Stetho Snake


Max.jpg Jonavan.jpg Waine.jpg

Date: 2011.07.01
Location: Fort Healer Hall & EW Beast Caverns
Synopsis: Jonavan is called from the Healer Hall at Fort to tend to Max. The expected banter and snarking ensues and 'war' is silently declared by the masterhealer.
Rating: PG18 - Some language
Logger: Max

Try as they might, and despite how much pain he was in, there was just no way Max was going to let anyone else except Jonavan touch him, growling out that he still had enough fight left in him to deck any that tried. So it is that after ensuring that Waine and Exon would see the southern crimelord to his quarters as discretely as possible, M'las and his brown once again took to the skies - their destination Fort's healer hall, their mission to bring back a certain masterhealer who was summoned with a tersely stated, "Max needs ya."

Until the Healer Hall - or Jonavan, since he's now of a rank to make more decisions - figures out what they're doing with him on a more permanent basis, Jonavan has no personal workspace of his own. Naturally, he invades Ellis'. That's where M'las will find him, colonising desk-space with his own hides and rarer paper products. The healer snaps out a "Busy!" when the door first opens, not bothering to look up until the summons are out. And it changes everything. The man gives M'las a brief, scrutinizing look before he scrawls out a quick note at the bottom of the hide immediately in front of him - Ellis. Deal with this. Then he puts down his pen, stoppers the inkwell, and stands. "Bang his head and get a boo-boo?" Jonavan asks as he comes round the desk without tidying a single hide, leaving everything exactly as it is for Ellis to get annoyed over. Not waiting for an answer, he continues, "Got a jacket for me?"

M’las, your typical blonde beach-boy type, wears a tight expression that says he’s not going nowhere until the healer agrees to go with him and he sets himself squarely in the doorway to ensure Jonavan doesn’t try skirting around him. “Something like that,” he returns on why it is that Max is in need of the masterhealer and tosses over the jacket he’d brought with him. “It’s my spare, I’m going to want it back.” Just in case Jonavan was thinking of holding onto it. And then without another word he turns and starts to head out the door simply expecting the masterhealer to follow, his entire demeanour stiff with tension.

Wrong thing to say, M'las. As soon as the rider turns away, Jonavan gets a look on his face that bodes nothing good, fingering the collar of the jacket as he slides it on. "Wouldn't want it anyway, thin and a bit shabby," comes his assessment as he follows the other man down the halls, closing the door to the office behind him. "And who knows where it's been."

There’s little but a grunt that greets Jonavan’s words as the brownrider eats up the distance back to his dragon with long strides. “On the bare tits of a blonde that could do things with her mouth,” such as tying a cherry stalk with just her tongue, “that will have a grown man, crying.” M’las quips passing a sardonic look the masterhealer’s way.

"Think she's interested in a repeat act?" Jonavan catches up quickly, long legs turning out long steps. A smirk is soon to follow as they pass out of the Hall and the dragon looms into view. "I pegged you as a crier."

“I’ll drop you off passed her place but first,” M’las sends the other man a pointed look as he quickly mounts up and straps in, “you get the boss and his mate fixed up.” Trading whores for medicine now, are we? No wonder he fits in so well with the likes of those that hang around Eastern’s beast manager. He doesn’t give Jonavan much chance to do the same before with helmet in place and goggles pulled down he’s turning his head and asking, “Ready?”

"You're on." Jonavan, whose morals are low at the best of times and have yet to extend to cover disapproving of prostitutes, readily agrees. "But I'll need the jacket. Have to test your theory." He knows his way around a dragon and needs little help mounting up, and gives back to M'las in short order, "When you are."

“Get your own damn jacket,” M’las shoots back as the brown leaps to the air, the ensuing rush of wind preventing any further conversation. Five heartbeats of the pitch black sensory deprivation that is Between and the brown bursts out above Eastern Weyr just as Rukbat is sending fingers of gold streaking across the dawn sky. Banking sharply to the left strong draconic hindquarters reach for the ground of the feeding pens and in no time at all, M’las is dismounted and tipping his head the way of the entrance to the beast caverns, “They’re in there.”

