[ Verso can certainly relate. He wouldn't want to chance Alicia's wellbeing, either; it's hypocritical, he knows, wanting to end everything and yet not wanting to end her. But there's nothing left for her here, no future she could have that isn't tainted. This is what older brothers do: they make the difficult decisions so that their siblings don't have to suffer.
Morbid ruminations aside: ]
You're the overprotective type, huh?
[ Not a large leap to make. Clive had flipped out over the safety of one immortal teammate; Verso can only imagine the reaction he would have had were it his brother. Set the world on fire, maybe. ]
Anything to do with that tragic backstory I was promised?
[ In a different life, he 'kills' his own brother and goes on a thirteen-year spiral of absolute fucking delusion, but he's a little more well-adjusted (?) here; he's called 'overprotective' and he doesn't quite deny it, accepting the denotation with a ghost of a smile that says 'guilty as charged'.
The tragic backstory is... well, debatable. He says as much. ]
Not tragic for me. As a child, my brother was... weak in constitution. He was frequently unwell, and our mother constantly feared that we would lose him.
[ Perfect, golden Joshua, who looked so much like her as opposed to Clive. ]
Mother would always ask why it was him that was born so frail. That it should have been me－ that I should have been the one fated to die between the two of us.
[ A little huff, almost a laugh. ]
I think it distressed him, to hear it. [ And thus, it's mostly just a sad thing for his brother to have had to endure. No child deserves to be caught in the middle of something like that. ]
[ Verso, who has no real frame of reference for mother-son relationships beyond his own, where he'd been the golden child to a certified #boymom, blinks. Once, twice. Stunned into horrified silence at how casually and unemotionally Clive drops this tidbit, as if it's as normal as being sent to his room without dinner.
Awkwardly: ] That does sound... distressing.
[ What the fuck, Clive? ]
...For you. [ It's distressing for Verso just to hear it, actually! ] Merde. A mother should never say that to her children.
[ Say the line, Bart: family is complicated. But it's not that fucking complicated.
Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Not because he wishes he didn't know, but because he'd forced Clive to relive something horrible not long before his very possible death. He hadn't expected the tragic backstory to be quite so, well, tragic.
He leans his head back against the cave wall and sighs. After a moment of silence, he says, attempting to lift the mood, ] And here I thought the whole self-sacrificing thing was just an act to look more appealingly tortured.
[ It's only a tragic backstory if Clive lets it be, and he chooses not to let it be. The fact that he was a son that his mother couldn't love is immovable, but just as immovable is the fact that he's his brother's favorite sibling (his only sibling, but still).
So. Clive smiles about it. He's done sitting in an old chicken coop alone, crying about the things he can't change. But it's kind of Verso to voice his sympathy, and kinder still that he's trying to lift the mood in an otherwise incredibly bleak situation. ]
I know. I continue to disappoint.
[ It would have been far more fun if Clive was putting on airs. ]
But I'm flattered that you ever found it in yourself to find me appealing.
[ He tries for a nudge to Verso's side with an elbow, to middling results. It hurts like hell, still, to breathe, but he figures he should try to do something other than lie here like a lump, so－
－fire, conjured again on the palm of his hand. He tries to press it against his chest, to feed the inferno always seething between his ribs. Come on, Ifrit, make yourself useful. ]
[ Disappoint, he says, and Verso cringes a little. Finding out that Clive has an awful mother is not disappointing, exactly, at least not on Clive's end. It's depressing, certainly. And it explains a whole lot about him; the constant diffidence and self-effacement now seem less like politeness and more like pathology.
He watches Clive's hand light with flame, says nothing about it so as not to give him performance anxiety. (Like he doesn't already have it, knowing that his life depends on it.)
Probably unhelpfully, he says, ] I know what it's like to... not get along with your family.
[ Their situations have very little in common. Clive's mother wishes he weren't alive, while Verso's father would do anything to keep him that way against his wishes. But it's similar in that family isn't meant to treat someone this way, at least, and it's the only sympathy he knows how to offer. ]
It's hard. [ To say the least.
Another moment of watching quietly, before: ] I gave you my happy memory. What's yours?
[ To lighten the mood, and perhaps put Clive in a better headspace for using his powers. ]
[ "Not get along". This, again, begs the question of where Verso's younger sister is, and if she's still somewhere composing songs and missing her brother. There's still a void where Verso's history should be, and though Clive doesn't require those blanks to be filled in order for him to care about someone (it's a character flaw), he wonders if it might be easier on Verso to just.
Talk about it, sometime.
