THE REST IS RUST AND STARDUST [C]

[Slansky Kirov]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 499px; height: 549px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Customers/SLANLAYOUT_zps6b33d913.png)] Home was meant to be a safe place, a haven. It was where the boots were unlaced, where it was free to laugh among friends and not feel a cold breath of fear ever-present in the background. The Menagerie did not offer many luxuries, but Slansky had always believed in the concept of having a home, a place to feel safe and come to at the end of the day. But nothing was sacred in Hell. The sound harsh sound of the train-car door sliding open was what jarred him from his sleep, jerking up and away from the fox curled at his side. It was an image he would never forget, people running with torches and lanterns in the background, yelling for reinforcements. The man that had open the car was looking at Slansky, shouting, but it was a moment before the Czech-Russian comprehended what he was saying. And then it clicked. Carna, Carna! It was the same in any language. Akane was awake by now, blurry-eyed but conscious. "Ostat'sya zdes'!'" He reverted to Russian in his haste, rolling out of the bed to jerk his boots on and lace them as quickly as possible. Carna, this far into their territory? He swallowed. They wouldn't stop at doorways and let the innocent be. He found the heavy chain and padlock that he kept by the door and without a backward glance he pulled them out of the train-car with them, slamming the door shut in his wake. He nearly dropped the lock, but Slan managed to loop the chain around the handle of the door and the wall of the car, locking it with trembling fingers. Inhale, exhale. Now Akane could not get out, and no one would be able to get in. He turned away from the train-car. Most of the Fallen were running in the same direction, and so Slansky shifted and followed suit, striding out the distance effortlessly. His mind was full of fear; not for himself, but for his Ring. He passed by lions and bears, a rhino, a hyena, a flock of birds... The night was a blur of violence. Carna, cackling in the dark. He witnessed the sight of an enemy holding a long scimitar, blood dripping like ink before Slansky stretched out his head and jaw, seizing him by the face with his dull teeth. The sheer force of the bite sent the Carna falling, but Slansky didn't kill him, simply let him writhe in his pain. And then he was moving on, full of fear, yes, because he did not want to die. But he used it and the rush of adrenaline to his advantage... There was a komodo dragon coiling and hissing and spitting, and Slansky thundered at it, neighing, stamping his forelegs. The thing lashed out, but a well-placed hoof to the rib-cage of the Carna had it wheezing. He heard the audible snap of bones-- Skye. There was a ring of Carna surrounding the leader and... and Manic. Slansky had never seen him before, and he stopped in his tracks. He didn't look like a man. That was his one coherent thought. He does not look like a man, and then he was reeling outward, towards the conflict-- A jaguar lunged at his left side, out of the corner of his eye. Slansky prepared to retaliate, but it was too late. The full weight of the feline slammed into his shoulder, and the fangs of it attempted to seize him by the neck, only to get a mouthful of Slansky's mane instead. It slipped down his shoulder, but then the hind claws of the jaguar found purchase in Slansky's sensitive haunch. He let out a high-pitched sort of scream, tossing back his head and bucking wildly. He didn't know what happened. He hit the ground, and it went black. * * * * * Slansky stared at the rusted padlock, not necessarily registering what was in front of him. The chain hung limp and loose, and he wondered how anything so feeble could have kept out the horrors of the previous night. He had expected to not wake up. He knew that coherent thought wasn't possible when someone was unconscious, but with that jaguar attached to his side, he was certain he was never, ever going to wake up again. He was still bleeding through his shirt, and he felt the slick tendrils of it tracing down his side, sluggish now. Slan rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, his mind... blank. He felt empty. But there was a girl in there. He moved mechanically, unlocking it. The padlock and chain fell, and he did not bother to pick them up, although he did reach out with his uninjured arm to slide open the door The energy went out of Slansky, however, and he collapsed into the sand at the base of the rain-car, turning to lean against it gingerly. The movement hurt him. Slansky looked out across the dunes, unchanged from the day before. But everything was different. She was dead. Their leader, for eight years, was dead. It wasn't like Slansky had known her well, but he had respected and liked her, and her death meant change. And change wasn't a good thing in this place. What bothered him more was his own inability to prevent it from happening. He hadn't even seen it happen--he had been unconscious for that. The morning had been a long one of cleaning up bodies from the sand. The images were stained into his mind, and it was obvious from his vacant expression. He could remember the lifeless eyes, the blood turning the sand ruddy... And, what he remembered even more clearly, was the death cries of countless during the night, watching his comrades be hacked down to their knees, some of them mere children... He blinked, his eyes glassy. He would not admit it, but he was frightened of what was to come. ooc: set the morning after Skye's death translations: Ostat'sya zdes'!' - stay here!