"Have to recreate the situation under the same conditions," Jonavan insists, yelling against the wind that whips his words away. So far, the man's been entirely agreeable about the whole summons business, and he remains so as he dismounts after M'las and starts off in the indicated direction. "Thanks," he calls back over his shoulder, not waiting for the brownrider. "Regards to your dragon." Jonavan is downright polite.

Slowly pulling his gloves off finger by finger, M’las sends a smirk after Jonavan for the jacket isn’t his at all, but instead belongs to some poor schmuck that had been foolish enough to leave it lying around. “Any time, sir,” he calls out after the masterhealer, the brown sending a snort of amusement too.

The beast caverns have been cleared of all unnecessary personal save for the few men milling about in the wide aisle just outside of Max’s quarters, each of them with blood smeared across their clothing somewhere. As one they turn when Jonavan enters but its Exon, one of the fighters from Landing that steps forward after casting an anxious glance through the doorway from where there’s groan and then a low curse. “Waine’s in there with him, the boss’s mate is,” – “You trying to rip my shardin’ arm off!?” Max’s voice can be heard growling out. “Stop fussin’ over me like a fuckin’ woman. Get Kas sorted first.” And there’s no mistaking the apprehension in the crimelord’s tone for his friend hasn’t moved since he passed out cold.

Unstopped as he walks off wearing M'las' jacket - he presumes the brownrider will be taking him back via the blonde with the extraordinary tongue, after all - Jonavan steps into the beast caverns. As he walks, the healer sends a short look around, noting the lack of usual staff and the appearance of those that are still at hand. The expression he turns on Exon is his professional one - namely, a keen sense of curiosity rather than concern. "Follow me," he tells the fighter and, with the confident assumption of one used to having people do what he tells them, walks into Max's quarters without looking to see that Exon does indeed follow him. "You make me come down here every sharding week; you do know that I'm not posted here anymore, don't you?" Jonavan enters with a complaint, but he wholly lacks annoyance as he takes in the sight inside the converted stalls.

Whether Jonavan remembers or not, Exon is one of the fighters he’s patched up a few times after bouts which makes the dark-haired man used to the masterhealer’s ways. Without a word he follows into his boss’s quarters though doesn’t go in further than hovering just inside the door.

Skin paled beneath the southern tan due to blood loss, shock and exhaustion pairs with hair and face sticky with drying blood and grime. A pretty sight to be sure. With only one eye still open, Max who is situated on the edge of his mattress tries to look beyond Waine’s bulk to that blessedly familiar voice. The most obvious of injuries is the knife wound that runs diagonally from the crimelord’s forehead slashing down across his left cheek but thankfully missing his eye. Bruising is starting show along the right side of his jaw as well across his right shoulder and ribs. “I was missin’ you,” he quips with far less enthusiasm than he’d usually put to such a reply. Breathing shallow, he utters a rasping sound that’s meant to be a laugh and then grunts as ribs complain. “You been to see Kas yet? He’s in pretty bad shape,” simply assuming that M’las had followed orders and sent Jonavan up to the infirmary first.

Jonavan never forgets a face even though sometimes, perhaps, he'd like to. With Exon trailing behind (every good healer needs his lackeys), the man walks in, glancing momentarily at Waine as he steps closer to get a good look at Max. "And this is your way of sending a love letter?" Jonavan frowns at the extent of the injuries and lets his gaze linger on the cut to Max's face. He sums up his assessment of the wound in one short, detached phrase. "Cool." He starts to pull off his borrowed jacket, turning towards Waine in the meantime. "Yeah. In the infirmary." There's nothing noticeable in Jonavan's tone to belie his affirmation, voice even and largely disinterested. For Waine, however, he shows the query in his regard, checking that the man in question is in fact in the infirmary and being tended to.

Waine turns and steps aside as Jonavan approaches, the shirt he’d just managed to wrangle off his boss is balled up and tossed to one side revealing that the saturation of blood couldn’t possibly have come from just its wearer alone. Worry while kept off his face, is there in the big second’s eyes, the silent query coming from the masterhealer acknowledged with the very faintest nod of head.

