Maybe, comfort was starting to win over, just a little bit. Maybe, the flattery was on its way, too. But you won't catch her admitting it. And the clothings wasn't the very source of her irritability, though the initial sight hadn't helped.
At the moment, it is an odd maneuvering around the formality of distance, and the vulnerability of being in the position she is now.
And it is vulnerability, isn’t it. An admittance that right now, she can’t just fix it herself, because she lacks the proper knowledge of this terribly foreign place to be able to get herself the supplies that she needs, lacks the power, so she must accept the expertise of someone else to do so for her. And she hasn't relied on anyone else for a very, very long time.
So, she does what she’s told, slowly, and given time enough to know her more, Doc might realize what a miracle that is in itself.
It isn’t that she’s trying to be ungrateful, obstinate. Distrustful, perhaps, in a way her world taught her to be. Tissaia's tutelage, years in courts, and years outside of them. Besides, she’s an inconvenient asshole at the best of times, let alone now.
She can’t remember a time when she needed help like this, settling on the couch, and grabbing at the hem of the shirt to hike it up above the wound, really only managing to take a look at it now with a clenched. It’s not the worst she’s had, but if she doesn’t figure out her shit quickly, it might scar. Wrenched arrowheads were a messy business. "Fuck," she exhales, eyeing him, and the little box of apparent medical supplies. "I'd have this healed by now if I wasn't here." She's absolutely not pouting. "Or, maybe I'd just be as dead as the rest."
no subject
At the moment, it is an odd maneuvering around the formality of distance, and the vulnerability of being in the position she is now.
And it is vulnerability, isn’t it. An admittance that right now, she can’t just fix it herself, because she lacks the proper knowledge of this terribly foreign place to be able to get herself the supplies that she needs, lacks the power, so she must accept the expertise of someone else to do so for her. And she hasn't relied on anyone else for a very, very long time.
So, she does what she’s told, slowly, and given time enough to know her more, Doc might realize what a miracle that is in itself.
It isn’t that she’s trying to be ungrateful, obstinate. Distrustful, perhaps, in a way her world taught her to be. Tissaia's tutelage, years in courts, and years outside of them. Besides, she’s an inconvenient asshole at the best of times, let alone now.
She can’t remember a time when she needed help like this, settling on the couch, and grabbing at the hem of the shirt to hike it up above the wound, really only managing to take a look at it now with a clenched. It’s not the worst she’s had, but if she doesn’t figure out her shit quickly, it might scar. Wrenched arrowheads were a messy business. "Fuck," she exhales, eyeing him, and the little box of apparent medical supplies. "I'd have this healed by now if I wasn't here." She's absolutely not pouting. "Or, maybe I'd just be as dead as the rest."