bakerstreet | I've got red in my ledger

[ Bending down, he pulls the shotgun into his lap before he holsters the pistol. With a firm grip on the barrel, he eyes the other man, unreasonably confident in his control of the situation even from a seated position. Undoing only the first few buttons of his shirt, the shirt clings to his skin, sticking with drying blood as he pulls open the collar to barely reveal the wound. ]

[ The change is immediate. His expression shifts from frightened, cowed hostage to irate physician in an instant, frown twisting into one of pure annoyance. Really? He's going to be a captive in his own home at the mercy of yet another patient determined to drive him to the brink of insanity? Great. Utterly fantastic. When he speaks, his tone is flat. ]

When I say I need to see the wound, I mean the entire wound, not the smallest possible corner you can manage to let me peek at.

[ Moving again with a healer's focus, he ignores the weapons currently prepared to blow his head off, reaching into a drawer in the side table beside the man's chair (and outright disregarding any gun-based threat this earns him in the process). Pulling out a pair of bandage scissors, he grabs a fistful of his attacker's shirt, cutting through the shoulder of it in one quick motion. It now hangs off him awkwardly, destroyed beyond measure. ]

There. Either take it off yourself, or turn around so I can cut through the rest of it.

[ Nothing if not overconfident, he watches his host coolly, fingers twitching around the heft of the shotgun as he opens the drawer, immediately dismissing the man when the bandage scissors appear. Which is how he loses a handful from his shirt. Quicker than he can react, the shoulder of the button-down flaps open uselessly, and the outlaw can do nothing but gape at the other man. ]

What-- did you really just--?

[ Then he sees the physician's expression, his own hardening to one of repressed fury in return. Scowling, he seems to contemplate his chances of winning this battle of wills, but having had his share of injuries, he soon realizes it for the lost cause it is. With a snarling curl of his lip, he pulls the remains of his shirt over his head, taking care to avoid jostling his shoulder.

This isn't the first time he's been shot, if the white pucker of scarring just above his hipbone is anything to go by, but that's far from the worst of what his body has seen. Most recent are the scars along his inner arms, the skin there still shiny and new. And of course, there's the greater dragonmark covering the majority of his back: the mark of Shadow, so dark that it seems to swallow any light that touches it. Beneath the mark covering his shoulderblade is an older scar, wide and even with clean edges, as though carefully sliced. ]

[ Keegan meets his gaze with an unblinking glare, a look he's worn over a hundred times during his tenure as town doctor. He can do this all day, buddy. When his captor finally, grudgingly, begins to remove his shirt, his expression turns to one of smug triumph — until the man's torso is fully exposed. Satisfaction fades to pained empathy at the sight of all those scars, all that damage; what happened to lead to this? What drove him to this life? What was done to him to make him take this path? Those are distracting enough themselves, but when he turns enough for Keegan to see the dragonmark — a true dragonmark, proud and real, nothing like his — the fearful inadequacy creeps its way back in again. No wonder he called Keegan an abomination; he's of a noble line of the mark of Shadow. To him, Keegan is little more than a blight on the marked themselves.

With a slow intake of breath, he shakes off the sudden insecurity, focusing on more important matters. Pursing his lips, he kneels down in front of the chair to be an a better level to work. Pouring his attention back into his work, he leans forward, brushing his fingers cautiously over the wound in his shoulder. It's improved, but still brutalized from whatever bullet he took. Magic, no doubt, designed to burst on impact. ]

This... This is more than I can do it one sitting. I'll, I'll do what I can.

[ Frowning, his brow furrows, and he begins to concentrate. Warmth spreads from his fingertips, down into his palm to seep into the wound. The sweat begins to bead at his brow and, just as before, the white serpent moves its way down his arm and across the back of his hand. This time its dark eyes almost seem to watch the wounded elf as it moves, peering deeper into his person than any creature has a right to. The wound begins to close further, skin pulling together, scorched muscle mending, slow and methodical. The healing slows the longer the spell continues, trickling to almost nothing soon enough. It's easy to see why it falters: the healing physician, focused intently on his work, is flagging quickly. His skin goes clammy and pale, sweat trickling down his brow as he pours what little he has left into mending the man who threatened his life. By the time his ability runs out he is shaking, his hand trembling against the half-healed wound. With a shivering exhale he finally yanks his hand away, trying and failing to mask how he gasps for breath, chest heaving beneath his shirt. Swallowing the dryness from his throat, he speaks in a rasp, thoroughly spent. ]

It... It should mend fine on its own now. Just needs a week or so.