[AKANE]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 474px; height: 565px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Image1zz_zps95d67e53.png)] Over the weeks, Slansky and Akane had grown to certain acceptances about each other. One of them being, that they both tended to drop into their own languages when becoming upset or impatient. In turn, each was learning slowly the meaning of the outburst expressions. The smattering of Russian she had begun to learn would have been strange if she were for some reason in need of the language. Hurry up, wake up, come here, stay there, and a jumble of swear words and random terminologies. It was safe to say she could cuss someone out, or give orders to a dog … which, in the right circumstances might be perfect. However, Slan’s Russian words spoken that morning were so clear in meaning, if she’d never before heard a word of Russian - she would have understood. Stay here. Akane was still disoriented, and as he pulled on his boots her head rose in time to watch him jump out of the car chain in hand. She was too late in realizing his intention. The two-tailed fox dashed to the door, and halfway through changed into a slim girl with light eyes and a mass of dark hair. “Wait!” she cried out, and attempted to haul the door open. It didn’t budge. There was a noise, and she quieted just long enough to her the lock hit home. “IIE!!” She yelled desperately and banged her fists against the door for a few rounds. Stepping back, she looked at the metal it in fury, and it was then she heard the first scream. During the next hours of the second worst night of her life, Akane had shifted over twenty times and scribbled scratches through the carpet to the metal floor at the base of the door. Her unconscious whines of anxiety and growls of frustration as she searched every nook and cranny of the train car to find escape suddenly quieted, when there was a sudden slam against the side of the train car powerful enough to rock it. After that, she was dead silent and spent the better part of the night behind some of Slansky’s gear on a bottom shelf in the darkness, curled in one of his blankets - ears flat and head buried as deep as it would go. Near dawn, when the screams had died down, and things began to quiet … she slipped from the shelf and shifted. There was the barest of light through the cracks of the car, and she retrieved the blanket, remade the bed, and sat down. Taking a breath, she crossed her legs and sat quietly watching the door. The night had been horrible, and all she could think was that Slansky was out there, and her father was out there … and everyone was out there and she was stuck in a metal box. Tears would have crept down her cheeks, but she was too strung out and too tired. All she could do now was wait. Eventually there was a noise. She started awake, having dozed off during her vigil. The door was open, but no Slansky. Without thought she was at the door and looking around to see the chaos and destruction from night before … still no Slan. Movement caught her eye and she finally looked down by the base of the car, and there he was. Akane leapt into a drop as a girl, landed in the sand gracefully as a fox, and turned human eyes and hands to flutter worriedly over the bloody man. It was so quick, one might have thought it a trick of the light. ”Daijobu desu ka?” she cooed. He was a mess, for his benefit in shifter-tongue she asked the same question, "Are you okay?" Nothing else. The buzzing of questions: What happened? Why did it happen? All melted away to a single concern, and as she immediately went to her knees beside him put a hand to the side of his face. Akane looked him over assessing the damage. He needed to be cleaned up, and needed sutures. Internal injuries by this point didn’t worry her. The idiot would have died hours before if there had been anything more serious. Bake na, she thought to herself. But how was she going to get him into the car? Akane was no doctor, but Husher had always schooled his daughter in the basics of medicine, defense, and a slew of other things and at the very least she could do this. She schooled her features with effort. Your emotions and worry won't help the situation, Put it to the back of your mind and see to business, she remembered the lesson from when she was a girl. Her facade was not effortless, but non the less the worry she felt for him was held back in the face of action. Sometimes, you have time for one of two things. Pro-Action ... or re-action. The latter could get you killed. TRANSLATIONS____ IEE - No! Bake na - An gentler or affectionate form of, "You idiot" (lol)