“Aye,” Max wheezes starting to frown against the pain and then thinking better of it as that just hurts even more when the skin pulls and creases about the edges of the knife wound, “figured it would get your attention. Where’s that fuckin’ whisky!?” he snaps out at Waine, though again, it’s weak in its delivery. Exon finally makes himself useful and steps forward with said alcoholic relief in hand, never mind that it’s probably the worst possible idea. There’s a brief flash of relief with Max accepting Jonavan’s lie about having checked in with Kaskan already as he reaches for the bottle being held out. “He gonna be okay?”

Acknowledgment lights in Jonavan's eyes as he gives the barest of nods back to Waine. "What's next?" the healer asks dryly as he looks back at Max, gaze now travelling the length of Max's exposed chest, watching it rise and fall with each breath. "Sawing off your own foot? I know you can't live without me and all, but surely there's better ways to express it than playing up to my love for debilitating injuries." He stops bullshitting with Max only when Exon steps forward with the drink. "How about some fellis instead," Jonavan suggests, smoothly intercepting the whisky before it can reach Max's hands. Nevermind that if it were him, he'd probably be drinking himself into a blind stupor right about now. "Wouldn't want your shaky hands spilling it all over that cut, would you? Sting like a bitch." The man passes the whisky on to Waine, saying "Yeah, sure he will," without the faintest idea whether that's true or not.

Turning away, Jonavan jerks his head at Exon to follow and heads for the door, where he give orders in a low tone for all the things he wants brought to Max's quarters, along with a report on what the hell is wrong with Kaskan. "Detailed," he insists. "Make them write it down because I don't trust your brain to remember it. Tell them I'm in here in case they need anything immediately, and that I'll be along once I'm finished up here."

“Ear,” Max grunts a single word reply trying to fight back the coughing fit that’s going to end up hurting like a bitch but that’s being needled by instinctively taking too many shallows breaths to avoid further pain. Swallowing he lifts a tired smirk up to Jonavan next, “C’mere and give us a kiss.” His idea of a kiss being that which involves a fist to the face no doubt. He had been so very close to getting a grip on that bottle when the masterhealer makes it disappear and he tracks it with an entirely mournful expression in place. “How ‘bout whiskey and fellis.” Because a blind stupor is exactly what he’s aiming for. Or high. High would work just fine too. “Already stings like a bitch,” he states and then a wave of nausea hits and Max goes pale and sways slightly where he’s sitting on the edge of his mattress, dark spots dancing before what vision he currently has. “Don’t feel so good.” No kidding.

Waine sends Jonavan the faint edge of a wry smile that holds gratitude within its brief appearance when he’s handed the whiskey and he sets it to one side before crouching down next to his boss. “You should be in the infirmary, you pillock.” – “Fuck that,” Max manages to growl out. Exon when he’s handed instructions and told to bring back detailed written word on how the Bollian Guard is doing gifts the masterhealer with a narrowed look but says nothing, merely turning and heading off like any good lackey should.

"Get blood on my mouth and even I'm not into that," Jonavan retorts, straight-faced but wanting to smirk. "You get the whisky if there's no internal damage. Consider it a reward. Make you up a cocktail with fellis in that'll put you flat on your back, in a good way. Hell, maybe I'll even join you in it." Jonavan calls this back to Max between one set of instructions and the next, and finishes with Exon by saying, "Don't look at me like that. Half your brain's probably been knocked out your ears by now." As Exon heads out the door, the healer turns back to the man on the mattress with a frown. "You gonna puke? Nauseous or dizzy? How about sleepy?"

“There ain’t,” Max responds on internal damage although he’d likely say that if his spleen were sticking out just to get at that whiskey. “Heh,” a low sound of wry amusement when Jonavan speaks of putting together a cocktail, “throw in a good woman…” breathe, “and you got yourself a deal.” And then he shuts up trying to concentrate on not passing out just yet.

