the 'Gear open, she brushed over the keypad with a pained frown that was rapidly becoming a tearful grimace.
She was halfway through dialing up Snake's 'Gear when she stopped, swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes shut. No... no, he didn't even know. Didn't even know that her father had been here, or even that she HAD a father. And if she went to him, she'd need to explain... need to say why she was upset. Not because he'd ask her, but because... Heather Mason didn't cry for no reason-- not to other people. And she didn't want to explain.
Wasn't even sure she could explain.
Snake wasn't her only friend here in Goldenrod. No, she was lucky, she was fucking lucky-- a lot of her friends were here. Good friends. Ones she trusted-- ones who she probably wouldn't even mind seeing her in a silly weak moment like this.
But they didn't know, either.
Hardly anybody did, because she'd told so few. Kept it a secret. Her embarrassing, shameful little secret.
Otacon was one. He was gone. She wasn't even sure if she'd get to see him again in person any time soon, and how could she expect his sympathy? He would give it, of course-- but somehow that would just make it worse, because she knew that this was one thing she did not deserve it on.
James was another-- but he was in Azalea, and sweet-hearted thing that he was, the thought of blubbering to him over the phone made Heather's stomach curl in shame.
Nobody here. Nobody here who she could go to in person-- have a conversation that WASN'T still, ultimately, physically by herself.
... Except for...
Heather straightened up, drawing in a long, watery sniff and reaching up a throbbing hand to wipe away the now-icy tears that were lingering on her face, leaving trails of cold in their wake, and clumsily punching numbers into the keypad with the thumb on her other.
There was one other person who knew that Harry Mason had appeared in Johto-- one other person who knew about Heather's reluctance to make her identity known to him. A person who had been in the same situation himself-- from the opposite end.
And he happened to be staying a couple floors above Heather's own room at the Goldenrod Hotel.
[Audio-- locked to Phoenix Wright.]
[Her voice is punctuated by gasps-- she's out of breath and wheezing. Her voice is hoarse and there's weird gaps between the words, like she's struggling to put them together.]
I-- ... P- ... Phoenix?
Uhm.
Are you-- ... are you there?
I gotta-- ... can I talk t'you?
It's.
Uhm.
It's important...
[ooc edit: thank you so much for your lovely comments, guys. I can't even begin to describe how much I appreciate ALL of them. I'm screening them to cut down on clutter, though! ILU!]
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.
ERROR: NUMBER NO LONGER IN USE. beeeeeeep.Heather's thumb hovered over the 'Connect' button, but didn't press it again. She'd already done it about fifteen times, hoping to hear something else, but she'd already known that the message wouldn't change, no matter how many times she called. The truth was that it wasn't even a surprise, no matter how much she wished it could have been, nor how much she simultaneously dreaded and expected it.
With each passing day, she had known it more and more.
Hearing this now was only a confirmation.
The last nail in the coffin.
He was gone.
It had been evening when she'd gotten it in her head that hey, it had been a few days since the last try. Maybe she should try calling Dad up again. It wasn't that she was actually expecting a result-- it had been an entire month since she last heard from him, after all.
I've got a lot of catching up to do, he had said. I can only imagine how much I've missed.And that had been it.
But when that hideous dial-tone and automated message came buzzing out of the speakers on Heather's PokeGear, it was as though something very heavy had slid down her throat and settled somewhere low in her stomach, lying there like a bowling ball. Or a big rock.
It wasn't too late in the day, but the early winter evening had already crept in, turning the sky outside to that deep ocean blue and bringing lights all over the city to life. Still, Heather's hotel room was dark, lit only by the lights outside, shining from the windows of other tall buildings. She had been reaching for the bedside lamp as she had been dialing the number, and when the message turned on, her hand had stopped, then slowly returned to her lap.
So this was it.
After a month of waiting, he really was gone.
... so you're not mad? was what she had asked him, and she'd never gotten a reply. Maybe now she'd never know.The decision she'd made to finally stop hesitating, to actually try to appreciate this strange second chance she had, was made too late. Just like everything else decent she'd ever done.
Oh boy, Mason. You sure did blow it this time. You haven't changed at all.
She swallowed, hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat.
Just the same as ever. You never do appreciate what you have. Not till it's too late. Well, now it IS. Are you happy?
