Medical Marvels! (Open to Two)

[FennWenn]

Wince. “No anesthetics” seemed like an utterly unforgivable occurrence to Fenn. Then again, his other option was to wander around looking for another physician to fix his mess of an arm, and he didn’t feel like continuing to leg around. Quite the opposite. A part of him was ready to faint on the spot, to simply swoon himself straight into the dirt; “high pain tolerance” was not a quality he possessed in the absence of adrenaline, alcohol, or anger.

”Fine so long as you work fast,“ he wrote, with a weak and wide-eyed nod. What kind of healer didn’t have anesthesia?

Well, maybe a poor one. Or an overworked one. Or, a hack. Hopefully this healer was not the latter; because if he was, a rather cranky fae would probably decide to share the pain around, one way or another… maybe financially, with a magical pickpockety wave of his one hale hand…

A fit of coughing and a nervous reassurance from the flashing-eyed nekojin startled the fae out of his only-slightly-sadistic musings. Fenn’s ears and gaze flicked in the direction of his fellow patient. Behind him stood a sullen, patchily-dressed waif, with dark hair and blue eyes (slightly red and puffy from whatever ailment was troubling him in turn). He seemed harmless, if a bit on the glowery side, but… wait. Half a second of suspicious squinting passed between Fenn and the mortal adolescent. That was… a figure he recognized, definitely. Even with his recent memory fuckery. Though, no, he surely didn’t recognize this boy from any earthly encounter. It was a bit more hazy than that. Was this a figure he recalled from the depths of his dreams?

Recognition clicked into place. A voiceless wheeze of a gasp escaped the confines of the little puck’s body. Morus!

Thoughtlessly, Fenn reached out and greeted his fellow nightmare-endurer with a very sudden one-armed hug. Squish! Morus’ physical being was quite like his dreaming projection of himself; slightly boney underneath all the mismatched clothing. And he smelled faintly of bitter spirits — somehow the most fitting scent one would expect to hang about him.

It took the fae but a tick of the town square’s clock to realize his mistake. The momentum of his embrace had allowed for his battered arm to slip from its position atop the ramshackle stand. A jolt of fresh, hot pain struck him, along with a spot of color-speckled darkness in front of his gaze.

Of course.

Shooting Morus a nervous, woobly grin that almost passed for a “hello it is nice to see you”, or a “how have you been”, or “wow so you aren’t dead or perhaps a figment of my imagination”, Fenn found that the powdery tan dirt underneath his bare feet had begun to rush up at him.