[Slansky Kirov]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 499px; height: 549px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Customers/SLANLAYOUT_zps6b33d913.png)] He had been taught how to cope in high stress situations, but all that training seemed null and void now. It was from a different life of orders and uniforms and, and... His thoughts broke off, and his dark eyes flicked towards abruptly Akane. Her arrival had made him flinch, jerking nearly to his feet, before he settled, breathing hard. She was safe. A part of him had been doubting her well-being, but now he was certain she was safe. She bent and looked into his eyes, his face. Slansky found himself rapidly closing the the doors to his emotions, of his fear and hid desolation. He showed her nothing but blank eyes. When he spoke it was a mechanical voice. "Yes. For the most part. Flesh wounds on my left shoulder." He broke away from her grip and heaved himself to his feet. "I think that there might be the bare minimum of medical supplies in there." He grimaced, but made his way to the train-car. Slansky braced his right arm against the floor of it and heaved himself onto his chest. He was forced to crawl, but he didn't think there was much shame in that, before standing again. His head was dizzy from the effort, and he was breathing a little harder then normal, his breath hitching now and then from pain. Slansky began to methodically undo the buttons of his shirt with his right hand (he was trying to move the left arm as little as possible) his fingers trembling from exhaustion and stress. His movements were disjointed, and he couldn't stay still--he kept shifting his weight, dragging his toe across the metal floor. He relented. "Akane? Help, please." He had managed to get the topmost buttons undone, but he was too-high strung for the relatively simple project. He kept glancing towards the door, his eyes wide, his body tense. His weight shifted from foot to foot, his shoulders rolled, feeling out the stiffness of it. He felt one of the scabs crack, and more blood leaked down across his skin. Once she finished, he shrugged out from the fabric, his breath caught with pain, pacing an angry line forward and then back in her direction. Calm. Down. He focused on his breathing, feeling like his head was still half-horse. The stillness of standing was maddening, however, and he moved abruptly in the direction of the medical supplies, sutures included. They were located on one of the topmost "shelves", which meant he didn't have to lean down, thank God. He doubted his ability to stand up again. Slan grabbed them, taking a brief moment to stare at the wall and get a better hold of himself, before he paced back in her direction, holding the supplies gingerly. Skye was dead. That was the bottom line, wasn't it? His eyes flicked to Akane, then towards the open door, and then down towards his boots. His gaze skimmed his chest and abdomen, and then he realized that his scars were showing, the ugly burns that were faintly glossy and darker then the rest of his skin. He said nothing about it, merely glanced up sharply, met Akane's gaze. "Vy mozhete sdelat' eto?" It took him several seconds for him to realize his fault. Slan cleared his throat, jerked his head towards the open door, then back to her. He didn't feel safe; he felt like out there, across the hot, simmering dunes... there was the chance of violence, of brutality. He was waiting for his home to be violated all over again. "I mean, can you do this?"

[AKANE]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 474px; height: 565px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Image1zz_zps95d67e53.png)] Akane couldn’t help but startle when he pulled from her so quickly, and withdrew from his way with interest when he practically threw himself onto his feet. She watched him, nodded silently in response to his comment about medical supplies, and winced as he levered himself into the train car. It was obvious he was in pain, and not thinking. He should have used the stool, she thought with remorse as Akane herself used it, levering herself in smoothly as she had learned to do with practice. She gave him space.There was something about his manner that she didn’t quite follow, and she was almost afraid to touch him after his initial flinch from her. She watched powerlessly as he moved about, pacing, and shifting foot to foot. She had seen her father angry and stressed … but this was different. This was, this was … He said her name, and asked for her help. It was only then that she noticed her body had frozen in place, and whilst Akane had been regarding his movements, she had not realized her lack of attention in effort to understand his jittery restlessness. She approached him smoothly, obeying to her own instinct that told her not to move too quickly. As her hands rose to unbutton his shirt, and trembled as if she were about to set off a loaded spring at her lightest touch. At first he could not settle, but eventually stood still enough to allow her to finish the task. The heat came off of him in waves; had it been much colder his whole body would have been steaming the air. She eased the shirt from his shoulders as gently as possible, but still managed to hurt him. Immediately he was off, moving again without warning. Again she could only stand, holding his shirt as she watched him with concern. Inside she was reeling, What do I do? What do I do? over and over. The repetition stopped when he offered her the medical kit. Her eyes rose from the shirt in her hands, to the medical kit, skimming over his chest, and up to his eyes. They were wild. He issued a Russian phrase she had not yet learned, scanned the outside then repeated himself in shifter-tongue. Akane exhaled a breath she did not realize she had been holding, and took the