She snapped the 'Gear shut with a click and stood up. It was an automatic motion-- and it hardly even felt like she herself was the one doing it. Shoving the 'Gear into her pocket, she grabbed up her recently-discarded coat and yanked it on, buttoning it up with fingers that hardly felt the metal.
As she made her way to the door, there was a sharp whine and a cold wetness in the palm of her hand as a big moist nose was shoved into it. She looked over her shoulder sharply and was met with Cujo's wide-eyed stare and hopeful wagging tail. Walk? Walk? WALK??
"... No, Cujo. Stay," Heather said, her voice feeling thick and sounding even thicker as she shoved his snout back and turned to the door. He made a few wuffling sounds and tried to latch onto her sleeve playfully, like he always did when they were about to go out. A hasty intake of breath rattled the cords in Heather's throat in a surprisingly growl-like fashion and she yanked her arm upwards, hissing at him through gritted teeth. "I said STAY!"
The Growlithe let go with a startled woof and shrank back, bushy tail sinking between his legs.
Heather did not stop to glare further. She clamped her mouth shut and opened the door, slamming it loudly behind her as she went out into the hallway, leaving silence in her wake.
After a couple moments, the orange dog crept forward and pawed a little at the closed door, a high-pitched whine shuddering out of his throat and piercing the dark blue quiet. When his scratching proved fruitless, he curled up on the carpet. All right... he would wait.
~*~
The cold was the kind that hurt.
It nipped sharply at her face, bare hands, and the gaps between her coat's buttons as she left the hotel's lobby and strode through the snow, breath steaming in front of her. She didn't know where she was going. Maybe that was the point. There weren't many people out tonight, leaving the sugar-glazed streets bare. That was fine with her. Familiar faces were not something she wanted to see right now. The bitter air was creeping through the fabric of her jeans, making the material stiff and sinking into her legs as she walked, and her boots skidded and squeaked in the snow, but she ignored it all.
Her crooked path took her down streets and alleys that she didn't even notice-- the wind was already yanking moisture from her eyes and scraping at her cheeks like an incorporeal cheesegrater, reddening them. She could have been walking for fifteen minutes or it could have been an hour-- but by the time she stopped, it felt like no time had passed at all, the journey was such a blur. Her feet, numb-toed and aching from the cold, had brought her to a secluded alley, lined with the occasional trash can and walled in brick.
Snowflakes lit up like neon on the lights above the back-doors (shut, of course), and her breath was coming out in deep, shapely puffs of vapor with each labored exhalation that came out of her open mouth, which she wasn't bothering to close. She probably should have been shivering, but that leaden weight in her stomach was anchoring her whole body down, it seemed. Looking around with watering eyes, she saw no one around that could interrupt or stop by with well-meaning concern. Good.
Letting out a shuddery breath, she leaned against the brick, hearing its rough surface catch on the fabric of her coatsleeve and scuff it in a rich cacophony of breaking thread. The frosty air nipped painfully at her ears-- she'd left her hat behind. Oh well, whatever. Too late to worry about that now. Not that she was worried. There wasn't any room for worry in her head.
You're STUPID, girl, you're so goddamn stupid. That chance was practically GIFT-WRAPPED and you just sat there for months and DARED the universe to take it away again.
How can you even feel sorry for yourself?
You practically spread your arms to the sky and yelled HEY, I'M NOT GONNA DO SHIT WITH WHAT YOU GAVE ME! HAHA, PSYCH! MIGHT AS WELL TAKE IT BACK!
You stupid, stupid kid.
Heather turned her forehead to rest against the wall-- hard enough that she could feel the rough grain of it scraping her scalp.
Sad wasn't what she was right now. Sad was what happened when Grandpa died or your best friend moved away.
Shame.
That was what that leaden weight in her stomach was. The lump in her throat and the growing tightness in her chest, too. Good, old-fashioned, guilt-tinged, hot, sick shame.
Gritting her teeth, Heather pounded a fist helplessly against the wall, her shoulders hunched.
"You stupid, stupid..."
But the sentence died in her throat with a tight squeak, because words just didn't do it this time. Somehow, they made it hurt worse. Wasn't letting any of that pressure out-- just emptying her lungs and somehow making it tighter.
