Title: Epiphany.
Rating: For the most part, it's PG-13, though there is a chapter that will be R, I believe.
Pairing: Irvine/Fiona.
Notes: …
Boxers, or briefs? You know how long I spent pondering over that question? WHAT the hell would Irvine wear? .. I asked people. Someone told me, 'nothing! I'm sure he'd like to be free!,' another person told me, 'Dude, you have problems.' Probably. n.n I dunno. Oohh, well. It's over and done with, but feel free to tell me what you think, bwahaha!
- - - -
She was torn between pouncing on the man larger than her and swatting him upside the head, and pouncing and hugging him – maybe she should kick both into action and injure him while hugging him at the same time.
Either way, a definite flood of relief coursed through her veins and she felt her gasping reduced to regulated breathing once more. Before long, she was smiling – nearly glowing with happiness, as she hadn't seen this friend in a dreadfully, though excitingly, long year – and quick at gathering her fallen materials up before they could go forgotten.
"Irvine," Her tone held a somewhat scolding tilt to it, nonetheless. She brushed her hands off on the towel that hung over her skirt and pulled the gloves back on swiftly. "You shouldn't creep up on people like that, you know."
"I didn't know it would be you I was creeping up on." He responded nonchalantly, seemingly nearly nonplussed by her statement. He kept his gaze diverted and a smug grin upon his face, like a child holding the key to some important secret he would never let go. She squared her gaze upon him and pulled the strap of the mask over her head, allowing it in whole to dangle about her neck like a light, white necklace.
"Irvine –" Her brows knit together and she frowned. "You – aren't supposed to be here, are you?"
"Here is good," He responded with an air of conclusion and coughed quietly. The 'key' to his 'secret' began to faintly remind her of a game of hide and seek the soldiers where chattering about a day ago, when one of their younger children arrived unannounced. "At least for now."
"What's wrong?"
What a question that was. While the corridor was lit, he was tucked within a shadow as though he were a piece of it himself, the only thing, for the most part, visible being his face and a good portion of his upper body. He was crouching, possibly because he was too tall to be hiding in this certain area, possibly because –
Her eyes leveled upon his hands, which were pressed, heel first, into the upper portion of his thigh. Rivulets of blood seeped through the cracks of his fingers, staining the tan of his flesh, the onyx of his pants – it didn't look like it was very interested in stopping, even with the added pressure around it, either.
"You're bleeding!" She blurted, as though informing him of something he didn't know. He shot her a, 'gee, really?' look and grimaced, preparing to limp away from her. If she were to lead him out of the ruins, the people – the ones who had caused the injury – would surely see him and that would be it! "Stop moving!"
She hooked an arm around his own and, with an almost inhumane grip, began leading him toward the entrance of the ruins, albeit slowly. He made an attempt to recoil, but that only made her determination grow stronger.
Most men had such a horrible grip on reality. Hmph. Trying to limp away..
- - - -
"Take your pants off." She struggled with the sentence, trying to conceal a furious, almost angry blush by keeping her head canted away. The expression upon his face after he had registered the command was absolutely priceless – shock and utter confusion. He, amusingly, grasped at the belt of his pants, either considering actually doing it or refusing it indefinitely.
"Why?"
"Because I can't reach your wound through the pants, that's why." She looked back at him, still unable to make the violent blush subside. He realized the voiced fact as well and found himself torn between grinning and taking advantage of the situation – he could probably go as far as to traumatize her! – or he could oblige. Without word.
..
He gave a resigned sign and she turned, retrieving a small stack of objects, which involved a thin sheet, numerous rags, a bottle of clear, foully scented liquid and a thin, long strip of metal, which resembled tweezers, with a rounded end instead of a pointed.
Though first, she handed him a roll of tissues and gauze, before busying herself with the shelf.
"It's a..?" She canted her head back toward him and left the question hanging over his head, missing the sight of him clumsily, stiffly moving from the cot to work at the numerous buckles about his waist. She stacked the needed items against herself within an arm, moving as quickly as possible. To leave a friend in pain would be almost as horrible as offering her aide to Raven himself.
"Bullet wound." He answered tightly and unzipped, unclasped and worked the pants down the length of his legs. Upon hearing the belts clank against the ground, she threw the sheet back at him, keeping from looking him in the face until he was covered – just in case. He caught in the hand, which didn't hold the gauze without much effort, though through the corner of her eye, she caught him grimacing so heavily it looked like he was nearing tears.
