Stick A Fork In It


L'ron.jpg Jonavan.jpg

Date: 2011.05.20
Location: EW - Infirmary
Synopsis: L'ron has a fork stuck in his arm and Jonavan has a ball.
Rating: PG13
Logger: L'ron

Somewhere along the line, Jonavan acquired a ball. It doesn't have as much bounce as he'd like, but enough that when he throws it hard against the cupboard - the wooden ones, not to glass-fronted ones - it ricochets back. Smack. Smack. Smack. The infirmary aide has fled, driven half-crazy, but the one patient in bed has no such option so just stuffs her ears with cotton and buries her head under a pillow. Slow day. Jonavan's bored.

L’ron isn’t nearly the klutz he was known to be at times both before and during weyrlinghood, but that doesn’t mean to say that accidents don’t happen. Such as the one he’s just had when he’d bowled over a kitchen helper carrying a tray of cutlery from the kitchens to the living caverns. The fork rather deeply embedded in his forearm being what brings him to the infirmary this day. The young bluerider does not however, appear to be too upset about the incident or indeed, even in that much pain. Perhaps he’s just too much of a dolt to be so, though he does hesitate a moment before entering the infirmary proper.

"Please tell me you've broken something!" Jonavan hasn't bothered to turn around, let along lay off playing his one-sided game of catch, but that doesn't mean he doesn't hear when someone enters. "Punctured a lung. Torn a muscle straight off the bone. Fell off a dragon and dislocated a shoulder. Had a flamethrower blow up in your face. Poked an eye out." The healer throws his ball one final time, catches it, finally sees fit to face the incoming bluerider.

L'ron listens to the possible injuries listed, blood dripping down his arm and onto his boots, which he really doesn't seem too fazed about and then he lifts his arm when Jonavan turns his head. "Does this count?" And…believe it or not, he's actually grinning.

Jonavan takes in the bluerider and his injury at a glance, eyebrows lifting slightly before he determines, "Not an eyeball dangling by a thread, but it'll have to do." He considers L'ron a moment further. "Here- catch." That's all the warning he gives before he tosses his ball at L'ron.

“I’ll try harder next time,” L’ron quips with a snicker, his uninjured arm snapping out to catch the ball throw at him. Over a turn of tossing firestone bags at one another and ducking those sent at your head helps to grow such reflexes. “Thought healers gave out candy,” the bluerider states turning the ball over in his hand and then grinning, “Ball’s better though.” And promptly pockets it.

Jonavan looks mildly disappointed that L'ron didn't try to catch with the arm that's got a fork stuck in it. "Nuh uh. No way." Jonavan stands up in a flash. "No treatment til you give it back. Unless you want to go round and become known as Fork-boy."

Having reached his full height at six foot one and filled out proportionately, L’ron’s not exactly the stereotypical pansy bluerider and so, with a nonchalant roll of broad shoulders he isn’t in the least bit intimidated when the healer demands his ball back. “Nope,” grinning as he inspects his arm, “You gave it to me. Besides, Fork-boy’s an improvement on ‘Hey you, bluerider’. Some of the older riders in Vanity wing not having yet learned their newest member’s name.”

Jonavan is still taller. So there. It does, in the end, boil down to a game of who can bluff and posture better. "Vanity wing?" He sounds incredulous. "That's a wing name? What do you all do, check each other's asses out all day long?"

Yeah, yeah, L’ron’s heard it all before and he clearly has no problem with his masculinity, not to mention that the cute goldrider he’s weyrmated to goes a long ways to helping with that. “Yup,” he responds as he starts to head toward where he can see some bandages and a few other healery type bits and bobs set out on a sterile tray (he’ll just fix himself see?). “We also stare at each other in the bathing caverns and go to the latrine pit in pairs.” Snark.

"No touching!" Jonavan talks to L'ron like he might a child, moving quickly to try to cut him off. "No," he repeats slowly, definitively. And then expectantly holds his hand out for the ball. "I'm waiting."

Slowly L’ron turns and puts an irritatingly sunny grin onto the Healer, “No fixing, no ball. And if you’re not going to help me, I’ll do it myself.” Take that!

"No ball, no fixing," the healer counters, stubborn as ever and not about to back down even if L'ron starts dripping blood all over his shoes, too. "You can't do it yourself if there's nothing to fix it with. If, say, everything mysteriously vanishes into the latrines."

With the return quip that’s equally ‘mature’ as his had been, L’ron starts to wiggle the fork which only serves to send a fresh flow of blood seeping out of the wound. “I used to know a harper like you. He also fell into the latrines,” brown eyes sparked with mirth lift from where he’s fiddling with the eating utensil, “he was never heard from again. Mysterious, no?” Its utter rubbish, but hey he’s not rising to the bait and apparently not prepared to give the ball back.

In response, Jonavan casually reaches out and sweeps the stack of bandages off the tray and onto the floor, sterile no more. "And I used to know a kid like you who pissed off the healers so much that they wouldn't bandage just the tiniest scratch he got on his arm. Developed gangrene and then he had to cut the whole thing off. By himself. Healerless."

L’ron watches the bandages bounce and roll across the floor with little to no reaction. “Oh yeah?” he seems far more interested in the tall tale, “Did he die?” Because if not, the tale is not quite so grand by his reckoning, he does however, shove a hand into his pocket and pull the ball out, holding it almost in taunting manner up in front of the healer. “You want it? Fetch.” And he tosses it after the bandages. Fair deal, no?

"Yes." Jonavan doesn't care if his lie is obvious. "Horribly. No one should try to saw off their own arm. He severed an artery and bled to death." Ball! Jonavan practically bounds after it. At least that leaves L'ron free to get at the redwort.

Apparently the bluerider likes that response for he gives a grin followed by a nod, “Good.” Good that the imaginary kid died, or good that the story was as tall as it was? Who knows. L’ron does however have a hard time containing his mirth when Jonavan bounds after the ball like an overgrown puppy. Even harder to resist is the urge to place fingers to mouth to whistle for the healer to come back and do as promised and fix him. “Fine, go play with your ball, I’ll do it myself.” Thankfully the weyrlings have been given at least rudimentary first aid. He soon finds the redwort, manages one-handed to get the bottle open and upends it over around the tines of the fork embedded in his arm with a hiss for the expected sting.

"Baby." Jonavan scoops up his ball and puts it somewhere safe where L'ron can't find it while the bluerider busies himself with disinfecting, cleaning up. He scrubs his hands first, not foregoing procedure, then comes to L'ron's aid with the words, "It'll hurt when I pull this out!" Said with just a bit too much relish. At least the healer's helping, now, and will do his job until the arm is bandaged and the bluerider sent on his way.

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