The butt of her fist hit the wall again with a feeble smack as she stood there, every muscle tensing to the point of pain. Had to get it out, somehow. Couldn't show her face back around anywhere unless it had come out-- that was just how she knew it had to go. Go off somewhere by yourself and have a good cry or something and then once it's over, you can go back to battling on through whatever it was and nobody would be any the wiser unless you told them.
But talking wasn't working.
It hurt too much, and it was the kind of hurt that Heather wasn't good at dealing with.
Throat tight, she drew her fist back-- far this time-- and let fly.
Her bare knuckles met the brick with an explosion of hot pain that she could practically SEE painted on the inside of her eyelids.
Her fingers tingled and stung as she pulled away-- and then slammed them into the wall again.
And again.
Now with the other hand.
And again.
Now both at once.
And again.
And again, harder this time.
Something popped in one of them-- and crunched in another-- but she kept going-- each swing more and more vicious until she was muffling a howl with each new blow, eyes shut tight and raspy, sobbish snarls ripping their way out of her throat with the exertion.
Finally, she just couldn't do it anymore.
Sagging against the wall with her clenched fists resting above her head, Heather just crumpled, her chest heaving in and out and her breath floating away into the night.
There were tears streaming down her face now, although the heat was sucked out of them long before they could finish rolling down to her chin.
She didn't dare look at her hands-- she could feel the swollenness of the fingers and the bite of the cold where the skin had broken and turned to a nasty, meaty mess. They probably looked like ground hamburger. She didn't want to see it, even though she knew she'd have to look eventually, so she just kept her head pointed straight down at the floor of the empty alley and panted as though she'd run a dozen miles, gulping in lungfuls of the frigid air even though it made her wheeze.
She couldn't stay here all night, she knew.
She had to go back.
Had to face the reality of the situation.
The leaden weight had lessened, but it had been replaced with a sickening sense of embarrassment, one that crawled through her hotly and made the prospect of lying awake in that bedroom by herself, not sleeping, just mulling over and over on her own pathetic behavior, absolutely unbearable.
Gingerly, she removed one arm from the wall and dipped her swollen, bloody fingers into her pocket to withdraw the PokeGear.
Otacon. She wanted to talk to Otacon-- but no, this wasn't-- she couldn't. She could hear his voice, plain as day, talking to her right before he left-- he'd told her to call him if she needed ANYTHING-- day or night. Well, she needed something all right, but... no. Just... no.
He had also told her, months before, to take advantage of that incredible, blessed chance she'd been given-- a second chance to be with her father. Something he'd have given the world for. Had she followed that advice? No. And that was why she was here right now, standing by herself in some alley with pulverized roadkill hands. She couldn't call him. She couldn't face him. How could she look him in the eye and tell him that her father was gone, and that it was her own damn fault that she hadn't taken advantage of his presence here sooner?
The sobs between breaths grew shuddery-- the cold was starting to creep in now and her shoulders were shaking.
Flipping the 'Gear open, she brushed over the keypad with a pained frown that was rapidly becoming a tearful grimace.
She was halfway through dialing up Snake's 'Gear when she stopped, swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes shut. No... no, he didn't even know. Didn't even know that her father had been here, or even that she HAD a father. And if she went to him, she'd need to explain... need to say why she was upset. Not because he'd ask her, but because... Heather Mason didn't cry for no reason-- not to other people. And she didn't want to explain.
Wasn't even sure she could explain.
Snake wasn't her only friend here in Goldenrod. No, she was lucky, she was fucking lucky-- a lot of her friends were here. Good friends. Ones she trusted-- ones who she probably wouldn't even mind seeing her in a silly weak moment like this.
But they didn't know, either.
Hardly anybody did, because she'd told so few. Kept it a secret. Her embarrassing, shameful little secret.
Otacon was one. He was gone. She wasn't even sure if she'd get to see him again in person any time soon, and how could she expect his sympathy? He would give it, of course-- but somehow that would just make it worse, because she knew that this was one thing she did not deserve it on.
James was another-- but he was in Azalea, and sweet-hearted thing that he was, the thought of blubbering to him over the phone made Heather's stomach curl in shame.
Nobody here. Nobody here who she could go to in person-- have a conversation that WASN'T still, ultimately, physically by herself.
... Except for...
Heather straightened up, drawing in a long, watery sniff and reaching up a throbbing hand to wipe away the now-icy tears that were lingering on her face, leaving trails of cold in their wake, and clumsily punching numbers into the keypad with the thumb on her other.