Probably not now, though, given that swift transition to a request for something happier. Clive lets his contrition slough off for now (bad dog, making people sad), and releases his next breath in a shuddering exhale as he courses fire through his broken body.
Happy, happy― ]
―I used to go to the theater with my Uncle, when I was a child. [ A ghost of a smile here, as his chroma starts to glow a little red. ] He'd take me to the plays about knights and wizards, and I would go home and act out entire scenes for my bedridden brother.
[ Might be why his speech patterns are a little archaic. Nerd!!! ]
[ That is a good memory. Verso can feel the fondness seeping through Clive's words. He'd enjoyed the acting out more than the play itself, Verso thinks, and he can relate. Nothing feels better than making someone you love happy. ]
We used to do that, too. Sort of.
[ He's going to have to elaborate on the whole sister thing now— ]
My older sister, she'd go to the ballet. And she'd be so determined to be just as good as the ballerinas on stage that she'd make me practice all the moves with her.
[ Only standing there and lifting her when told to, really. He might as well have been a tree. ]
Our younger sister would watch and give effusive praise when appropriate.
[ Clea hated the effusive praise. That one wasn't perfect, she'd say. Or Verso almost stepped on my toes. ]
Ballet. [ A low, hoarse chuckle here. It hurts to make the sound, but he has to. ] You'll have to show me, sometime.
[ Clive closes his eyes, and lets fire run through him. Scarlet-red chroma, coursing through his body in uneven rivers: it streaks his hair, makes the scar on his face burn bright. He feels that he can control it better, now that he has pleasant thoughts to temper his pain－ he thinks of Verso trying to struggle into a pair of toe shoes, and his chroma burns a little softer for it. ]
We might even be able to leave this place faster than anticipated, [ he appends after a breath. Fire stitches its way through the worst of his injuries, pulling together bits and pieces that felt more catastrophic a moment ago. He could explain that he also has a bit of his brother's essence running through him, life-giving instead of life-taking, but that might be a story for another day. ] Imagining you on point is motivating.
[ It's dark in here with the exit blocked. It would have been a relief, had Clive perished in the cave-in; Verso might have had to spend the next however long—a few days, if he was lucky enough for Monoco to come looking for him; up to a few years, maybe, if not—in here with a corpse, but at least he wouldn't have had to look at it. Now, the glow of Clive's power washes the cave in burnt orange warmth, the light of the fire dancing along Clive's face.
It's striking. Almost picturesque. Like a painting, he thinks dryly.
A relief, too. Although he's hesitant to experience any real optimism after a century of having it beaten out of him—maybe Clive will manage to get them home in time for mushrooms after all.
Only admitted for the sake of encouraging Clive: ] Once, she forced me into a tutu.
[ It's not the most pleasant feeling, burning himself from the inside out in order to heal himself (he isn't Joshua; he doesn't do this half as gracefully as his brother does). He'll likely be useless for the next day or so as a frontline fighter, which is galling, but one reaps what they sow.
So. The tutu detail does lift the spirits. A little laugh, and Clive flicks his momentarily fluorescent-blue eyes towards Verso. ]
'Forced'?
[ Press X to doubt. (He's teasing.) ]
Knowing what I know, I think you might have jumped at the opportunity to be the prettiest ballerina in the room.
[ He'll get up in a second; after he's done wincing through his next wave of fire, which has him ratcheting up to a proper sitting position. ]
[ Clive is still recovering, so Verso doesn't elbow him in retaliation, although he should. Ass. Instead, he says, ] You're right. I was very pretty.
[ And also, like, ten, so be nice. He'd complained so much about the tutu itching that Clea had never tried to dress him up again, because according to her, his whining is like nails on a chalkboard. Verso had been a strictly un-tutued ballerino after that.
Although Clive's right, in one sense. He'd enjoyed the attention of his sisters. While he could have refused at any time, he'd stuck around and done their bidding to see them happy. Clea had looked so proud of herself when she'd stuck her first torch lift. ]
Does it hurt?
[ For Clive to heal, not for him to know that he's not the prettiest ballerina in this cave. ]
[ Hard to imagine a time when anything was less complicated for any of them. Steeped in death, with the permanent reminder of their impermanence looming just over the horizon. Harder, still, to imagine Verso's childhood in the sea of his immortality, and what that would have looked like however many years back, when the twin digits on the Monolith might loomed less large than the current 33.
That's unfair, though. Clive has suffered enough to know what it looks like when a man shrouds himself in insouciance to push through the trials of today. So he laughs about Verso having been very pretty (he's sure), and ignores how his ribs tickle his very squishy internal organs (ew). ]
Very much.