medical kit from him delicately. Think, Akane, think … you can do this. She blinked then took a breath to steady herself with her eyes closed. They snapped open with resolve, looking past Slansky to the wall. Setting the shirt aside, she nodded and walked to the blankets. There was no way she could fix him up if he couldn’t stay still, and after weeks of knowing this man she could account for ’couldn’t’. Were he able, Slan would have settled in moments. However, Akane was a nurturing soul and after placing the medical kit by the bed, walked back over to Slansky with a firm, gentle touch and soothing voice. “Shhh, shhhh. It’s okay Slan it’s over, you’re okay. Ochitsuite,” her voice was very sweet, and Akane took deep, steady breaths in effort to get him to as well. The hand on his unwounded shoulder was light and unarresting, and though she did not look him in the eye her face was as pleasant and relaxed. He seemed to settle, if only a bit and she smiled. “You’re okay,” she insisted quietly, her hand gently moved back and forth against his skin in a pacifyingly motion. A breeze picked up, trickling through the open door over the two figures rippling through the girl’s long tousled hair and she smiled. “Just breathe,she coaxed softly. _____Translations "Ochitsuite" - calm down

[Slansky Kirov]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 499px; height: 549px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Customers/SLANLAYOUT_zps6b33d913.png)] On some level, Slansky was aware of Akane watching him, at a loss. But it didn't matter. Her gaze did not keep him from moving, disjointed and quickly, nor did the presence of her comfort him any in the beginning; contrarily, feeling her gaze made Slan all the more jittery and nervous. Even surrounded by familiar sights and scents he was unsettled, and perhaps there was good reason for that, he thought with a streak of coherent bitterness. After all, there was a stain of blood outside on the door of the train-car... You're okay. His eyes were on hers, wide and animalistic. Not all of him was there, in that moment-- He felt the sun hot on his face. "Hey, hey. Get up! Wake up!" Slansky didn't know what they were saying. He cracked open an eyelid, gazed up into a face that was only vaguely familiar. A tenderfoot... or no, was he an omega? "Thank God, you're alive! Hey, he's alive! Can we have a medic?" Slansky had shifted back into a man when he was unconscious. He drew himself into a sitting position, his head reeling, his eyes dotted with black. He just recognized the word "medic" and shook his head. Which was a bad idea. He was sent reeling again, and felt distinctly nauseous. He had one hell of a migraine. "No, no. I'm fine without one. Save their energy for someone who really needs them." The tenderfoot looked concerned, ready to argue. "Just help me up, I'm a little dizzy." The youth still looked ready to disobey. Slansky forcefully settled himself, inhaling and exhaling, and then stared the kid in the eyes. "Now, please." Not quite an order, but close enough. The kid helped him to his feet, and the sudden movement had Slan reeling for more than one reason. First of all, he had rushed in standing. Second of all, as soon as his vision cleared, he found himself staring at carnage-- Just breathe. He was not aware of how labored his breaths were until that instant, how frantic they were. He could hear the screams. He could see the child, bloody on the sand, her throat torn out by claws or teeth or... he didn't know. Slansky exhaled. He looked into Akane's familiar gray eyes, and inhaled, forcing himself to stay still. A part of him was still tense, but... inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Breath in, out, in, out. His eyes were strangely intense, but there was something distant about them, suggesting that he was not thinking in a typical fashion. In fact, they were raw, a sort of feral edge having taken hold. He could still smell the copper of blood above the arid desert. No, he thought. I'm not there anymore. It took conscious effort, but his breath began to slow, and by effect (it took a few minutes) the trembling in his hands abated. His heart, which had been thudding heavily, thundered to a normal beat. "Mám se dobře, děkuji." He slipped into his mother's language without realizing it, but it was no longer because of his lack of control. He let out one long breath before glancing away, shamed by his behavior but unwilling to admit it. He... he could never remember losing control like that. He had always kept a firm hold on his emotions, and the closest he had ever come to a breakdown like that was once after he had been burned. He associated it with the feral-tinged thoughts of his animal form. Not the fire, but the fear, the nervousness. He had never been a skittish man. Slansky broke away, keeping his movements forcefully controlled rather than unhinged, and he sat himself on one of the crates. His shoulder was throbbing by now, and the dried blood down his side had begun to flake. "Help?" A question, his eyes flicking to her, not as steady as they typically were but steadier then they had been. He was keeping his words short. translations: Mám se dobře, děkuji. - I'm fine, thank you, in Czech.

