.
.
All that Will has ever known is his world—his version of Oxford.
He should have anticipated the same for Lyra. She's too eager, hopping out of the window from Cittàgazze with her broad, careless grin and tugging on the rucksack with Pantalaimon bundled inside. Will smells the cool morning dew from here.
Leaves rustle. Traffic warbles as if he's gone underwater to listen.
Will follows her out, his ears unclogging, but doesn't see Lyra up ahead of him. She must have crossed left.
There's a noticeable, metallic sting under Will's nostrils.
He wipes his face irritably.
A horn sounds repeatedly, drawing Will's attention past the gate of black wrought iron—and then, what seems like a thump! of impact. His heart stutters as Will recognises Lyra on the grass, motionless. A lemon yellow car skids to a halt, rear-ended by a van, its taillight cracking.
What—what did—
He runs for the grass, feeling faint.
A cry of "No—No!" strangles out of Will's lungs.
It's not soon enough when his hands grasp Lyra's shoulder, rolling her to face him, as Will kneels down. Strands of dark brown hair flutter on Lyra's eyelids. The rucksack empty. Pantalaimon, as a wasp, buzzes and crawls himself dizzily onto Lyra's sleeve.
"Lyra, get up," Will says in panic. He shakes her shoulder. "You have to get up. Lyra—Lyra, can you hear me—?"
She stirs, groaning lightly.
There's no blood. He can't see any bright red blood on her clothes or the grass surrounding Lyra.
Relief crushes him in an instant. Will nearly sags forward. He hears a car door popping open loudly, and the murmurs of bystanders, and the pitter of rain, but Will doesn't care in that moment. He only wants her to look at him. It's all he wants.
Lyra turns her head, glancing up to him with lidded eyes. She murmurs Will's name.
Will feels his strength and his nerve return.
"Are you alright?" he asks under his breath, nodding firmly when Lyra nods. "Good. That's good. Rest there for a minute."
One of the drivers hustles to him and Lyra, panting.
"Is she—?"
"She's fine," Will blurts out, hoping he's convincing. "She tripped and landed funny, that's all. We were chasing a dog." The plan is to let the adults believe what they hit was a nameless stray animal instead of a child. The police would want to be involved.
The driver huffs, their concern evaporating into plain annoyance.
"You should know not to play here—!"
Will interrupts, already heaving a dazed-looking Lyra onto her feet and walking her, "I think I hear my dad! Sorry!" He leads them onto another road's sidewalk, overhearing how the drivers now yell at each other, and mindful about how Lyra limps.
The further they're from the Oxford ring road, the better it is.
.
.
Everything around them melds into a rich golden light as the rain disappears.
Will looks up, and then moves on. They pass through a semi-crowded plaza full of laughing voices and made in honey-coloured stone, with a round bell-tower covered in glass-dome windows, with balconies and footpaths and high garden walls.
"Not far," Will encourages her, keeping his arm hooked to Lyra's waist. "Can you keep going?"
Lyra hobbles on her right leg, flinching. She nods wordlessly. Pantalaimon gives a soft, creature-like whimper from the rucksack.
He's used to taking care of someone else. This isn't anything new. Will often rinsed his mother's scabbed hands, combing her hair and soothing her panic attacks in the grocery stores. It's really what Will thinks he's been good at.
Practice makes perfect, and all of that rubbish.
.
.
"It hurts!"
"Supposed to hurt," Will says dully, but he offers a close-lipped smile. "That means it's working."
Lyra wrinkles her nose, exposing her teeth and jerking her stiffened leg away. He's about done anyway. Will sat her on a bench, pulling out antiseptic cloths and dressings from his book-bag, having Lyra gingerly roll up her pant leg. Nothing appears broken.
Stopping by the A&E wasn't an option.
Will isn't sure how much time they've wasted, but he's checked the hour. They can afford a half an hour more.
Lyra seems steadier, quicker to respond to Will's questions and glum-faced.
He prefers this end of the Botanic Garden. It's quieter.
Will reaches his arm up, sitting down next to Lyra, and brushes his fingers over the flowery low-hanging branches of a tree.
Lyra's knee bleeds, but it's slowing. Will guesses that her upper leg, as well as her thigh and hip, are bruised. Nothing can be done about that until they're in Cittàgazze again. As she adjusts the pant leg, Will's eyes land on Lyra's swollen-pink jaw.
He didn't mean to attack her when they first met. They were both terrified of the other, kicking and punching and screaming out.
Even with his boxing skills, Lyra managed to pin Will down to a tabletop.
"Does it hurt anymore?" Will mumbles. His thumb moves on its own, inspecting Lyra's jaw as gently as the flower-petals. At her curious stare, Will realises what he's doing and lowers his hand. His chest hitches, and Will's face goes hot.
"A little," Lyra says after contemplating this. "How about your arm?"
Will flattens his lips.
"A little…" he echoes her, smiling thinly when Lyra ducks her head, her fingers stroking over her jaw where Will touched. She's almost bashful and almost proud. Pantalaimon rustles on Lyra's end of the bench, stretching his little moth wings.
"Thankfully we didn't end up worse just now."
"Pan," Lyra scolds softly.
Will's mind drifts back to the lemon yellow car, the taillight damaged. "He's right," Will says, frowning. "Don't ever do that again."
"Oi!" Lyra shouts, whirling round to glare. "I didn't hit me! The cart—!"
It's not the right word and Will doesn't care. He hugs her with a fierce kindness, wrapping his arms to Lyra's shoulders. She roots herself on the spot, wide-eyed. "You're my friend, and I don't want to see you hurt," Will murmurs in her ear.
He awkwardly releases her, grabbing the book-bag and looking ahead.
"Come on. Let's get out of here."
Will tries to focus on mentally reciting the lawyer's phone number. Anything but seeing what Lyra is doing.
Pantalaimon turns himself into his ermine form. He makes a pleasantly intrigued noise, watching an astonished and flush-faced Lyra rise to her feet before crawling into the rucksack. "Hush up," Lyra mumbles, embarrassed, when Pantalaimon's laugh muffles.
.
.