[ No point in lying. There's a light sheen of sweat building up, both from, you know, the fire, and the arduous task of pulling himself together. Still: ]
Beats dying in a cave, though. [ A low whistle of breath, and a wink. He tries twisting his torso in his current upright position, and he manages it without his eyes watering. ] Or knowing that I died before you could try my mushroom soup.
[ Spoilers: he gets frequent complaints about not salting his food properly. The soup is going to be bland, folks. ]
[ It's very much up in the air whether anyone will even allow Clive to cook after finding out what he just went through, but Verso allows that to be one of the many things he declines to mention. Clive, he's learning, seems to have an incessant desire to be useful, like he's somehow earning his right to exist in the world, and—
It certainly makes a lot more sense, knowing what Verso knows now. His approach to Clive shifts a little to the left with this knowledge, all of their interactions slightly recontextualized. ]
I'm very much looking forward to asking for seconds.
[ And maybe he actually will, just to make Clive feel as if he's accomplished something. Verso's appetite has been diminished by decades of tolerable-at-best foraged food and crushed entirely by a chronically poor mood, but he can choke down two bowls of soup if it even slightly makes up for the shit situation he landed Clive in today.
He stands, holding out a hand to assist Clive up. ]
Come on. You can lean on me, if you have to. [ Dry: ] Promise I won't tell anyone.
[ Sometimes, a guy just spends his entire life atoning for the sin of existing. But Clive is an optimist at heart, despite it all: this was an unexpected hiccup in what should have been a nice bonding (?) experience, but he thinks he's found out valuable tidbits about Verso that he might not have if they'd just played "food or death".
Up he goes, helped by Verso's hand. His balance wobbles, but stays. ]
You can tell Monoco. [ Warmly. ] Bragging rights.
[ Of all the things they have to keep track of out here, Verso and his best friend's ongoing win-loss count is harmless and funny, so. Clive holds to it. God knows they all need some levity out here.
He tries for a step, and then a second, helped by the warmth and steadiness of Verso's body against his side. The caved-in wall with the Nevron under the rubble (do Nevron just like, evaporate after they're defeated? oh well) is a problem, but Clive thinks he could enlist Ifrit one more time to press-gang their way through. ]
[ No part of this is worth bragging about. Monoco will just make fun of him for forgetting about the Nevron in this cave, and then make fun of him again for instantly assuming that Clive was about to fucking die, and then really make fun of him for sharing that little ballet story in an attempt at a pep talk. He'd be right to do so, too. This whole thing is embarrassing.
But he tries to look as if he's in good spirits regardless, if only to keep Clive's up. Verso presses a hand flat between his shoulder blades, a steadying but not overbearing touch. ]
You did look pretty cool... at first.
[ Less so once he got crushed by falling rocks, but they can just ignore that part. ]
And you got to learn my deep, dark ballet secret, so I'd say it was worth it.
[ It was not worth it. Clive should absolutely never play the hero in a cave again. ]
[ Genuinely (and sadly), being with Expedition 33 is probably the most fulfillment Clive has ever felt outside of interactions with his younger brother or his now-dead mentor (Expedition 44). His mistakes are embarrassing, and he reminds himself never to repeat them again, but he'll hold this night to his heart regardless as something that made him feel something aside from the weight of having to rebel against the inevitable.
The curse of sentiment. Clive really does love everyone out here. ]
It'll be our secret.
[ Ballet, and the melody of wind between swaying trees. Pinpoints of warmth to fuel Clive as he channels his chroma again, outwards this time instead of inwards. He extends an arm, covered in coal-sharp scales that end in serrated claws where fingers should be; the blast of fire that coils out of that monster-like appendage blows bits of broken rock and debris outwards, scattering it out into the one corridor that leads back out into open air.
For a moment, Clive winces. His breath stills, wondering if undoing that cave-in will just cause another, worse one. But the foundations of their surroundings hold, and fresh air filters back into the gloom, filling him with oxygen and relief. ]
Ah. That went well.