[ He releases a slow breath when the healer removes his hands from his shoulder, at the very least glad to see the last of the serpent. Gods above, does he hate snakes. Leaning back into the chair, his head tips back in exhaustion as he breathes deeply, his gaze sliding over to the other man. ]

Corellon vara lye, you look awful. Sit down, won't you?

[ The observation sees him starting back from the man — not out of surprise, but incredulity. He takes him captive, occupies his home, demands his ability, and then, then, has the gall to behave as though Keegan's waning isn't his fault? Exhausted and worn, he bristles. With a stubborn air, he hauls himself to his feet with effort, feeling at least some meager leverage standing over the man. It's hard not to sway, but he forces himself to look as in control as possible, no matter how dizzy he may feel. ]

I gave you your healing. You're perfectly capable of surviving now, so just... just leave. Or I'll turn you in to the sheriff myself.

[ He snorts incredulously as his arms fold over his chest, shotgun still in his lap. ]

Do they know about your mark?

[ The question blindsides him. He stares down at the other man, stomach twisting into a sudden knot without him knowing why. What's he getting at? His mind is too muddled from overextending himself to even begin to see why that's relevant. ]

It... It doesn't matter, they've... it's not anything they've needed to know about.

[ Because he hides it. He works hard to hide it, using gloves or pieces of cloth or anything he must to keep Dawn out of sight when he works. They think him an alchemist, as he always uses salves and concoctions when he heals, whether they help mend or not. He still doesn't consciously understand — but that dread deep in his stomach is getting worse. ]

What does that have to do with anything...?

[ The smirk that pulls at his mouth is slow and sharp. ]

Because, my dear friend, should you tell them I'm here, then I'll inform them that their doctor is an aberration. Remind me: how do the locals feel about such things in this part of the world?

[ The resounding silence is deafening. Wide-eyed, his mouth opens, closes, then opens again. It's a struggle to hear over the sudden roar in his ears. He's dizzy with the sudden spike of panic that grips his heart. ]

What?

[ No. No, he's worked so hard, only just managed to make anything close to a home for himself, he can't— ]

You can't—

[ No, this isn't... It wouldn't do anything. They wouldn't change. Not after all he's done. They couldn't. ]

They... They wouldn't believe you, they— The people in this town are, are good people, they wouldn't just— Th-they wouldn't look at me differently, just because of my—

[ The words are weak even to his own ears. Desperate. Pathetic. The word twists into his chest like a knife. Aberration. ]

They might not believe me. At least, not in the beginning. But long after I'm gone, the idea will still be sitting in the back of their minds, festering. Tell me, are there children here? There must be, in a quiet town like this. Do you see where I'm going with this? One day, that sheriff will be back, simply to put his mind at ease. One can never be too careful -- for the children, you understand. For the children, they can't let an abberation stay in their sleepy little town.

So, this all begs the question: is it worth losing everything you've built here for a few days?

[ He smiles, knowing the answer. ]

[ Never in his life has Keegan hated anyone as much as he hates this man.

So badly he wishes he could argue against all of it. Tell him it's not true. Say with absolute confidence that they would never turn on him. That they care for him. That they need him. But he knows better. He's seen the way they look at him when he comes into town. Sure, they like him well enough when he heals their children, tends to their wounded, cares for their pregnant and nursing — but they don't like when he stays there too long. People grow uneasy, like they can sense somehow that something is wrong with him. That he's different. That he's not right.

The more the man speaks, the harder it is for Keegan to keep himself contained. He wants so badly to shrug it all off — but he's just been reminded, in no small terms, that this isn't his home, not really. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong anywhere. The tears well in his eyes unbidden, fists balled tightly at his sides as he forces himself to look his captor in the eyes, cheeks darkening with shame and fury. ]

Fuck you.

[ His voice is thick with loathing. Wiping his sleeve across his eyes, he looks away, trying not to look quite so defeated as he feels. Even when the outlaw is gone, the damage he's dealt will remain; Keegan will never again be able to fool himself that he is anything but a visitor here, transient and impermanent. ]

A few days. And then you get out of my life forever and I never see your miserable face ever again. Anything more than that and I'll personally escort you to a jail cell no matter what it costs me.

