“…So what woke you up?”
Sull was looking over at him, with the slightly
cocked brow and cold eyes that watched him like the
predatory bird he was. They bore holes in his skin
wherever he focused, a human(like) lie detector.
Weller sighed, forced to break the contact and
letting his gaze stray to the polished wood of the
desktop. “I couldn’t sleep, I was…thinking.”
Worrying, in other words. And the other
knew that; he could tell by the creeping feeling his
gaze was giving on the back of his head. He looked
back at him, dripping honey brown on void black.
The magic-user’s silver rings gave them the coldest
appearance, ice on the rims of his irises. But somehow they seemed to thaw once he met his gaze;
there was something like concern written in his expression, the lightest touch of apprehension that
made the corners of his mouth twitch downward. He
looked away.
him wasn’t going to work anymore, because the
medic had ways of coping with the stubborn demigod after so much time with him.
After another moment of tense silence, “I
need to find Hel.”
“You will. Right now you’re rushing things.”
“I know what I’m doing.” He was quiet, like
he knew he was already losing.
“Says the only demi who let his zone get destroyed. Let me help and maybe you won’t end up
dead.” And that made Sull pause, because although
the words had escaped Weller’s mouth before he
could rephrase them they were true, and as the doctor’s expression cried of apology the demigod’s
painted itself with disappointment. Instead of some
quickly-composed response he took a breath, and in
those few seconds time slowed to a near stop. Then,
“…I’m tired.”
“It’d help if you went to bed,” he muttered,
stubbornly returning to his façade. The doctor gave a
sardonic sort of smile.
He scooted the chair back and left with a
hung head and a gaze set strictly on the ground, and
Weller sat feeling empty for the longest time.
“You need to as well. If you’re really planning
on fighting then you need the rest.” He’d look out
the window with water streaming down its panes,
the tyranny outside white noise behind their conversation. The corners of his mouth twitched downward, distaste written in the lines of his face. The
other caught it with a tired sort of sigh, taking a long
time to reply as his eyes swept the room like he was
looking for an escape. He hated arguments; he hated
even talking to Weller for any period of time. He
knew what to expect – he’d done it before, nearly
gotten himself killed. Make his decision himself, hole
himself up so he didn’t have to talk anymore about
it. Form a mental cocoon so he didn’t have to face
how horrible an idea all of this was.
Retreating to bed soon after, he drifted to
sleep reluctantly with the awful feeling of sinking in
his stomach.
Later,
Barely able to focus his eyes and bleeding –
but victorious – the first thing Sull did was look up
and breathe,
Butterfly analogies aside, the doctor was
weighed down with worry. Both knew that ignoring
11
“I’m sorry.”