[ And, with that, he falls facefirst onto the ground. ]
[ Clive does look very cool. Verso rarely feels the urge to paint these days, but as he watches flecks of fire dance on those dark scales, he finds himself wondering how one might recreate such a thing with oil paint. He'd always preferred creating fantastical images over pure recreations of reality, but this is a little bit of both—something that shouldn't be possible and yet is. ]
Yeah, you—
[ And then he feels Clive's shifting weight, lurching forward, and he isn't quick enough to do more than scramble after the fact, crouching down to nudge at Clive's shoulder. Afraid to be too rough with him after what he's already been through, but afraid to be too gentle and fail to rouse him if he's fallen unconscious, too. ]
Hey, mon ami, [ he says, because it sounds gentler than "FUCKING CLIVE!!!" Even though that may or may not be on refrain in his mind at the moment. He turns Clive over, slowly— ] Ah.
[ "FUCKING CLIVE!" is actually the appropriate response!!!!! Clive blinks when he's rolled onto his back, clearly having blacked out for the few seconds he'd spent faceplanted on the ground; disorientation winds through him, but he's still in the cave (familiar) and Verso still looks like he has no idea what the fuck to do with him (also familiar), so he eases his tension through his shoulders, and touches his hand to his aching face. ]
Oh, [ he notes, when his fingers come back bloody. ] Fuck.
[ A poignant summation of everything that's happened this night. "Oh, fuck." ]
...Maybe you could go get me a tint.
[ Labrador retriever ears droop... he's sorry, he promises. ]
[ 'Fucking Clive' is lucky that Verso is a dog person. It's not that he's angry, it's just— his entire purpose here is to babysit these Expeditioners, and Clive is turning out to be a lot like a toddler who keeps running into the street. To keep the labrador analogy going, Verso has a brief fantasy of leashing him and forcibly yanking him away from whatever danger he tries to throw himself into next. ]
I'll have to borrow one from the girls.
[ He doesn't keep any for himself. No need to. But they'll no doubt be willing to share if they know it's for Clive, although he has the distinct idea that he'll be interrogated on what he let happen to Clive. ]
I'll tell them you got injured singlehandedly taking down three Nevrons while I stood there and watched.
[ Or something like that. He helps Clive back to a somewhat upright position before he stands, regarding Clive with a long-suffering expression that suggests he thinks this might actually be a concern: ]
Try not to heroically sacrifice yourself again before I get back.
[ Verso comes up with that bullshit excuse for how Clive got hurt, and Clive thinks to say "you could also just tell them the truth". Then again, he has no leg to stand on (almost literally) when it comes to preaching to Verso about anything in his current condition, so he concedes the point, and accepts that appended warning. ]
I'll lay here and hope that the Stalact doesn't have any cousins.
[ In short: he'll be on his best behavior, promise. A lot of that is attributable to the fact that he can't actually move very well, but a promise is a promise.
The silver lining, though, is that the others know enough about Clive to anticipate that he might get his dumb ass hurt doing something trivial. Clive's mentor'd been infamous in the Academy for doing unconventional things for the sake of "learning and growing", and so, the others expect the same from Clive. Lune says as much, when approached for a tint. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Morbid ruminations aside: ]
You're the overprotective type, huh?
[ Not a large leap to make. Clive had flipped out over the safety of one immortal teammate; Verso can only imagine the reaction he would have had were it his brother. Set the world on fire, maybe. ]
Anything to do with that tragic backstory I was promised?
no subject
The tragic backstory is... well, debatable. He says as much. ]
Not tragic for me. As a child, my brother was... weak in constitution. He was frequently unwell, and our mother constantly feared that we would lose him.
[ Perfect, golden Joshua, who looked so much like her as opposed to Clive. ]
Mother would always ask why it was him that was born so frail. That it should have been me－ that I should have been the one fated to die between the two of us.
[ A little huff, almost a laugh. ]
I think it distressed him, to hear it. [ And thus, it's mostly just a sad thing for his brother to have had to endure. No child deserves to be caught in the middle of something like that. ]
no subject
Awkwardly: ] That does sound... distressing.
[ What the fuck, Clive? ]
...For you. [ It's distressing for Verso just to hear it, actually! ] Merde. A mother should never say that to her children.
[ Say the line, Bart: family is complicated. But it's not that fucking complicated.
Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Not because he wishes he didn't know, but because he'd forced Clive to relive something horrible not long before his very possible death. He hadn't expected the tragic backstory to be quite so, well, tragic.
He leans his head back against the cave wall and sighs. After a moment of silence, he says, attempting to lift the mood, ] And here I thought the whole self-sacrificing thing was just an act to look more appealingly tortured.
[ Pot, meet kettle. ]
no subject
So. Clive smiles about it. He's done sitting in an old chicken coop alone, crying about the things he can't change. But it's kind of Verso to voice his sympathy, and kinder still that he's trying to lift the mood in an otherwise incredibly bleak situation. ]
I know. I continue to disappoint.
