Of Awkward Recoveries
Author's note: This was the result from the following prompts on my Tumblr: the Arisen, Ser Max, awkward/humorous first kiss. Bonus points for annoying pawns being annoying.
It was not his lucky day.
Today was supposed to be a day without any disastrous incidents. It was supposed to be a simple escort duty; he and his party had made their trek to the Greatwall many times without much difficulty, so it would stand to reason that they would make it there this time unscathed, would it not?
Blasted reasoning.
The goblins they had encountered were easily dispatched, and he had expected the same for the bandits that came soon after. But of course, one of the bandits just had to shoot a poisoned arrow at the unfortunate fellow his party was escorting. Said unfortunate fellow just happened to be the Captain of the Wyrm Hunt, and the duke would certainly have his head if he lost the man.
So there he was, sitting on the ground surrounded by corpses, Ser Maximilian Eizenstern in his arms, the poor man choking and gasping, desperately fighting for breath. If he did not act promptly, he would soon have another corpse to add to the tally.
"Does anyone have any curatives for poisoning?" he called out to his pawns, even though he already knew the answer. Of course they did not; he had not bothered to restock before they left Gran Soren, confident that all the party needed on the journey were pure healing items.
His pawn stared at him with an accusing 'I-told-you-to-bring-an-assortment-of-curatives' look. He returned the favour with a 'then-quit-using-Panacea-when-you-get-your-feet-we t' glare of his own, and the sorcerer at least had the courtesy to cringe a little. The other two members of his party - both Striders - shrugged and shook their heads.
No one with restorative magic in the party. How absolutely wonderful.
He fumbled in his pockets, digging deeper, hoping for something - anything, and mercifully his fingers brushed across some leaves that felt familiar. He swiftly crushed the already battered-looking mithridate into a small lump before putting it to the dying man's lips. "Ser Max," he pleaded, "you need to take this!"
His pleas likely went unheard, for the man had slipped deeper. If he failed to get the antidote to his charge soon, there would be no climbing back from those depths.
He then recalled how Iola used to shove foul-tasting medicine down his throat when he was an ill, but incredibly stubborn little boy. No harm in trying it now, he thought as he chewed the herb into a more pliable form, then put his mouth to the captain's. It was rather awkward, trying to make sure that most of the mithridate made it down the other man's throat, but somehow he managed.
But had he managed in time? The mithridate was supposed to act almost instantaneously, but there seemed to be no change in his charge—
Maximilian started coughing. Feeling no small amount of relief, he reached to pull the captain into a more comfortable sitting position, and lightly thumped the man's back.
The captain blinked, and then stared at him. "You!"
That was all the warning he had before the other man's fist delivered a very painful cuff to the head.
"Ow!" he yelled, and once his ears stopped ringing, continued, "what was that for?"
"That," snarled the captain, "was for kissing me without my permission."
He was about to protest for the blow that he felt was uncalled for, but any words were stilled when Maximilian grabbed him by the collar, yanked and then proceeded to kiss him very thoroughly.
"And that?" he managed to croak after a few moments of gathering his wits - and breath.
The other man smiled, and there was mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Now you have my permission."
Perhaps it was his lucky day after all.