Jethro, Bel, and Erskin: have feelings and problems

You wake with a pounding misery where your horns and braincase should be, and moan vaguely at the direction noise is coming from. Jethro calls something or other from outside your cozy pillow den, and when you scoot hopefully towards him you get a face full of damp, spice-smelly pillow. Your bilesac pitches a violent rebellion against your windchute and you hit the ground hard, stumbling blindly for the ablution chamber. To your vague surprise, you actually make it to the gaper before the necessary actions are preformed.

Afterwards you wipe your mouth, lean against the bathtub's edge, and try to knead the headache out through your horns. Jethro's hovering over you, fussing, and you want— you want him to just— back off, a bit, give you some breathing room. Your marks pulse with a feverish, restless, sour sort of discomfort and you don't want him to— to hover like that, it's just that you're getting so tired of always being in arm's reach. Of being held on to.

Oh— well, there's the last of that vodka bottle Bel lost. You nudge Jethro off to the side and fish it out from behind the gaper, somewhat heartened. That'll be your headache dealt with, at least.

 

You neatly pluck the bottle out of his hand and bowl it into the other room. "Nope," you say simply.

You get an arm around him to help him stand up. You're taking the chunk-blowing as a signal that breakfast won't go over real well to start with, so you steer him toward the shower. Warm water makes everything better. Plus he needs a proper wash with soap, his hair is salt-stiff and there's a faint odor of sick-sweat about him that simply soaking in the salt pool can't remove.

 

"But my head hurts," you mumble, plaintively, and lean on him as he herds you into the trap.

The spray hits you in the face and you sputter, your gills spasming open in idiot reflex. "Jethro!" you wheeze, and flail at him.

 

"Quiddit. Shut yer gills, goof, you're gonna get soap in 'em." You reach up to work your fingers through his hair, nudging him to tilt his head so it gets thoroughly dampened. "I'mma wash you horns to toes, babe, you just relax an' roll with it. You're gonna feel hella better when I'm done, promise."

(is this palerom dirty talk? :D)

 

"Mmnfgh," you grumble, then, "oh," blushing, when he rubs your horns and talks of scandalous activities you would very much like to happen to you.

"Right, carry on," you say faintly, and rest your hands very carefully on his shoulders for balance. You don't feel quite up to— returning the sentiment or the vigorous activity, and you feel far too wretched to purr, but you knead his shoulders a bit. "'s nice," you offer.

 

You smile and kiss the tip of his nose, then get on with the moirail-maintenance. You tell him pale nothings while you work, about how you love taking care of him, and how he's had a rough time lately and deserves to be pampered a bit, and how much you want to spoil him rotten. Shampoo, scalp massage, conditioner; facial cleanser, body wash; pumice stone for the walking calluses on his foot. He looks absolutely dazed by the time you turn the water off, but you've barely begun.

The hotel robes hanging behind the door are nice and fluffy. You shrug one on and wrap him in the other. There's a padded bench and a little chair in here, too, because luxury hotel ablution chambers are ridic, so you sit him on the former and yourself on the latter, and lift his foot into your lap so you can give him a pedi.

A sound from the other room makes him twitch and glance at the closed door, but you pat his ankle reassuringly. "Jus' hotel staff. I called for cleanup, cuz Bel left a mess. You like these trimmed short cuz a your hiking boots, right?" 'These' being his toe claws, which are sorely in need of attention.

 

"You don't have to," you offer, then, "yes, I don't need them long--"

Your hind claws have grown out nearly long enough to count as talons, and the sight of your moirail paring the sharp arcs down smooth and harmless makes you shiver. You have to look away, entirely flustered.

 

Aww, he's blushing. "You are such a cutie, you know that?" you beam as you put the final touches on his big toe with the fine-grit emery board. "There, nice and short. No snags. Should be maximum comfy inside... these!"

-- and then you kind of spoil the dramatic timing by getting out the wrong box at first. Dang attic modus. From the second box you try, you produce a pair of thick, fluffy boot socks you've been working on for him, part of the stash of knits you never got to give him because of his horrific murder girlfriend being cray-cray at you. Not that you'd bring that up now; you want him to be happy, not re-traumatized. So you just ease the soft wool onto his real foot, and then onto his prosthetic, because even if it doesn't get cold, it's nice to match.

 

"Ooh," you say, leaning over to admire the work. "I say, this is gorgeous. And it's for me? It shouldn't be on my feet, it should be— framed, or something. Goodness."

 

"You say the sweetest things." You kiss his cheek. "So I was thinkin' tonight maybe we could just chill out, watch some comedies, eat some ice cream, an' I could take care a them fucked up horns of yours. You done banged 'em on a door, you poor darlin', and it shows. I bet they ache like hell."

 

"Well, yes, but I... I did what...?" you ask, curious, and reach up to more properly feel— ow! Your hands shy away from the rough, cracked-up bits and you squint at Jethro, confused and a little upset. Perhaps more than a little. "I never... I've never been— locked in anywhere so badly they cracked like— like this, Jethro, what— when—?"

(cloris had just enough time to smooth over the whole 'so i stuck you in a seadweller-proof box, whoopsies' incident, but his freakout-addled memories of imprisonment would have been pretty blurry anyway)

 

"Cloris locked you in a cell in her basement, darlin'," you say as gently as you can. "You flipped out on account of drugs an' grabass at that drinker party -- it's the only reason she let me see you. Shoved me in the basement an' went FIX HIM an stomped out an' locked the door. And you was throwin' yourself at this fuckin' metal door, jegus it was horrible." You swallow and look away. Take a breath. You didn't want to remind him of sadness. Nother breath. You can do this. You can be his spoonful of sugar, keep him from drowning in bitterness.

