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 Posted: Wed Jan 13, 2010 5:25 am
Did I fall or something.
He didn't even remember.
Gunn Killingworth's expression didn't change a lot at the black-humoured, official apology, at the crooked smile, at the bald head still. Killingworth still looked as though someone had died. Well. Someone had died, just 90% of the way, and so long as that 10% wasn't fulfilled Khaldun Cilentani was still in the running. What was he to the General-King? If he were a punching-bag obligation, either Charonite really cared about punching-bag obligations (did he have any other ones?) or something was rotten in the state of Denmark. Whatever, he was there; he was there with Nea; and he had been there, start to finish. From the beginning to the end.
There was an awkward silence following his statement. Neither of them quite knew what to say. Charonite simply rested back in the crappy plastic chair, eyes halfway on Khaldun's and halfway at the beeping machine that kept time with the musical beat of his heart.
"How do you feel."
Now he was asking how he felt. The answer was going to be 'like s**t', but -- he was asking how he felt.
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Posted: Thu Jan 14, 2010 1:29 am
Khaldun didn't look surprised or overly-bothered by the lack of answers, despite asking questions. When the forced smile died away, his expression was scrutinizing, suspicious, wary, as he tried to second-guess the obvious conclusion he'd come to. He wasn't in a state to hide his expression, not on the amount of painkiller they'd kept him on in case he woke up. Staying informed, even about himself - especially about himself - was a privilege rarely extended to him by the General-King. He'd almost died. That was a fact. How? Apparently unimportant. Fine. That was just how prepared he'd be for the next time certain death dropped by for a visit.
Silence prevailed for a while. God, something was just wrong with this scenario. It didn't add up. This was the man who could kick the s**t out of him without warning, and did, did many times. Charonite threatened to kill him on a regular enough basis. Like when Khaldun had expressed his feelings about their engagement, the two had ended up in a fight again. So what was the difference between Charonite revoking the luxury of life from his worthless lieutenant, and fate saving him the trouble of getting his hands dirty? It wasn't that Killingworth looked like someone had died - it was that Killingworth looked like someone had died, and that it really bothered him.
They were both here, he'd finally figured out, General-King and Captain. Ursula was sleeping, curled up in one of those plastic chairs. The state of her appearance told him the same thing as Charonite's - she'd been here for days as well. Khaldun knew she was unpredictable - he didn't doubt that she had a reason for being here and waiting for his eventual escape from a coma, but for once her reason had to be easier to make sense of. Charonite was the ultimate enigma here. Khaldun wanted to think maybe Ursula had put Killingworth up to this: the waiting, the questions, everything about Killingworth that he didn't think the man was capable of. Wanted to, but couldn't really believe it. No one, not even that ghostly Negaverse Queen, could force the General-King to sit in a chair for days, sleepless. But Khaldun couldn't think of anyone or anything that could elicit the sort of rueful look that was being trained on him in this bedridden state. Like he'd died or something. Like Killingworth was mourning that.
"Like s**t," he practically spat in the direction of the humming, beeping machines he was hooked up to. "Like Obsidian tried to bludgeon me to death with his sword or something." Not much of a question, not much of an answer. But it was a first for Khaldun's guardian having any interest. Khaldun tried to sound tough about his mystery injuries. The initial panic at his situation was over, and with it gone, he was more acutely aware of just how shitty he felt. He could see his arms crossed on top of the thin blanket, covered in small, jagged remnants of cuts. His face had probably shared a similar fate. Everything out of sight was either broken, bruised, or scarred. He didn't know why. He didn't remember. And the hospital was only going to make things worse. It was a confusing, unfamiliar place. It was where people went to die sometimes, if one didn't manage to get rid of the body after harvesting a star seed. It was hardly surprising to him that this was a place for the dying, normally - they'd shaved off his hair and tangled him in their indecipherable machines. After sighing, he gave Killingworth a sheepish pleading look, made more pitiful by his lack of hair and all the tubes and wires trailing from him. His voice crackled from several days of disuse, but was determined to get the words out there. "You'll get me out of this hospital now, though, sir? You and Ursula? I mean, do I look like I'm still in a coma now? No way! I am the exact opposite of 'in a coma' here, that's how wide awake I am. And I'm not even a 'god damned' vegetable or anything! Take my word for it, sir, I'm all better."
Before Charonite could guess what he was up to and stop him again, Khaldun tried to pull himself upright as fast as he could handle doing so normally, in the hopes he could just get up out of the bed and prove he was fine. He discovered quickly that it didn't work the same without a full set of intact ribs. The exertion against broken ribs had him doubling over, coughing and gasping in short breaths, before falling back again a little worse than before. He hadn't been awake long - he didn't know what he'd injured or broken besides his skull until he set things off here. He clutched at the side of his ribcage, hissing between statements. "Mostly all better. Which is a lot. Of. Better. I swear. More'n enough better. Trust me on this. Ah, ******** god damn."
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