Max holds up four fingers in reply to those questions shot at him to indicate all of the above. The sleepy is more due to his not having slept in over twenty four hours, the nausea likely for having skipped dinner the night before as a result of wanting to catch up on paperwork first as well as some shock. And yeah, he’s feeling dizzy alright but that’s probably got something to do with blood loss and… well, pure exhaustion. Puking. Well now, that remains to be seen just how far the nausea pushes the man.

"And you would know from all your long Turns of training." Jonavan snags one of the chairs from over by Max's desk and pulls it over to the mattress. He finds a bucket too, just in case nausea becomes overwhelming. He sits down while waiting for Exon to return, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Try to breathe normally and sit up as much as possible. You can see alright, can't you? Missed the eye?" Jonavan checks in passing, more concerned with the state of Max's ribs, which he's giving a good eyeball, looking for signs that Max's chest is rising and falling as normal. "So," conversationally, "what happened to you?"

“Aye,” Max gives lifting a snarky look up to Jonavan but it lacks heat and looks more wry than anything else. “Been smacked around in the rings enough to know.” Actually, he’s never suffered any internal injuries in the fighting rings before so he wouldn’t really know but he’ll bullshit anyway. The bucket that gets placed beside him is eyed and you can bet he’d rather die than have to use it. Catching the way Jonavan’s looking at his chest, Max can’t help the next, “Stop oglin’ me. I ain’t into guys.” Which is a bit of a lie but moving on. “Don’t think they’re broke. Maybe cracked.” And yes, he sounds hopeful about that.

Only then does he answer the query about his eye, which while swollen shut and clogged with blood from the knife wound, is actually undamaged. “Can see your ugly mug,” Max quips. Such a delightful patient isn’t he? Turning his head a bit to try and see where Waine had put that bottle of whiskey his reply is slightly distracted, “Some dead guy was jealous that I was prettier’n him.” That his explanation on what happened to him and then he adds, “So I taught his brother how to fly.” Cue the dark smirk.

Jonavan doesn't dispute the claim but, rolling his eyes, hardly looks like he gives it any credence. "You sure about that?" he quips back, bringing his chair right up close. "It would be too much to ask for the dead guy to've sterilised his knife before slicing you a new one, wouldn't it. Where does it hurt? I need to know which ribs you've injured. Preferably, how it happened too. Feel free to add details." Exon, coming back, has his hands full with the things requisitioned from the infirmary and starts laying them out on Max's desk for want of a better place. Jonavan glances back but doesn't immediately stand up to join him.

Max utters the idea of a snort to Stud’s knife having been in any way clean to begin with and then gets to eyeing Jonavan warily as he scoots his chair in closer. The knife wound obviously occurred a good few hours ago and likely should have been seen to right away given that blood has clotted around dirt.

Where does it hurt? “Everywhere,” the battered crimelord gives somewhat sourly and then with a sigh proceeds to be a little more co-operative by using his fingers to indicate which ribs in particular with the practised air of one that has been in a position more than once to be checking himself over for injuries. “Bastard had fists like sledgehammers,” he complains though there’s a mark of grudging respect for the dead man’s fighting skills, “Caught me with a double overhand before I slit his throat.” Spoken in the casual tone of one that hasn’t yet come to grips with what happened. But there he stops to school his breath, Exon given a suspicious look as he enters with those tools of torture. Or at least they are to Max’s way of thinking.

"Double what? Tell me when it hurts." Jonavan proceeds to press on Max's breastbone, working his way down from the top, checking Max's ribs over to make sure that he's not about to puncture a lung before he gets to work sterilising the cut on Max's face. The healer doesn't immediately comment on the part where Max says he killed someone, almost as if it's passed him by, frowning instead from concentration and the immediate concern of getting Max patched up. "Your chest is holding its shape, which is good," he determines at one point. "Nothing's broken away from the rest. Which would be bad." More or less satisfied that the damage isn't immediately life-threatening, Jonavan moves away and collects redwort, sterile bandages, and some sort of newfangled thingy that he holds up with evident pleasure. "This," he announces, "is cool. I bullied people at Landing for ages to make me one." The thingy in question - something that looks like a stethoscope.