[AKANE]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 474px; height: 565px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Image1zz_zps95d67e53.png)] The words meant nothing to her, but there was a touch of quell to it, so she took it as he was feeling better. Slansky’s demeanor changed somewhat, but not completely and when he broke away from her it was not with the same alarmed and physical dismissal. When he sat down and asked for her help again, she nodded and fetched the medical kit. When she returned to his side, she went to work collecting more supplies such as bandages and water to wash him with. Dropping antiseptic into the water, she picked up a rag and desperately wished she could make him go to sleep. Getting the sand and dirt out was going to hurt badly. Akane did the best she could, pouring the water and trying not to waste too much and picking the dirt from his wounds, he twitched here and there and once she expelled a breath impatiently and tsked him to stay still. The sutures weren’t exactly going to be fun either, and in fact she might have suggested a medic carry on from there … but she assumed they were busy and she was fairly confident she could close him up decently enough. At least it was his left side. Akane was right handed and it simply made the task easier. It was inconvenient however that she had no help - which would force Slan to move his arm and body to help her. A few times she had to position his arm over her shoulder, as holding it up as long as he had too was simply not possible by himself. Her face was fixed in a perplexing manner as she rambled on in Japanese to herself, Grr … idiot! What the hell was he doing …. Oh God I’m so sorry that had to hurt, ouch that too. STOP MOVING DAMMIT, Oh no! That had to hurt too… Dear God and honorable ancestors give me patience! her mind was a paradox of insults, coaxing, praising, whining, and apologies but she managed to get through at least the washing without smacking him over the head. Looking down she realized his hip needed some attention as well, and she stood with a sigh, the noise sounding more amused than anything. ”Alright, I am going to dump this. You undo your pants Mr.,” she commanded with a light-hearted tone and walked to the door to toss the bucket of bloody, sandy, contents to the ground. _____Translations

[Slansky Kirov]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 499px; height: 549px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Customers/SLANLAYOUT_zps6b33d913.png)] It took a lot of teeth-gritting to get through the entire ordeal, quite frankly. It hurt like a bitch, having her pick and scrub at the injuries. He knew he didn't want an infection, but a little park of him was thinking about all those nice medics with their healing abilities... Slansky dismissed the idea. There were people worse off then he was, who needed the energy of those medics more then he did. So he metaphorically grinned and beared it, with a lot less grinning and a lot more bearing. It took the patience of a saint to keep from snapping at her. Slan knew she was just helping, but her frustration was in turn frustrating him. It wasn't like he could help it! How about they switch positions, and see how she liked it? He found himself cutting off the thought, blaming it on exhaustion and stress, because he would rather take the strain of the wounds then wish them on someone else. Alright, I am going to dump this. You undo your pants Mr. Slansky's eyes jerked to her, and he realized she was joking to an extent, but he let a slow smile take hold of his face. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was close. "I must be getting a reward for good behavior." The comment slipped before he could help it, and Slan didn't bother to take it back. He stood up and unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them low on his hips to expose the injuries. They weren't deep or far, not exceeding the line of his underwear. He eyed her, thinking that regardless of how deep or far they were, he wasn't going to like her tending to them. The skin was thin and sensitive. Ah. He was glad that his thoughts were secret, because he realized that the whole concept of thin and sensitive skin could be taken very, very wrong. He started to feel awkward, shifting his weight, mentally chastising himself. This was made even worse when she knelt in front of him, a position that he was familiar with-- Shit. Think about something else, Slan. He forced his mind to... to... the battle flashed before his eyes, and he forced it back, glancing toward the open door.