There was one other person who knew that Harry Mason had appeared in Johto-- one other person who knew about Heather's reluctance to make her identity known to him. A person who had been in the same situation himself-- from the opposite end.
And he happened to be staying a couple floors above Heather's own room at the Goldenrod Hotel.
[Audio-- locked to Phoenix Wright.]
[Her voice is punctuated by gasps-- she's out of breath and wheezing. Her voice is hoarse and there's weird gaps between the words, like she's struggling to put them together.]
I-- ... P- ... Phoenix?
Uhm.
Are you-- ... are you there?
I gotta-- ... can I talk t'you?
It's.
Uhm.
It's important...
[ooc edit: thank you so much for your lovely comments, guys. I can't even begin to describe how much I appreciate ALL of them. I'm screening them to cut down on clutter, though! ILU!]
no subject
Alright. [He nods, swallowing a bit.] What can I do?
[ooc; YEAAAHH SHORTEST REPLY YET]
no subject
[She gives him a grateful nod.]
Just-- uh... if there's disinfectant...
[She sounds drained, but she's there enough to at least walk him through what needs to happen-- although chances are that she'll just interrupt him at times and do it herself because her impatience and stubbornness didn't go away just because reality had hit her like a ton of bricks tonight.]
no subject
He nods, holding up the bottle for Heather to see.] Yeah, right here...
[He hesitates a bit before un-capping the bottle, folding a square of bandages and pressing them to the top. He sort of knew how to disinfect wounds, but...]
So I just...press this to the wound, right? [He holds the now-damp bandage as if it might bite him, shifting slighly on the couch so that he wasn't in an uncomfortable position.]
no subject
[She nods as well.]
That's the gist of it...
[Holding up one of the pulverized hands, she shrugs and offers him an awkward, sort of forced smile.]
Don't pull it away if I flinch, I'm manly and I can handle it.
no subject
He swallows again and nods at her words, gently -- very gently, because that's just how Phoenix is -- uses his free head to steady her mangled one. The feel of her raw flesh is weird, a bit replusive, almost, but his only reaction to that is a bit of a shudder. He's supposed to be the one comforting her, after all--]
A-alright.
[There's one more pause, in which he adds;] If it hurts too much, though, just...let me know.
[And then, keeping both his and her hands as steady as possible, he begins to dab on the disinfectant.]
[Phoenix, stop saying things that could be taken horribly out of context.]no subject
[This was bad, and it hurt... but it'd get better.]
[She hissed when he started to dab on the disinfectant, but held still-- .... well, for a moment, anyway. After tolerating a few of those ginger dabs, she reached up with her other hand and just closed her fingers around the disinfected bandages, pressing them onto the skin.]
Rgh, it hurts worse when you dab it on all slow like that...
[... Well, not worse, it was just... somehow harder to tolerate.]
S'there any ice around here?
[
It's okay, EVERYTHING sounds bad out of context.]no subject
...well, really. When someone's dead, they're dead. He knows he can't help them, so, while he's always had this weird, sick feeling when being around corpses...he can handle it fine.
Injuries, though? THOSE, he knows can be helped. And with his pathological helpfulness, it's hard NOT too -- even though he ends up panicking, because injuries can lead to death if he isn't careful...
Really, it's just a recipe for disaster, but he's handling it remarkably well!
He's startled when she reaches up to shove the bandages against her skin, wincing a bit.]
S-sorry. [GUESS WHO NOW FEELS LIKE KICKING HIMSELF IN THE BALLS.
When she asks for ice, though, he immediately perks up.]
Yeah, we have a feezer -- once second. [After making sure Heather has hold of the bandages, he gets to his feet and trots into the kitchen, before he pauses and glances behind him.]
Er--do you need it in ice packs, or...?
no subject
[She leans back as he gets up, resting (or bracing?) her back against the back of the couch while she weathers the burn of the disinfectant on her wounds. Teeth gritted, she nods a little.]
Be best in a pack, yeah... th'skin's busted pretty bad but the swelling's what kills...
[And of course she means that in a purely figurative sense... not literal. Thankfully.]
no subject
[He gropes around in the drawers for anything he can use to put ice in -- before he finally remembers that hotels usually come with bags in the ice buckets, duh. Sighing exasperatedly at himself, he quickly walks over to said bucket, pulling out some of the bags and returning to the freezer to fill them with ice.
