Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight
"Oh we're being literary are we, Just Emiel?" This was old, familiar ground--easy to fall into. Books, of all the strange and unexpected things, had brought them together in the first place. Her heart lurched a little, thinking on it. That's what she got, really, for thinking. She had let her hands drift, and when he spoke again she let herself focus instead on the unfairly charming way he pressed his tongue against the back of the ring in his mouth.
"Don't know what that means," she teased; a lie. She'd picked up that much at least, in their not-quite-a-year. And not a lie, too, because she understood the words but not the meaning. He pouted, just as exaggerated as her sigh; Cerise barely kept herself from laughing looking at him. Gracious clocking Lady, she had forgotten how good it felt just to look at him, to joke around. Even if he was an absolutely rotten patient, no matter what he said.
Cerise couldn't bring herself to complain anyway, when he didn't turn back around to let her finish what she'd started. He would have to, eventually, or else finish what he'd started. That seemed medically unwise. Not that she would stop him; she did care about taking care of the aftermath of earlier, truly. But she also liked him right where he was, hands at her waist.
That comment about her bedside manner didn't require much of a response. Not a verbal one, anyway. You're the only one I'd play healer for, she thought to herself, but she kissed him instead of saying it out loud. The sentiment was the same, anyway; speaking would only have gotten in the way.
"Who told you that blatant lie?" she demanded, only reluctantly letting him sink back to the floor. That was a hit, that comment about her face; calculated or accidental? And did it matter? A part of her heart ached all the same. She sighed, the edge of it bitter. Let him think it was for taking that mouth away from her, and not that she was thinking too hard on the kinds of trouble her face had gotten him into. In the end it hardly mattered--she had said she wasn't going anywhere, and she meant it.
No, he'd have to get rid of her himself this time. Explicitly, directly, and personally. And maybe he would. She remembered still every bitter comment, and what had sounded to her like resignation. Cerise had said what she said, and she knew it may not matter. She did hope, at least, he'd wait for tomorrow to do it. Let her pretend a little longer. Tomorrow was a problem for future Cerise.
He turned around, anyway, and settled himself again. Cerise tried to make herself focus on the glass, on being careful with removing it. The water was still running in the washroom, she realized; he'd turned it on before she even sat down, and hadn't turned it off the whole time. Every sign of his obvious impatience made her want to move slower, draw the whole procedure out, just to be contrary. Nevermind that she was just as impatient, if not more so.
"I can be both," she said, resuming the work. "But neither of those are the same as gentle." She punctuated the sentence by pulling out another piece. For all that she was teasing, she did try not to make it hurt too much.
There was less glass remaining than she thought; she had made decent progress before she had stopped. Before too long, she had gotten the last of it. Cerise thought that she should disinfect it all somehow; she rummaged around in the first aid kit, but she held little hope he'd have any antiseptic of any kind.
"There," she declared, and began to retrieve her hair tie. Which admittedly also became an excuse to run her hands through the bright locks of it again, but she did think it was time to take it back. "That's the glass, at least... We should actually clean this up. And bandage the burns on your back, too." Maybe, just maybe, she let her hands move from ghosting over the red and blistering skin to tugging a little more at the shirt he'd already peeled away from his shoulders.