You can smile for him, because someone should.

"Lemme try an' fix 'em so they don't hurt no more. I looked up how to do it so it's the least painful. Reckon that'll help your headache." You kiss your fingertips and touch them to the top of his head. "Poor achey pan."

 

You're not sure if the restless, uneasy sickness in your gut is a memory of whatever awful situation Jethro's describing or a symptom of your— well, your current awful situation, but you grin at his sweetly exaggerated care, catch his fingers, and kiss them.

"My hero," you say, fondly, and let him lead you, wobbling a bit, to the entertainment area. and tuck you so your head's in his lap.

"I was trying to find you last night," you say, "but I found Bel instead. Hadn't really thought I could but I suppose it rather makes more sense that I could find all of my quadrantmates than only you and my— Cloris. So that's what's afflicting my horn cores, at least." You finger the neat stripes of dermal tape over your wrists and your stomach gives an awful little lurch. "Could... could these be, get, infected, d'you think? I shouldn't like to, to, to malinger, but they don't... they're not. Getting better. It feels like. Is yours...?"

 

"Not sure," you say uneasily. You haven't looked at your own bite wound since the two of you last changed the bandage. It doesn't hurt, but as you noted before, that's kind of disturbing because it really should. "They could totes get infected. We better keep a sharp eye on 'em. I'll take care a those next, okay? But for now, let's fix these horns."

You turn on the viewscreen and hand him the remote. You picked out a video playlist you thought he might like, lighthearted comedies with more goofy adventure than bloodshed, but he's welcome to change it if he wants. Then you get out the care items the internet said was best for this sort of thing. "Lemme know if it gets too hurty, aright babe?" you say, and then get started with the first step: cleaning the cracks with a very soft brush.

He should've had someone doing this for him long ago. Poor guy, he's been alone so long, he doesn't know how to let himself be taken care of. He's all twitches. You have to soothe him down every few minutes, but you keep at it patiently.

 

Having someone brushing and picking and scraping away at your horn cracks is an entirely different experience from a soothing, pale hornrub or even an invigorating pitch hornlock. It rattles your skull, itches your teeth, and grates down each bone of your spine. You're trying to keep calm, you really are, but it's— invasive, as if he were fussing around with the tender surface of your eyeball, or worming his fingers through your spasming gills. He has to keep stopping to pat you and just as you relax he starts again and it's worse.

"Get on with it, I'm not going anywhere," you snap, when he pauses yet again to try and sooth the fangs-bared grimace off your face. You nudge his hand impatiently away with your nose— your claws are sunk into a pillow.

 

You hesitate, then nod. "Pull the band-aid off quick, gotcha." You stop going at it so gingerly, and just try to clean the cracked surfaces as quickly and thoroughly as possible. It makes your own horns ache just to think of what he must be going through, but if he'd rather have it over with as soon as possible, you can't say you blame him.

The horn sealant, you know from experience, stings like a motherfucker. But you can't just slop it on carelessly. That would cause bubbles that might harbor infection. You have to get it right down into every crack. And then, when it's dry, polish and buff the horn surface so it won't catch on things. At least that part's not so painful.

 

By the end of the polishing part you've managed to at least stop showing your teeth, and the buffing is close enough to a horn rub that you can relax and let him at it. Then he finishes, puts the tools away, and gently takes your wrist to examine the tape. Your guts lurch, hard, and an awful desperation sleets through your every vein— your Lady is dead and you'd— you'd let—

"No," you gasp, jerking away from him, folding around yourself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you can't."

 

"Okay. Okay, baby, shh, you're okay." You wrap your arms around his curled-in shoulders and press your cheek to his. "Shoosh, darlin', we don't gotta do that now. Let's just rest up a little."

Wow. He is so. messed. up.

 

"Okay," you echo shakily. "Okay, just, just don't, alright. Yes." You burrow against his side and lay your fin to his chest, the patter of his bloodpump, and you dig your claws into the loose fabric of his robe. You're not going anywhere. You're not. And anyway there's no— there's no direction to this compulsion, there's nowhere to go to. What are you going to try and strike out for, anymore, your Lady's hive? She won't be there.

But someone else might. She had friends. You twitch with the thought, your breath catching in your throat. She had— she wasn't the only rainbowdrinker in the world, they're certainly very rare but there's, there's still at least a few dozen of them, you've met a number, and they might— they could never be to you who your Lady was, the brief shining center of your universe, but they could— they could help. They could help you. If you found how to contact them.

They could use you.

You stare at the video screen, thinking hard, picking unconsciously at the tape around your wrist.

 

Since he seems to have about hit his limit on wound care with the horns, you decide to leave the bite marks for now, and not bug him about it. He doesn't seem feverish, and the way he picks at the tape makes you think the bites itch, which is a sign of healing. Once they close, you can lotion them so they don't scar up too bad, but for now you guess this is okay.

So you just hold him, pet his hair, rub the bases of his horns to soothe away any lingering headache, and watch a movie about a kid who goes to avenge his moirail's death with the help of a totally unsuited inflatable medbot. The boy's oblivious but affectionate meerkat lusus keeps trying to feed him pastries, which makes you hungry, so you text the front desk. Shortly a porter lets himself quietly in and, at your gesture, sets a tray of pastries, breakfast meats, and mimosas where you can reach it without letting go of Erskin.

You kept him from sucking down vodka on an empty stomach, but you figure he can have a mixed drink with food if it helps his nerves. You don't want to be a killjoy moirail, just keep him healthy.