rhienelleth | (no subject)

W00t! Finally, FINALLY finished chapter one of Consort. As in, the re-rewritten version, not to be confused with the original version Word callously ATE, or the first attempt at rewriting, which sucked.

All new, better than before, and the story, she is moving forward.

3600/90000

Not counting the extra scenes i have socked away in another file, for later. Too lazy to find a real wordcount meter.

“Chris?” Alarmed, she took a couple of quick steps toward the teenager, only to stop when he looked up. She gasped, and his gaze flinched away from hers. “What happened?” she demanded, coming forward and taking his arm in hers. “Reaper,” she said without looking over her shoulder, “get a med kit.”

Chris tried for youthful bravado, his eyes going behind her to Reaper.

“I don’t need a med kit,” he said as she helped him into the room. He was favoring one side, limping, with his hand pressed to his ribs over the wrinkled and scuffed white shirt he wore. Christopher usually dressed with a deliberately military precision, all of his clothes clean and pressed with razor sharp creases.

And Mercy had already seen his face. She was in no mood to deal with male stupidity. She reached a hand out and grasped his jaw, tilting his face up and into the light. Spectacular bruising began at his cheekbone in an angry magenta, darkening to deep purple as it spread up to his left eye, swollen shut.

“I disagree,” she said quietly, and sat him down on the couch. She didn’t miss the way he winced when he moved, either, or how white his face had gone when he’d sank down onto the cushions.

Reaper handed her the med kit wordlessly, then with a long look at Christopher, returned to the dining table.

“I’m fine, Mercy,” Christopher tried again, rallying under that look. She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

“Then why did you come knocking at my door at 05:20 in the morning?” she asked, popping open the seal on an anti-inflammatory pain blocker. “If you don’t want me to treat you, I can always send for Doc.” He blanched, shaking his head quickly, only to stop and wince again as the movement pained him.

“No,” he said quickly. “No Doc.” The Nemesis physician was famous for his abrasive bedside manner.

“Fine. Then no more protests.” She applied the topical cream carefully, watching as the swelling faded under her ministrations. He blinked at her with two bright brown eyes, now, instead of only one. Even the discoloration faded slightly, though it remained obvious he’d been in a fight.

“Are those ribs broken?” she asked quietly.

His shoulders slumped, and he looked miserable.

“Probably,” he mumbled.

She shook her head.

“I hope the other guy looks worse.” When he didn’t say anything, she stopped treating his face and looked at him. “Christopher?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, his gaze sliding away again.

Mercy. Coming from Reaper, the admonition stopped her just as she was opening her mouth. Leave him alone.

But—

No man wants to tell a beautiful woman how he got beat to hell.