He looked down at the sheet momentarily before seating himself once more, having to shift insistently to keep from adding useless pressure. He gingerly laid a wad of tissues upon the wound, allowing it to absorb some of the blood, placed the gauze aside and folded the sheet out across himself. There wasn't much to reveal, unless if she were to blush over the sight of his legs – but it was Fiona, after all.
"I'm not entirely sure if it works, but –"
"I'm fine," He ground out as sweetly as possible and squeezed his eyes closed. He had this happen once before; the pain was unbearable and – he sighed, "Just – remove it."
"I'm sorry." She turned back toward him and smiled in an attempt to lighten the situation, though it didn't. She sighed as well and retreated back toward the table, placing the material upon the foot of it. "I can give you something to put you asleep afterward, if that is what you want."
"Yeah." He answered shortly and curled his fingers around the metal edge of the cot. She gently, reassuringly rubbed his chest and beamed.
"Just lay back." She continued to lightly coax him down, as he obliged, removing her hand only after he was absolutely horizontal to the ground. "I promise it wont hurt."
.. And, surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much as it could have. She was coaxing at the skin about the wound with a swab of cotton, digging out the mediocre sized piece of metal from his thigh with the tweezers. He did little more than cringe and groan, though was soon blinking in confusion, tipping his head downward to see what, exactly, she had done. She held up a small, glass container filled to the brim with liquid, the bullet upon the bottom, an even wider smile pasted upon her face as he sent her a confused, though nonetheless thankful look. Trails of remnants of his blood crept off it with the water, blending to make the water a dull, almost translucent, red shade. She shook it lightly.
"I can't guarantee the pain will remain gone, so –" She turned and retreated back to the area beside the shelve, placing the container upon a small table and capping it. "Stay still for another minute, then you can get a full, comfortable, nights rest."
"Thanks, Fiona." He breathed, astonished, as he ran a finger over the area outside the wound. She returned to his side with a bandage and more gauze, and began wrapping it up swiftly and tightly.
"Too tight?"
"No."
"Alright," She beamed and hurried off to a collapsible closet just to the right of the both of them, taking out a single pair of hospital pants from a tall pile. Her smile grew wide and incredibly amused as he scowled at the pants, handing them to him just as swiftly. "Your pants will probably agitated the wound, so there is something you can change into. I'll wait outside."
He nodded and she retreated, sticking to her word once more as he could see her silhouette against the thick red of the tent.
Rating: For the most part, it's PG-13, though there is a chapter that will be R, I believe.
Pairing: Irvine/Fiona.
Notes: …
Boxers, or briefs? You know how long I spent pondering over that question? WHAT the hell would Irvine wear? .. I asked people. Someone told me, 'nothing! I'm sure he'd like to be free!,' another person told me, 'Dude, you have problems.' Probably. n.n I dunno. Oohh, well. It's over and done with, but feel free to tell me what you think, bwahaha!
- - - -
She was torn between pouncing on the man larger than her and swatting him upside the head, and pouncing and hugging him – maybe she should kick both into action and injure him while hugging him at the same time.
Either way, a definite flood of relief coursed through her veins and she felt her gasping reduced to regulated breathing once more. Before long, she was smiling – nearly glowing with happiness, as she hadn't seen this friend in a dreadfully, though excitingly, long year – and quick at gathering her fallen materials up before they could go forgotten.
"Irvine," Her tone held a somewhat scolding tilt to it, nonetheless. She brushed her hands off on the towel that hung over her skirt and pulled the gloves back on swiftly. "You shouldn't creep up on people like that, you know."
"I didn't know it would be you I was creeping up on." He responded nonchalantly, seemingly nearly nonplussed by her statement. He kept his gaze diverted and a smug grin upon his face, like a child holding the key to some important secret he would never let go. She squared her gaze upon him and pulled the strap of the mask over her head, allowing it in whole to dangle about her neck like a light, white necklace.
"Irvine –" Her brows knit together and she frowned. "You – aren't supposed to be here, are you?"
"Here is good," He responded with an air of conclusion and coughed quietly. The 'key' to his 'secret' began to faintly remind her of a game of hide and seek the soldiers where chattering about a day ago, when one of their younger children arrived unannounced. "At least for now."
"What's wrong?"
What a question that was. While the corridor was lit, he was tucked within a shadow as though he were a piece of it himself, the only thing, for the most part, visible being his face and a good portion of his upper body. He was crouching, possibly because he was too tall to be hiding in this certain area, possibly because –
Her eyes leveled upon his hands, which were pressed, heel first, into the upper portion of his thigh. Rivulets of blood seeped through the cracks of his fingers, staining the tan of his flesh, the onyx of his pants – it didn't look like it was very interested in stopping, even with the added pressure around it, either.