“He hit me with both fists at the same…fuck,” that last gasped out as Jonavan presses on one of those cracked ribs. The next rib of the three cracked that gets ‘abused’ by the masterhealer draws a similar expletive so that by the time Jon’s done, Max has a white knuckled grip on the edge of the mattress and is sending the other man a heavy glare. “Thought you was supposed to be helpin’, not finishin’ what that bastard started,” he rasps out. After gathering his breath together again while Jonavan reassures on none of his ribs being actually broken, there comes a disgruntled, “Told you I ain’t broke on the inside.” Lucky guess on his part.

A newfangled thingy being held up with that much relish by a healer can’t bode well for him. At least not to the crimelord’s mind as evidenced by the way Max recoils. “Stick me with that I don’t give a fuck how much it hurts, I’m gonna deck you,” he growls in warning have no idea what the stethoscope is meant for. Exon pulling the sheet of hide from his pocket on which the details of Kaskan’s condition are written, is of course highly amused by the way his boss handles being seen to by a healer and does a poor job of hiding it which means he’s the next target of Max’s mood and pain. “Go make yourself useful somewhere else and tell Waine I want to see him.” Suddenly realizing his second’s done a disappearing act.

Jonavan may not be known for his bedside manner, but he does try to be as gentle as possible while still finding out what he needs to know. "Did you get hit on the sides or back too? Any difficulty moving your head?" He completely ignores the cursing and the comments. When he returns with the stethoscope, Max's reaction gets a highly amused snort before he expressively rolls his eyes. "Do you see a needle? It's not for sticking, it's for listening to what's inside that screwed up rib cage of yours, idiot." He snatches the hide from Exon on his way past and pauses to give it a quick skim, then stuffs it away in his pocket for later; Kaskan must be in relatively stable condition. He sits down again, putting the stethoscope around his neck and reaching for Max's chin to hold him steady. "I'll see to your eye first though." Redwort is liberally dumped on a clean cloth, which he uses to methodically clean the cut.

Aaaand there comes the dizziness again which leaves Max temporarily unable to respond verbally as the world heaves and tosses about him, so he gives a short shake of head thereby answering both the queries about where else he'd been hit and whether or not he can move his head. Swallowing the resulting nausea down he speaks up to add, "Got knocked on my arse," when Crud had shoved him backwards in the river at the top of the waterfall, "didn't hit my head." For he well understands the dangers in a concussion going undiagnosed, which thankfully he isn't.

He might not see a needle now but that doesn't mean to say that thing Jonavan is holding up might not still produce one. The explanation given draws a wry look into place as the dizzy spell subsides, "Wanna see if I've got a heart?" Still having no idea what that thing's meant to do. There is however vague amusement at how ridiculously chuffed his masterhealer friend appears to be with its acquisition. So much so that he misses that grab for his chin and doesn't have time to jerk his head away. Teeth grit against the pain and his jaw tightens with just a few curses grinding out as Jonavan gets to cleaning his head wound out. "You're enjoyin' this ain't ya," panted out as a means of distraction.

"Vomit that way," Jonavan directs the injured man, "and not onto me." Just in case. With the stethoscope left hanging around his neck like some sort of tunnelsnake that might bite Max any moment, the healer makes a noise of agreement and delves into detail. "It amplifies the noise of your heart and lungs, as well as blood flow. Helps see if there's a problem without having to cut you open. We've got wooden ones," we being healers, "but the computers had designs for this." He doesn't go into demonstrations at this point, leaving it for after he's seen to the cut. "Immensely," Jonavan answers the other man's question with a show of teeth, a wide, satisfied, slightly predatory grin. "Hold still." He's extremely methodical, making sure all the dirt and dried blood are gone before he gets round to stitching it up.