[ It should feel good, winning. He certainly smiles like it does, though he oddly finds very little satisfaction in it. ]

Believe me, I'd sooner hand you the pistol to put another bullet in me than overextend my welcome in this smear of a town.

[ He eases himself to his feet, stretching as he stifles a yawn. Though healed, his body has gone through a great deal of stress, which it would like to take opportunity to remind him of. ]

Well, I'm knackered. I'll just take the sofa, then, shall I?

Do us both a favor and sleep face down so you smother yourself to death.

[ He can't look at that bastard's face a minute longer. Turning sharply on his heel, he storms to his room — or would like to have done, if he weren't so goddamned weak from wasting all his strength on healing his captor. He makes it a few steps before he stumbles, legs nearly giving out beneath him as everything takes a sharp tilt that almost sees his vision gone completely. Just barely he catches himself on a cabinet near the wall, leaning his full weight into it to keep from collapsing. A few shuddering breaths see him able to stand on his own power again in reasonably short order, but the shame that follows is enough that he slams his fist down against the dresser in frustration.

It isn't fair. He's tried so hard to do good. To be good. And this is what the world gives him in exchange? It's little more than cruelty.

That tantrumed display over, he continues to the bedroom without once looking back. Once back in the safety of his room, he all but throws himself down into bed, pulling his pillow over his head and spending what he considers to be well-earned time feeling sorry for himself. Mercifully, his body is pushed to the limit; it doesn't take long before sleep takes him, the tears still wet on his face when he dozes off.

The next morning he wakes up later than usual; his body is still spent, and it reminds him of such when his eyes squint open miserably against the light pouring in through his window. With considerable effort he drags himself up, sitting on the edge of the mattress with the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. He should go check on his unwanted house guest — and he will. In a moment. When he can gather the physical and mental strength needed to do so. Possibly after boiling water to make himself a hot bath. And coffee. Just thinking about that smug face is enough to make his blood boil and see both Dawn and Dusk writhing with distaste.

Maybe everything else can wait. But coffee can't. That he's going to need in spades today. ]

[ The next morning finds the smell of coffee, brewed strong enough to be considered a solid in some cultures, already filling the area beside the hearth. Still shirtless, the outlaw sips from a tin mug in front of the fire. Hearing Keegan emerge, he half turns, smirking broadly. ]

Did you sleep well?

[ Upon leaving the bedroom, the heavy musk of coffee hits him — which would be welcome, if it weren't accompanied by the miserable, deplorable, detestable face of the outlaw occupying his chair. Immediately he bristles. ]

No.

[ It's early fall; though the afternoon will be warm and dry, the mornings are chilly. Normally he'd spend time by the fire to start his day. Instead he's grabbing a blanket off the couch and pulling it around his shoulders, cold and hungry and crabby. He eyes the mug — his mug — in the elf's hands with bitterness; so much for coffee. He moves instead into the kitchen, fetching himself a cup of water from the pitcher he'd filled yesterday, finding it tastes more stale than usual. He refuses to believe that's due to his foul mood. Unhappily, he glances over his shoulder at the man in front of his fire, only to find himself staring into the deep darkness of his dragonmark. A true, legitimate mark, carefully bred through generations of nobility. When he treated the man last night it was warm to the touch, far warmer than the rest of him.

Keegan's is never warm; Dawn and Dusk are always cold. He'd never thought that was something to be ashamed of before now. His hand rests absent-mindedly over his own mark, still hidden beneath his shirt. Hell's teeth, he can't fucking wait for this to be over with and for this man to be out of his life. He's lost enough in thought that he doesn't notice that his eyes still linger on the outlaw's back, mouth pulled into a pensive frown. ]

[ Almost as though he could sense the human's want of coffee, he takes another slow sip. ]

That's unfortunate. Perhaps you should try the sofa; I slept like a dream. Though, that could be attributed sleeping in nothing but haylofts for a fortnight.

[ Then, noticing the other man's stare: ]

You can touch it again, if you'd like.

[ The offer gives him a start, his eyes widening before wrenching away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. His tone borders on a snarl. ]

I never wanted to touch it in the first place.

