You cold cut the tension in the makeshift poker room with a scalpel. The
two remaining kindred stared each other dead on, so to speak. The
Seneschal narrowed his eyes. The fledgling Brujah didn't flinch.
"I think you're bluffing," the one-time Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake pronounced, slowly and seriously, beginning to smile.
"Think what you want; are you in or out?" Joles smiled back, not moving elsewise.
Hawkeye coughed to break the silence, then, leaning over conspiratorially toward his former CO, murmured in a mock-whisper meant to be loud enough for all to overhear, "I think you're right, Henry. Look at how pale he is. Looks worse than you did when you sat on that hot appendix for two weeks." He popped a pretzel into his mouth for punctuation and leaned back, looking to B.J. for confirmation.
The cards in Joles' hand blurred from his vision, and his heart, so meticulously kept in action, nearly stopped beating. After spending all day in close contact with his (literally) frigid wife, and not having had his usual facilities this morning in which to properly bring his temperature up to normal, he had had some difficulty feeling himself this morning, but he'd been sure that he was alright before he left the tent. 98.60 degrees, exactly (he'd stopped using a thermometer - he'd gotten to the point of being able to tell discrepancies from normal to the 100th of a degree), one heartbeat every second. Why this accusation of pallor, all of a sudden? He should have the normal, healthy glow he usually had. He concentrated for a moment on counting his pulse, his hands slipping down to rest on the table and giving him an opportunity to surreptitiously touch his wrist, and on NOT looking around to try to find a mirror. If he looked in the mirror, they'd be there, as they always were, mocking him, infesting his head like so many maggots in rotting meat.
B.J. leaned forward, a look of concern spreading over his face. "Yeah, I see. Look at how his hand's shaking."
Joles nearly dropped the set of cards he was holding. As it was, he let go of them with one hand, holding them in his right while his left moved to the edge of the table, his fingers resting on the edge as he stared down at them, his keen eyes zeroing in on the motion in the limb down to the level of the nanometer, the swift quiverings caused by his forced heart rate, which, he noted with terror, was rising.
"Quit that, you guys, I'm a doctor, myself, you know. Aren't we here to play cards?" Joles spoke somewhat shakily, but managed to keep a grip of himself. After all, he was just imagining the dilapidated tremble of his hand, he was simply counting his heart rate wrong, he was just distracted, he wasn't thinking clearly. Right?
Of course, right. Or was it right? His left hand really began to quake now, but he gripped it in a fist, yearningly looking to his left only to see that his supreme comfort in unlife, his beautiful wife, was not there, as was her wont, to take his hand in hers and to still it. Oh, god, what if he were really getting ill? What if he were going to meet final death right there in that tent, and never see her again? What if his body was breaking down completely?
"Colonel?" Sidney chimed in, the calm, cool voice of the psychologist cutting through the thronging thoughts that had begun to rush upon the Seneschal. "Are you sweating?"
Joles couldn't take it anymore. Setting his cards distractedly down on the table, face up (a flush - in the background of all the panic that was suffusing the area, Henry subtly folded), he reached into the pocket into which he had guiltily secreted away his wife's compact mirror. He opened it and lifted it close to his forehead to examine.
'Look who's here!'
'Ha! What's that? Oh, no, that's supposed to be like that, look at the--'
'Doesn't it look a little red to you?'
'Too close! Too close!'
'Too---' the voices snapped closed with the compact. Joles struggled to regulate his breathing and heart rate, and by the time the compact was back in his pocket, droplets of blood-sweat had really begun to form on his brow.
"No. Of course not," he replied, wide-eyed, panting and trembling in fits.
"Colonel? Are you okay, sir?" Radar asked quietly from across the table.
"I think the Colonel could use that drink, now, Radar."
Radar looked up, and nodded briefly, leaping over the table and scuttling out the door.
~
"I think you're bluffing," the one-time Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake pronounced, slowly and seriously, beginning to smile.
"Think what you want; are you in or out?" Joles smiled back, not moving elsewise.
Hawkeye coughed to break the silence, then, leaning over conspiratorially toward his former CO, murmured in a mock-whisper meant to be loud enough for all to overhear, "I think you're right, Henry. Look at how pale he is. Looks worse than you did when you sat on that hot appendix for two weeks." He popped a pretzel into his mouth for punctuation and leaned back, looking to B.J. for confirmation.
The cards in Joles' hand blurred from his vision, and his heart, so meticulously kept in action, nearly stopped beating. After spending all day in close contact with his (literally) frigid wife, and not having had his usual facilities this morning in which to properly bring his temperature up to normal, he had had some difficulty feeling himself this morning, but he'd been sure that he was alright before he left the tent. 98.60 degrees, exactly (he'd stopped using a thermometer - he'd gotten to the point of being able to tell discrepancies from normal to the 100th of a degree), one heartbeat every second. Why this accusation of pallor, all of a sudden? He should have the normal, healthy glow he usually had. He concentrated for a moment on counting his pulse, his hands slipping down to rest on the table and giving him an opportunity to surreptitiously touch his wrist, and on NOT looking around to try to find a mirror. If he looked in the mirror, they'd be there, as they always were, mocking him, infesting his head like so many maggots in rotting meat.
B.J. leaned forward, a look of concern spreading over his face. "Yeah, I see. Look at how his hand's shaking."
Joles nearly dropped the set of cards he was holding. As it was, he let go of them with one hand, holding them in his right while his left moved to the edge of the table, his fingers resting on the edge as he stared down at them, his keen eyes zeroing in on the motion in the limb down to the level of the nanometer, the swift quiverings caused by his forced heart rate, which, he noted with terror, was rising.
"Quit that, you guys, I'm a doctor, myself, you know. Aren't we here to play cards?" Joles spoke somewhat shakily, but managed to keep a grip of himself. After all, he was just imagining the dilapidated tremble of his hand, he was simply counting his heart rate wrong, he was just distracted, he wasn't thinking clearly. Right?
Of course, right. Or was it right? His left hand really began to quake now, but he gripped it in a fist, yearningly looking to his left only to see that his supreme comfort in unlife, his beautiful wife, was not there, as was her wont, to take his hand in hers and to still it. Oh, god, what if he were really getting ill? What if he were going to meet final death right there in that tent, and never see her again? What if his body was breaking down completely?
"Colonel?" Sidney chimed in, the calm, cool voice of the psychologist cutting through the thronging thoughts that had begun to rush upon the Seneschal. "Are you sweating?"
Joles couldn't take it anymore. Setting his cards distractedly down on the table, face up (a flush - in the background of all the panic that was suffusing the area, Henry subtly folded), he reached into the pocket into which he had guiltily secreted away his wife's compact mirror. He opened it and lifted it close to his forehead to examine.
'Look who's here!'
'Ha! What's that? Oh, no, that's supposed to be like that, look at the--'
'Doesn't it look a little red to you?'
'Too close! Too close!'
'Too---' the voices snapped closed with the compact. Joles struggled to regulate his breathing and heart rate, and by the time the compact was back in his pocket, droplets of blood-sweat had really begun to form on his brow.
"No. Of course not," he replied, wide-eyed, panting and trembling in fits.
"Colonel? Are you okay, sir?" Radar asked quietly from across the table.
"I think the Colonel could use that drink, now, Radar."
Radar looked up, and nodded briefly, leaping over the table and scuttling out the door.
~