Jonavan’s first earns him a withering look and then Max glances back the way of that stethoscope type affair as if he indeed expects it to deliver a nasty bite. Were he a little more with it, he’d probably be quite interested in what the new contraption does and how it works given the ‘acquired’ tome on human anatomy and physiology that he has on that shelf above his desk. But being as how he isn’t, he gives a grunt followed by, “You ain’t cuttin’ me open.” Just saying. “Bastard,” is grumbled next for the masterhealer’s response on enjoying himself and as much as he tries to keep still, he can’t help the few winces and hisses of pain. For despite how gentle Jonavan is trying to be, it feels like someone is scraping a rasping file across the wound. “Hope doin’ well?” More distraction techniques employed and then Waine comes lumbering into the office, “Boss?” – “Change of plans,” Max states a curse falling as Jonavan picks out a piece of dirt, “The girls’ll be stayin’ with Jon another day or two.” For he’d prefer they didn’t see him all banged up just yet. He does however send a silent query the masterhealer’s way for the further imposition presumed upon him.

"I'll knock you out with fellis first," Jonavan gamely promises. "Hope's fine. She's got a good throwing arm." Whatever that means - most likely her temporary guardian is teaching her bad habits. He doesn't look around when Waine comes in, going about his own business with a set look of concentration. When Max announces the new plan, Jonavan predictably grumbles. "Oh, sure, turn my place into a damn waystation." But there's no real disgruntlement to it. "Are you aiming to rival Jaya for a scar?" he can't help but ask. "I can add another if you're looking to out-bid her."

Suddenly fellis isn’t sounding like such a good idea, not with Jonavan implying that he might cut Max open while he’s out cold. “Too kind,” the young crimelord snarks and then a small smile pushes through the pain when it comes to the topic of his daughter, “should be good with a knife one day then.” Such dark aspirations he appears to have for the little girl.

Waine doesn’t look at all happy with the new instructions, and frowning he voices his disagreement, “They should be here.” – “No!” Max snaps out and then cringes as the raging headache he’s developed goes ping-ponging around in his head. The big second stares his boss down for a moment or two and then gives a small nod of head. “Fine.” And then he stalks back out again muttering something about his boss being a stubborn bastard.

Back to Jonavan once Waine has gone there is a wry twist of lips from Max, “Hope bein’ a handful, huh?” Assuming that’s what his friend had meant by the comment of turning his place into a waystation. As to the scar he’s likely to be left with his expression clouds though not for personal disfigurement. “That Bitran’s a right piece of work,” stated tightly and then finally no longer able to stand the pain without crying like a baby, he jerks his head away from Jonavan, “Shoulda cut him down when I had the chance.”

Jonavan stays out of the disagreement between Waine and Max for the most part, though eyebrows lift and he can't help but sardonically chime in, "Sure, like your face right now wouldn't give Hope nightmares." He glances away from the cut he's working on to meet Max's eyes momentarily. "Wouldn't be yours if she wasn't," the healer replies to the question on the child. "But she's doing fine." Noting Max's subsequent expression, Jonavan mirrors it with a small frown. "My sister came out alright, didn't she?" he feels compelled to ask. Then, noting the pain, the healer goes to mix Max a draught of fellis, though it's laced through fruit juice rather than alcohol. "Here," he says, holding out a cup. "Drink this." Sitting back down, he waits for Max to recover a bit, asking in the meantime, "Are you turning cutting people down into a habit?"

There’s a brief flicker of something indefinable in response to Jonavan’s quip about Hope and nightmares but its there and gone in an instant before he lifts his hand and flips the masterhealer the one-fingered salute. Max then lets out the breath he’d not realizing he’d been keeping contained despite the hammering protest coming from his ribs when the masterhealer finally lets up on his face. The cup is taken with a flicker of gratitude and then he downs it in one go only to shudder when its fruit juice he tastes rather than whiskey. “Now I know you’re tryin’ to kill me,” is his faintly disgruntled response.

Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand Max then nods, “Aye, Waine took a real shine to her. Never let her out of his sight.” Both a good thing and a bad thing depending on which viewpoint a person is coming from. Dark eyes (or should we say ‘eye’ singular) lift to Jonavan’s face and the young crimelord studies him in silence before dropping his gaze away. “If they touch me and mine, I’ll kill ‘em, ” delivered with a cold hard certainty that wasn’t there before. It’s obvious to see when the fellis starts taking effect for some of the tension melts from his shoulders with breathing beginning to ease back to slightly more normal levels.

