golden boy's in bad shape [fflur]

The dogs heard them before they reached the door; Fflur pushed it open and went in, letting Charlie sort himself out behind her. She ignored the puppy -- she’d make it up to him later -- and made a beeline for the kitchen. The water from the tap was icy cold and made her hand throb but she was intent on rinsing it free of blood, both his and hers, eyes closed in a long blink because if this wasn’t a reason to have a drink, what was--

Charlie interrupted her mental coaxing and she glanced at him. He was quite the sight, covered in his own blood; she could admire her handiwork later. She turned back to tend to her hand, offering a very brief, “Yeah.” Letting him wash up was the least she could do, at this point. There was a second of silence (save for the puppy) and Fflur kept her attention on her hand, only looking up after she’d heard the bathroom door close.

She turned off the tap and brought her hand closer to her face, turning it palm up to see the bruises spread all the way around her fingers. Her palm was still a little bloody near her thumb, either from her nails digging in or from holding her lighter or-- whatever it was, she probably shouldn’t attempt fixing it herself. She might not need her hand for quidditch but she did fancy being able to hold a pen sometimes.

Charlie was still in the bathroom and Fflur hesitated for a second, trying to figure out if she ought to wait for him. She wasn’t going to apologize but-- ditching him was hardly the worst she could do, considering she’d just broken (and fixed) his nose. She ran her good hand through her hair and made for the door, her other hand tucked into her side (as if she needed to be reminded not to use it). Injuries weren’t questioned as much as they should have been in the hospital wing, which suited her just fine.

[[ out ]]

Fflur was already in the kitchen, running the tap; Charlie’s brow furrowed guiltily -- he wasn’t missing how fucked up it was that he felt bad about her punching him in the face. If he was more confident -- or at all confident -- about his spellwork he’d offer to heal it the way she’d healed his nose, but he was more likely to mangle her hand worse, rather than fix it.

She gave him the green light to use the bathroom, though, so he didn’t hang about in case she changed her mind, trying to avoid stepping on Ernie as he excitedly followed Charlie across the room. Door closed (puppy on the other side of it) he finally got a good look at himself in a mirror and his eyes popped. “Fucking hell.” He leant in and touched his nose (again) -- just to make sure -- before catching sight of his hands and trying to prioritise cleaning them over checking his face.

It took a few minutes, between using the soap and getting blood on that, to washing his hands, to going back to rinsing the soap, then having another look at his face -- looking around to see if there was a (clean) flannel he could ‘borrow’ to clean up his face but there wasn’t, so he didn’t. He tried wiping the worst of it off of his chin just with his hands -- only really succeeded in getting more pink-tinged water all around the sink and on his shirt; his shirt that he’d probably just throw in the bin when he got home.

He sighed and gave himself another wary -- weary -- look in the mirror. He looked worse than he felt, right now. It had felt a lot worse when it had happened, but aside from the blood sort of caking on his skin and cracking uncomfortably as it dried, nothing felt awry anymore aside from his pride, maybe.

He dried his hands on the light-coloured towel -- sorry Rob -- and did his best to tidy around the sink with some toilet paper before emerging back into the living room and-- Fflur was gone. He popped his head around the corner to check the kitchen -- nope -- then decided even if she was in her bedroom he wasn’t gonna go looking. He sighed and bent to give Ernie a couple of good scratches before letting himself out and apparating from her front step back to his hotel room.


[ end ]