He makes one last stop -- reaching into the bathroom for another towel to wrap the ice in -- before returning to Heather's side, settling back down on the couch and holding out the bundle to her.]
no subject
Thanks... Once they're bandaged, I'll put it on...
[She cursed as the roll of bandages fell out of her hands and bounced onto the floor. >8( FFFFFFFFFFFFF]
no subject
He sighs, setting the ice down on the couch and reaching down to pick up the roll of bandages.]
Heather, I think this might be the single worst thing to attempt with those hands of yours. Let me help.
[He gestures for her to hold them out, unraveling a strip of bandage from the roll. HE'S GOT THIS, HEATHER.]
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[THERE, SEE? SEE? SHE IS CAPABLE OF GOOD BEHAVIOR.]
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Sure, he'd never had to doctor and injury as bad as this, but...there's a look of nostalgia on his face as he begins to bandage the first of Heather's hands. And, as with everything else, he's predictably gentle about it -- at least this time he knows to go quickly.]
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[The tender look on his face prompts a sort of tentative smile of her own.]
... D'you do this often?
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At her reply, though, he glances up from his work, looking a bit startled.] Huh?
[It takes him a few seconds, but his expression quickly falls back into that affectionately nostalgic look, and it's obvious that he's not even the least bit aware of it.] W-Well, uh...sort of. [He resumes bandaging, the reminiscense never far from his face, in the form of a little half-smile.] Maya was always getting herself hurt back at home. Little things, I mean. Getting her fingers caught in the door, burning herself on hot water...
[A shrug.] Sometimes, it was hard to tell if I was looking after a seventeen-year-old or a seven-year-old. [A warm, genuine chuckle.]
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[... SORT OF LIKE HEATHER IS DOING ACKSHULLY. At least Maya didn't go out and punch walls.]
[When he's done bandaging, she flexes her fingers a little, experimentally. Ow-- still hurts. But it feels a little better. Probably just the placebo effect, but it matters. Looking all that blood and bruising just made it hurt worse.]
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He reaches over to place the bandages back on the endtable, reaching for the ice he'd gotten earlier and holding it out towards her.] I, uh...I didn't wrap them too tight or anything, right?
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Nah, they're actually pretty perfect... you're good at doing the whole bandaging thing. The experience must've paid off.
[She puts the hand down and offers him a smile that's still a little wobbly around the edges.]
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[Now that her hands are bandaged, he offers up the bundle of ice he prepared earlier.]
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Yeah...
[Taking a deep breath, she leans back against the couch, shutting her eyes for a moment and letting that deep, numbing ache seep into her wounded fingers.]
... I am sorry about this...
I don't... believe in that BS self-blame-for-every-inconvenience stuff, but... I am sorry.
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[Even if it hadn't been him, Phoenix is just incredibly relieved (and proud) that Heather had the courage to actually fall back on someone when she damn well needed it. Had he found out that she HADN'T, well. TABLES WOULD HAVE BEEN FLIPPED.
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[She lapses into silence briefly again, staring over at the bloodied bowl with an expression that held something resembling mourning.]
... I should've gone to somebody a lot sooner.
[And it's obvious who that 'somebody' is that she's talking about is.]
... M'sick of running away.
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[He hopes. He'll be there to remind you if he has to.]
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[It wasn't a lesson she'd forget any time soon. ... If Harry ever came back, she didn't care how old or young he was. She'd tell him the truth in a heartbeat and damn the consequences.]
[With a sigh, Heather nudges one boot off with the toe of the other, then repeats the gesture on the first. She doesn't want to get the bandages wet. Once they're off, she pulls her feet up onto the couch again, knees to chest, and lets her head rest on them sideways.]
... I just can't believe I was so stupid.
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[Still concerned, he glances sideways at her now ice-covered hands, watching carefully to make sure she's not hurting somewhere else that he isn't aware of or something. At her second statement, he sighs.]
We can all be pretty stupid when it comes to the things we care about. [A dry laugh. OH HIM AND HIS NOT LEARNING FROM COLLEGE THAT DAHLIA HAWTHORNE IS A PSYCHO NUTCASE THAT HE SHOULDN'T APPROACH WITH A TEN FOOT POLE.] Most
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