Jonavan takes the cup back once Max has finished with it and sets it aside. "Whisky later," he says firmly, "when I can join you. Wouldn't want me to stitch you up crookedly, now would you?" As if denying Max his liquor is really about Jonavan - and it might well be. "Define shine." The man gives Max a look, eyes narrowing. "You were supposed to make her life miserable, remember?" Pity Waine's not around for Jonavan to interrogate. He meets Max's scrutiny unflinchingly, evenly, the cast of his expression laced with some sort of unending need to know. When the other man speaks and then looks away, it takes a few minutes for Jonavan to respond, looking at his friend still as if gaze alone will expose Max's true self in the way of a body laid bare on an operating table. "Interesting," he says at last, without identifying what exactly catches his attention. "I'll try to stay on your good side." With that, he goes back to putting in the last few stitches.

"Liar." Max mutters and then with the fellis now having better effect puts a smirk to Jonavan but is careful to hold still for while he's generally not a vain man; he'd prefer not to look any worse than what he's likely to. Lips twitch with amusement when his friend turns that look onto him, "She didn't tell him to fuck off." There's a definition of 'shine' for the masterhealer. "What's worse than being stuck with Waine?" he then goes on to ask with all the innocence he can muster, attached.

Jonavan is one of the very few people that Max feels comfortable enough with to be himself. And so it is that with the fellis playing its part that the young man is indeed stripped bare before his friend in that brief moment.

A strong sense of duty to those that look to him for leadership and protection, strength of purpose and commitment along with regret for having taken the life of another human being and finally the weight of heavy burden's laid on young shoulders - are in there in his gaze before it drops away. "I don't turn on my mates," the young crimelord states quietly blinking back the exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm.

"Don't tempt me," says Jonavan, brandishing the needle right in front of Max's face. He mutters something uncharitable about his sister and even more uncharitable about Waine, finishing with, "Being stuck with /you./" Jonavan satisfies his curiosity with that long look, and a glimmer of respect lights his eyes before each look away. "Good thing for you too," he replies with a return to ribbing, "because that would mean war. Which I would win. Because I'm smarter than you." He ties off the last stitch and sits back a moment. "There. Get the bandage on and then I'm going to listen to your heart and lungs, make sure you haven't hurt anything else, then we'll have that drink." If Max hasn't passed out first.

That needle being brandished in front of his face is enough to have Max paling again. Blood, broken bones and gore he seems to have no problem with. Needles however are a different story. Amusement once again returns once Jonavan goes on to quietly berate his sister and Waine both, though the crimelord is careful to keep it to himself. As much as you can when you have a slightly sadistic healer stitching your face back together again that is.

“What’s not to love?” He even manages to feign being affronted. There is however a margin of gratitude as the masterhealer picks up the banter once again, relief too when Jonavan’s declares himself done with the stitching up part of things. By the glassy look to his eyes its becoming clear that Max isn’t going to last too much longer. A determined shake of head is given to try and clear his head that’s clouding up fast because…booze! “You’ll lose,” Max counters slurring slightly and looks set to add more except that he keels over and is dead to the world within moments which means that Jonavan’s probably going to have to employ Exon or Waine’s help to get those bandages to head and chest in place.

"Try me," Jonavan retorts, and it sounds like a challenge, accompanied with that glint in his eyes that means oh yes, it's on.

"Waaaaaaaaaine!" he yells once Max keels to the side, enlisting the big man's help to get Max bandaged and then sleeping on his side - the injured side, illogical until he explains that it will help Max breathe deeper. Also following are a set of instructions for when he leaves and while he visits Kaskan in the infirmary…along with a very detailed explanation of just what Waine can expect to happen to his private parts in precise medical terms should those parts go anywhere near his sister. And, just in case, before Jonavan leaves to go back to Southern, somehow Waine's mattress will have become mysteriously filled with thorns. A taste of what war means, in Jonavan's world.

Closing Credits: Curtis Stiger - This Life

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License