[AKANE]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 474px; height: 565px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Image1zz_zps95d67e53.png)] After the bucket was dumped, she realized it was getting cold again and she used one arm and her entire body weight to haul the door closed. It was then his comment flicked through the air, and she couldn’t help but smile and shake her head with a chuckle. “Oh baby, you wish,” was her sassy return - but the joke was needed and she let out a sigh, expelling some of the tension and stretching her neck and shoulders. His blood spotted her here and there, and after washing her hands yet again, she crouched to attend briskly to the shallow cuts on his hip. They weren’t nearly as bad, and she simply stuck antibiotic in the slits, and patched it with gauze and tape. They had been at a stand-off, but before she started the sutures she paused with the needle she held in a bent pair of pliers, and almost broke. There had been more than a few times her mother or father had held her down to scrub dirt out of her skin and it hurt like hell. For all she knew, he could have taken these injuries to save countless lives. She looked down, hiding her eyes for a moment – as if concentrating on the thread reel. She would never admit it but she felt so awful, behind the wall of irritation and anger she wanted to cry. With everything that had happened the night before, she had been so scared-nope. Akane cut herself off and sucked it up; it wouldn’t help him, and certainly not her. She shook her head, tossing a stray lock of hair behind a shoulder and cleared her throat. He looked at her then, and she could not stop her grey eyes from meeting his - the apology and guilt was clear on her face before she took her thousandth breath, and began … It was not pleasant, she started with the hardest part, so if he became too tired and needed to lie down he could and it would not hinder her task – but he didn’t. The stitches were far from expert, but she personally had seen worse … so he must have as well. She forgave him every movement, wince, and noise he made and twice she had to “give him a break” to keep the tears from her eyes. Each time she would walk over to the door and haul it open, breathe in the fresh air and try to clear her mind. During one of these breaks, she watched silently as several of the Fallen dug graves. She felt guilty. Guilty and sad, and scared, and tired … she seemed to be the only one undamaged by the horrors of the night, and she couldn’t even heal Slan. It had taken hours, and there was still more to do. Her fingers went to her eyes, rubbing them for a moment tiredly. The afternoon was passing, and the commotion outside and cold breeze was suddenly off-putting. She turned and hauled the door closed again, before retrieving a blanket, and draping it over Slan’s bare and undamaged side. ”Ready?” she asked quietly, and before he could answer or she could refuse she set to finishing sewing up her roommate. _____Translations

[Slansky Kirov]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 499px; height: 549px; background-image:url(http://i596.photobucket.com/albums/tt49/eristhoughts/Customers/SLANLAYOUT_zps6b33d913.png)] He had a hankering for some vodka. Not just a hankering. He felt like he needed some, to get through what was happening. Slansky's teeth clenched, and he tried to remind himself that it would be over soon. He controlled his breathing, attempted to distract himself. He counted the divots in the floor, and then each thread of the tattered hem of his jeans (this didn't last long, though; it was too frustrating). He was not too much in pain nor self-absorbed enough to overlook Akane's changing demeanor. She looked to be in more pain then he did, although she a good job of hiding it, for the most part. That, and she seemed to be in a different kind of pain. He stopped counting threads and turned his eyes to her, observing quietly whenever she was within his line of vision. She took breaks, not because he needed them (although he did--his body was shaking and sweaty from the pain of it), but because she did. His eyes were analytic, thoughtful. Ready? Slansky resisted the urge to ask, are you? Instead, he nodded. It was better to get it over with. He sat there, tense and listless, as she continued to thread her way through the deeper injuries. It was nothing compared to being burned, though, and he had gone numb to an extent. Besides, his mind was elsewhere. Like on the well-being of this girl. She was worrying him. By the time she finished the stitches, he was exhausted mentally and physically, his capacity for patience worn down to the quick. Slansky stood and inspected her handiwork at his side, unable to see the stitches in his shoulder. He touched them gingerly with his right hand, the hot, inflamed skin, before turning to glance at her. "You aren't squeamish, are you?" He hoped not. She wouldn't last too long in the Menagerie, being squeamish. "Or is something eating you?" As he spoke, Slan moved slowly to the makeshift bed. When passing by her he paused, for a mere moment, to clasp a hand on her shoulder. He did not look at her. Merely conveyed his silent gratitude through the touch, which spoke monumentally. They had been living together for weeks, but he only touched her when it was necessary, and never affectionately. He rarely touched anyone, much less kindly, as he was doing now. It was his way of thanks. He broke away and sat, propping himself gingerly on his right side to avoid irritating the wounds. For some reason, Slansky felt as though it was a subject she didn't want to talk about, and that he could not lend a good enough ear to listen just then. He looked at her sleepily, his head cushioned against his uninjured arm. He knew it was midday, and that he should check in, but he had been dismissed that morning and told to "take care of himself". "I'm going to sleep for a while. If you want to talk about anything when I wake up, I'll listen, but until then go get yourself some food, tenderfoot." He didn't wait for a reply. His eyes were already heavy and now they closed.