"You're bleeding!" She blurted, as though informing him of something he didn't know. He shot her a, 'gee, really?' look and grimaced, preparing to limp away from her. If she were to lead him out of the ruins, the people – the ones who had caused the injury – would surely see him and that would be it! "Stop moving!"
She hooked an arm around his own and, with an almost inhumane grip, began leading him toward the entrance of the ruins, albeit slowly. He made an attempt to recoil, but that only made her determination grow stronger.
Most men had such a horrible grip on reality. Hmph. Trying to limp away..
- - - -
"Take your pants off." She struggled with the sentence, trying to conceal a furious, almost angry blush by keeping her head canted away. The expression upon his face after he had registered the command was absolutely priceless – shock and utter confusion. He, amusingly, grasped at the belt of his pants, either considering actually doing it or refusing it indefinitely.
"Why?"
"Because I can't reach your wound through the pants, that's why." She looked back at him, still unable to make the violent blush subside. He realized the voiced fact as well and found himself torn between grinning and taking advantage of the situation – he could probably go as far as to traumatize her! – or he could oblige. Without word.
..
He gave a resigned sign and she turned, retrieving a small stack of objects, which involved a thin sheet, numerous rags, a bottle of clear, foully scented liquid and a thin, long strip of metal, which resembled tweezers, with a rounded end instead of a pointed.
Though first, she handed him a roll of tissues and gauze, before busying herself with the shelf.
"It's a..?" She canted her head back toward him and left the question hanging over his head, missing the sight of him clumsily, stiffly moving from the cot to work at the numerous buckles about his waist. She stacked the needed items against herself within an arm, moving as quickly as possible. To leave a friend in pain would be almost as horrible as offering her aide to Raven himself.
"Bullet wound." He answered tightly and unzipped, unclasped and worked the pants down the length of his legs. Upon hearing the belts clank against the ground, she threw the sheet back at him, keeping from looking him in the face until he was covered – just in case. He caught in the hand, which didn't hold the gauze without much effort, though through the corner of her eye, she caught him grimacing so heavily it looked like he was nearing tears.
He looked down at the sheet momentarily before seating himself once more, having to shift insistently to keep from adding useless pressure. He gingerly laid a wad of tissues upon the wound, allowing it to absorb some of the blood, placed the gauze aside and folded the sheet out across himself. There wasn't much to reveal, unless if she were to blush over the sight of his legs – but it was Fiona, after all.
"I'm not entirely sure if it works, but –"
"I'm fine," He ground out as sweetly as possible and squeezed his eyes closed. He had this happen once before; the pain was unbearable and – he sighed, "Just – remove it."
"I'm sorry." She turned back toward him and smiled in an attempt to lighten the situation, though it didn't. She sighed as well and retreated back toward the table, placing the material upon the foot of it. "I can give you something to put you asleep afterward, if that is what you want."
"Yeah." He answered shortly and curled his fingers around the metal edge of the cot. She gently, reassuringly rubbed his chest and beamed.
"Just lay back." She continued to lightly coax him down, as he obliged, removing her hand only after he was absolutely horizontal to the ground. "I promise it wont hurt."
.. And, surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much as it could have. She was coaxing at the skin about the wound with a swab of cotton, digging out the mediocre sized piece of metal from his thigh with the tweezers. He did little more than cringe and groan, though was soon blinking in confusion, tipping his head downward to see what, exactly, she had done. She held up a small, glass container filled to the brim with liquid, the bullet upon the bottom, an even wider smile pasted upon her face as he sent her a confused, though nonetheless thankful look. Trails of remnants of his blood crept off it with the water, blending to make the water a dull, almost translucent, red shade. She shook it lightly.
"I can't guarantee the pain will remain gone, so –" She turned and retreated back to the area beside the shelve, placing the container upon a small table and capping it. "Stay still for another minute, then you can get a full, comfortable, nights rest."
"Thanks, Fiona." He breathed, astonished, as he ran a finger over the area outside the wound. She returned to his side with a bandage and more gauze, and began wrapping it up swiftly and tightly.
"Too tight?"
"No."
"Alright," She beamed and hurried off to a collapsible closet just to the right of the both of them, taking out a single pair of hospital pants from a tall pile. Her smile grew wide and incredibly amused as he scowled at the pants, handing them to him just as swiftly. "Your pants will probably agitated the wound, so there is something you can change into. I'll wait outside."
He nodded and she retreated, sticking to her word once more as he could see her silhouette against the thick red of the tent.