[ Gods, he's a prick. Knocking back the rest of his water in a rush, he shrugs off his blanket and tosses it away, irate. ]

I'm going to the well. Feel free to continue taking my things and abusing my hospitality while keeping me captive in my own home.

[ Why yes, he is taking this perfectly fine, thank you. Eager for air and distance, he heads for the door; it's a bit of a hike to the well, but some air and distance seems pretty good right now. Suddenly his house, always a safe space, feels stifling. ]

[ Leaning back in the seat, he hums curiously to himself. ]

Captive? I didn't say anything about a captive, did I?

[ Really? He stops in his tracks, turning around to face him again with his jaw set stiffly. ]

How exactly am I not a captive given that you've taken over my house against my will by threatening me?

[ He just wants to fucking strangle him. How can one person make him so angry so effectively? ]

I never said you had to stay. So long as you remember our agreement, why should I care if you want to go out and tend to the peasantry's scraped knees?

[ It's actually quite generous of him, he thinks. Too many outlaws would simply murder him and use the house. Things like that are why they have a bad reputation. This way, both sides benefit: he has a place to stay, and the aberration's deep dark secret remains exactly that. Everyone wins. ]

I'd think this resembles more of a rent-free boarder situation, more than anything else. Like an unwanted-yet-dashing houseguest.

Oh, you mean that agreement where I have to have a "rent-free boarder" who's actually a wanted man who pointed a gun at my head more than once and threatened to ruin my life if I don't follow his rules?

[ Does he really believe that? Or is it fun just to rub salt in his wounds? Not that it matters. He's stuck one way or the other. Already he's counting down the hours until this man is out of his life. With a final glare he turns and walks out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

The trip to the well is helpful. Walking clears his head, and the fresh air eases the tightness in his lungs. He fills two wide, heavy buckets nearly to the brim, then just... sits. He doesn't want to go home, doesn't want to see that awful man. Doesn't want to see his perfect mark. Dawn and Dusk shift beneath his skin; he presses his palm to them, exhaling a breath. He reminds himself it isn't their fault. All he can do is the best he can with what he's been given — even if those cards seem shittier every day.

With final resignation, he returns to the house carrying both buckets, nudging the door open with his shoulder. These are carried straight to the kitchen so he might boil half for the closest thing to a hot bath he can manage. He does rather miss the plumbing back home sometimes. Putting one bucket into a large stock pot onto the stove after lighting it, he heads then to his room, finding an old shirt long enough to fit his unwanted guest that he's comfortable with burning after use. When he comes from his room, he tosses it all but directly at the outlaw's head. ]

There. That should fit you. If it doesn't, that's your problem, not mine.

[ Good gracious he's a feisty one, isn't he? Setting down his mug, the outlaw holds up the shirt to look it over. ]

If it doesn't, I'll just pop on over to town for a new one, shall I?

[ Is that a threat? He bristles all the same, eyeing him with a frown. ]

What, are we at mutually assured destruction now? Are you that bored already?

[ And no, he isn't a feisty one, actually. Something about him just... irks him. Yes, obviously, breaking into his home, holding him at gunpoint, using his mark against him — all of that is enough to make him a detestable being. But there's also something about his smug smile and cocky demeanor that drives him up the fucking wall. Exhaling through his nose, he gives his unwanted guest one more sidelong look before going into a small nook off the side of the kitchen where he keeps his wash tub, beginning to dump the wellwater inside. The pot of water is close to boiling when he finishes; he takes it from the fire with two clothes on the handles, dumping that into the tub as well and stirring it all together so the temperature is, for the most part, tolerable. He replaces the pot on the stove, bringing his hands up to remove the tie holding back his hair. He doesn't look at the other man when he speaks. The sight of his face is not something he's coping with right now. ]

I'm taking a bath. I'd appreciate if you would try not to cause any trouble in the meantime.

[ Which seems like asking for it with a man like him, but, whatever. Without waiting for a reply he goes into the bathing nook, stripping down and climbing into the tub. The water eases some tension from his muscles. Grateful, he sinks down into it, allowing himself to just soak for a time before he straightens up and grabs some soap from nearby to scrub himself clean. ]

[ The outlaw waits a few minutes before, quiet as a sigh, he follows the human to the nook. Somehow his presence has gone unnoticed, prompting him to lean against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest as he's treated to a bit of a show. ]

If the white serpent heals, what does the other one do?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject