Callout post for these Snorunts, breaking people's legs!

[uber_marionettist]

Who: Dirk Strider, Solus zos Galvus, and... that's it for now
Where: Emet's place; Goldenrod
When: January 5
Summary: The Snorunts must have heard about the stairs....
Rating: PG (-13? Dirk breaks his leg first thing here)

Look, okay. Dirk has gone up and down these stairs hundreds of times. Or if not hundreds of times, at least scores of them. There's no real added risk to doing it with his arms full or his vision partially obscured; sure, there's a small statistical increase based on the rules of basic academic rigour, but what's he going to do--pitch backwards and flip ass over teakettle to land on his face in exactly the right way to drive a bone fragment into his brain, killing him instantly?

Okay, actually, that does sound like it would happen to him, but it's not going to. They're just stairs, man.

What does happen to him is this: he drops a smuppet somewhere around the top step, and it's in front of him, and he steps on it. And it slides a bit. And he has to make a split second decision that takes the form of a cool, super air-catching backflip, performed from that stair all the way back down the bottom, where he lands on his feet like the ever-prepared ninja he is.

And--

You know, it hurts? It does. Obviously. But in the moment, Dirk hears the bone snap and he feels the vertigo--but any pain response is limited to the blanching of his face, and that unreal sensation of proprioceptive inversion, and the part where he smacks himself upside the head on the bottom stair when he tips over sideways in an anticlimactic finish.

The dissociated pain response hyperawareness keeps him surprisingly clear-headed, though. It's not that hard to figure out why. Epinephrine is one hell of a neurochemical. He figures he's got fifteen minutes, minimum, in which to take advantage of it.

Even if he knows not to move his leg, he still tries. The pain is... something else. Not the worst pain he's ever been in, but the Dirk Strider pain scale has been broken for two decades. The break is definitely in his shin, though, so that's his tibia.

Fuck. It's not all askew, so it can't be that bad, but 'not that bad' is still 'bad.' He doesn't really 'want' to drag himself bodily up the stairs or down the hallway, but there's no other way about it.

He starts by gathering up as much of his stuff as he can reach from his position and organising it off to the side of the steps so it's not fucking everywhere. Once that's done, though, there's only so much 'else' he can do, and he's keenly aware there's a timer quickly running down on his ability to 'do' much at all today.

Taking a deep breath, he steels himself for the ordeal he's about to drag himself through. Then he begins the labourious and painful process of hauling himself towards Emet's bedroom.

The pain is starting to come through on him in short waves by the time he's got himself laid out on the floor, his head propped up against the futon. He is sweaty, exhausted, and in an exponentially increasingly bad mood for every inch of floor he had to cover to get here... but it's at least a stable position from which to search out his last message to Emet.

Heads up, I left some shit on the stairs. Nothing that important, just try not to step on it.

Comments

[amaure]

He levels a stare at him, a thoughtful one, but not one utterly bereft of some level of amusement at his suggestion. Honestly, the dramatics are very heartening in their own right. At least, Dirk's level of theatrics, which is a very different scale to most others. It was his own way of showing—communicating—his pain and helplessness.

"My dear boy," Emet begins, the warmth never leaving his voice, "if I were to put you out of your suffering, it would not be by such barbaric means."

Then, he crosses his arms, hip slightly cocked to one side as he lets out an even, controlled breath. Perhaps it's inapproapriate for him to be feeling so fondly of Dirk in this moment, when he's wounded and suffering, but he cannot help but selfishly delight in the small concession of candidacy Dirk is offering him...in his own way. Whether he realizes it or not.

"Are you trying to tell me you would not find joy being held in my arms? Carried off to mend your wounds—or do you truly prefer death to such a show of intimacy?"

[uber_marionettist]

Oh my God.

The mental image springs to life unbidden: him all tucked up in bed like a Victorian wasteling with his leg all cased in plaster while Emet sits nearby, tenderly spoon feeding him... broth, or whatever. Jesus. He can't even stand to picture it. Christ. God.

Dirk presses a hand against his jaw; his brow furrows, the corners of his mouth twisting down against the scraped and weathered leather of his fingerless glove as he grimaces behind its partial shield.

"I know it's finesse over efficiency around here, but embarrassment is both slower and more painful than a brick."

[amaure]

He cannot even begin to imagine what is traipsing between Dirk's ears, but his reaction is still rather telling in itself. Idly, he wonders at what point the pain will bring delirium, and how much more compliant he might be for it, or how much more of a fight he could yet put up in contrast.

Letting his arms fall weightedly to his sides, his brow furrows with affectionate concern, before he approaches him once again. But, this time, he chooses to take a seat besides him. A gentle hand nudging Dirk's own, so that he might direct him to look upon Emet by the bidding of his gloved finger tips.

"I see not what there is to be embarrassed about when your partner in war tends to his wounded, as is his duty. 'Tis but a facet of our creed, of our loyalty, our devotion--much has such acts forged bonds far more unyielding and unbreakable than even the most impervious titanium."

As he finishes, he slightly tilts his head to the side, opposite of the tilt that Dirk's own head would naturally be in from being turned.

"Will you allow me this pleasure?" But no sooner do the words leave him, that he deftly leans forward to steal a kiss from him. It lasts only a moment, an affectionate punctuation to his request.

[uber_marionettist]

Dirk does glance up at him when their hands make contact, but his frown has mostly lapsed, transforming his expression into a more severe version of its natural deadpan; it's pretty obvious he has objections, and he's about to voice them when Emet rephrases it as a request, a favour and caps it off with a fucking kiss.

Which is effective at shocking Dirk into bewildered, flustered silence.

There's a second or two of lag before he recovers enough to turn his head away, which does less for hiding his reaction (it's far too late) than it does for communicating the depth of his unwillingness to concede on this. It does, however, make him look a bit like he's staring at his offending leg with cold disapproval.

"I don't want to hobble around like a fucking cripple for weeks."

[amaure]

It's obvious to him how his tactic has worked—to some extent. How it flustered Dirk, jumbled him more than the pain in his leg has. Whatever deeper objections there might have been withered away into the meager complaint he's offering now.

"Then don't. You can rest and allow me to act in your stead." Emet counters, his gaze staying on Dirk's face for it, before looking to his poor leg. Drawing his hand away from Dirk's chin, he lets it settle on the thigh of his uninjured leg. Giving it a light squeeze.

"I know 'tis naught you cannot endure, not to mention..." he trails off as his hand trails forward to rest more on his inner thigh, "you will scant do so without particular comforts, either. There is strength through healing—through rest, my dear, and well do I know yours."

[uber_marionettist]

"Oh my God, dude," Dirk's voice drops to a near-inaudible mutter, but it's not a 'no.' Although if Emet gives him a boner right now--and pain or not, Dirk has gotten harder through worse and not even in spite of that worse, so that is entirely possible--and he has to nurse that on top of his leg, he might just have some new kind of medically-unexplained aneurysm.

"It's not... that," he manages, trying to cover breathlessness (pain, frustration.... uh, other) with deliberate emphasis on his words. "Not that I don't appreciate it. I do. Really. But that's just way too much. I've got so much... shit, you already have your shit, it's not that fuckin' simple."

He rests his hand over Emet's, leaves it there for a second before lifting it from his thigh and moving to return it to his... partner's.... own lap.

"This is so fucking solvable." He says it like he's wording a complaint.

[amaure]

"Dirk, we cannot simply kill ourselves every time we are faced with an inconvenience. There is more than one solution to this problem." Is his simple, but firm reply. Emet doesn't move his hand from his own lap, accepting Dirk's non-verbal request to not arouse him further.

"Do not misunderstand me, I know well the internal conundrum that accompanies the reality, let alone the simple idea, of shirking ones burdens onto others. Even those of which are willing and happy to do so." After all, he's much the same in that regard.

"Nevertheless, we can find a way that you are not entirely without some measure of burden, if that will help ease your conscience. Say—I could bring some manner of equipment here, and temporarily we can work from home. Either way, I am no stranger to shouldering more than my share of work, 'tis no trouble at all."

If he wasn't so keen on emphasizing how little of a problem that is for him, he might sound more tired at the prospect. However, seeing as he is trying to convince Dirk of giving in and giving him some of his work load, he cannot afford handing Dirk any support to his counter arguments.

[uber_marionettist]

Dirk, we cannot simply kill ourselves every time we are faced with an inconvenience.

He huffs the short not-really-a-laugh that usually passes for the rare phenomenon of laughter on his part, but instead of stopping there, he wheezes, hugffs again, and it turns into a kind of growing chuckle. Albeit one that sounds somewhat deranged.

"Hahahaha.... why not, it usually works." Half defeatist complaint, half dark humour, he lets the corner of his mouth twitch upward sharply before the joke stops being funny and his shoulders slump against the futon where he'd propped himself.

"Whatever, man." He can't win this one because he can't even leave it. He has no argument except what should be to both of them the obvious. He viscerally dreads the 'inconvenience' that Emet is asking him to suffer being, knows the prolonged misery of the ordeal will take its toll out on both of them, knows on a gut level that dying would be salvageable in a way convalscence isn't. But Emet is determined, and he has no words to convince him when he's like this, and he's in a lot of pain, and, and, and.

And so he gives up. It's Emet's call. His head drops, his chin mostly touching his chest. He might as well have no bones except the one he broke.

"Whatever it is we're doing, let's just get it over with."

[amaure]

The defeat in Dirk's choice of words and actions—though less in his tone—tells Emet much and more the severity of the pain he's in. That he would give up like this, acquiesce to Emet's reasonable request, is worrying. Truly, it is why Emet heeds it with caution, advances with just as much. Few would describe any movement Emet does as quick, however he finds himself especially motivated as he positions himself to lift Dirk from his collapsed position against the futon—bridal style.

Before he stands, however, Dirk might begin to feel his afflicted leg growing lighter, as if the very weight of it is being supported by an invisible force—which it is. Invisible to their eyes are Emet's trio of yamask gently supporting his leg with their ghostly mitts. They had been watching the whole thing, lying in wait to act, and finally found their cue.

"Trust me, my dear boy, this is the far better option." As he speaks his voice is low and quiet, reassuring in tone. "Come, rest your head upon my bosom, the trip will not be too horribly long."

[uber_marionettist]

What the hell else is there to do except grit his teeth and bear it?

What the hell else, that is, except be caught off guard by how much less pain there is in the act of being liften than he's expecting--not no pain, obviously, not by any measure, but less, which is an absolutely wild moment on par with the shock of the actual break and pain's initial onset.

The only clue to any of that is the white-knuckle, circulation-threatning grip of his hand around Emet's arm.

"I don't get it," he mutters--though for Dirk, a mutter is basically a voiced whisper, and in this case it's somewhat closer to a grumble or even a growl. "I don't break bones. Not like that. I mean, I caught some air but only barely. If I've been losing bone density somehow.... I mean, it's not my fucking diet."