[ It would have been far more fun if Clive was putting on airs. ]
But I'm flattered that you ever found it in yourself to find me appealing.
[ He tries for a nudge to Verso's side with an elbow, to middling results. It hurts like hell, still, to breathe, but he figures he should try to do something other than lie here like a lump, so－
－fire, conjured again on the palm of his hand. He tries to press it against his chest, to feed the inferno always seething between his ribs. Come on, Ifrit, make yourself useful. ]
no subject
He watches Clive's hand light with flame, says nothing about it so as not to give him performance anxiety. (Like he doesn't already have it, knowing that his life depends on it.)
Probably unhelpfully, he says, ] I know what it's like to... not get along with your family.
[ Their situations have very little in common. Clive's mother wishes he weren't alive, while Verso's father would do anything to keep him that way against his wishes. But it's similar in that family isn't meant to treat someone this way, at least, and it's the only sympathy he knows how to offer. ]
It's hard. [ To say the least.
Another moment of watching quietly, before: ] I gave you my happy memory. What's yours?
[ To lighten the mood, and perhaps put Clive in a better headspace for using his powers. ]
no subject
Talk about it, sometime.
Probably not now, though, given that swift transition to a request for something happier. Clive lets his contrition slough off for now (bad dog, making people sad), and releases his next breath in a shuddering exhale as he courses fire through his broken body.
Happy, happy― ]
―I used to go to the theater with my Uncle, when I was a child. [ A ghost of a smile here, as his chroma starts to glow a little red. ] He'd take me to the plays about knights and wizards, and I would go home and act out entire scenes for my bedridden brother.
[ Might be why his speech patterns are a little archaic. Nerd!!! ]
no subject
We used to do that, too. Sort of.
[ He's going to have to elaborate on the whole sister thing now— ]
My older sister, she'd go to the ballet. And she'd be so determined to be just as good as the ballerinas on stage that she'd make me practice all the moves with her.
[ Only standing there and lifting her when told to, really. He might as well have been a tree. ]
Our younger sister would watch and give effusive praise when appropriate.
[ Clea hated the effusive praise. That one wasn't perfect, she'd say. Or Verso almost stepped on my toes. ]
no subject
[ Clive closes his eyes, and lets fire run through him. Scarlet-red chroma, coursing through his body in uneven rivers: it streaks his hair, makes the scar on his face burn bright. He feels that he can control it better, now that he has pleasant thoughts to temper his pain－ he thinks of Verso trying to struggle into a pair of toe shoes, and his chroma burns a little softer for it. ]
We might even be able to leave this place faster than anticipated, [ he appends after a breath. Fire stitches its way through the worst of his injuries, pulling together bits and pieces that felt more catastrophic a moment ago. He could explain that he also has a bit of his brother's essence running through him, life-giving instead of life-taking, but that might be a story for another day. ] Imagining you on point is motivating.
no subject
It's striking. Almost picturesque. Like a painting, he thinks dryly.
A relief, too. Although he's hesitant to experience any real optimism after a century of having it beaten out of him—maybe Clive will manage to get them home in time for mushrooms after all.
Only admitted for the sake of encouraging Clive: ] Once, she forced me into a tutu.
no subject
So. The tutu detail does lift the spirits. A little laugh, and Clive flicks his momentarily fluorescent-blue eyes towards Verso. ]
'Forced'?
[ Press X to doubt. (He's teasing.) ]
Knowing what I know, I think you might have jumped at the opportunity to be the prettiest ballerina in the room.
[ He'll get up in a second; after he's done wincing through his next wave of fire, which has him ratcheting up to a proper sitting position. ]
no subject
[ And also, like, ten, so be nice. He'd complained so much about the tutu itching that Clea had never tried to dress him up again, because according to her, his whining is like nails on a chalkboard. Verso had been a strictly un-tutued ballerino after that.
Although Clive's right, in one sense. He'd enjoyed the attention of his sisters. While he could have refused at any time, he'd stuck around and done their bidding to see them happy. Clea had looked so proud of herself when she'd stuck her first torch lift. ]
Does it hurt?
[ For Clive to heal, not for him to know that he's not the prettiest ballerina in this cave. ]
no subject
That's unfair, though. Clive has suffered enough to know what it looks like when a man shrouds himself in insouciance to push through the trials of today. So he laughs about Verso having been very pretty (he's sure), and ignores how his ribs tickle his very squishy internal organs (ew). ]
Very much.
[ No point in lying. There's a light sheen of sweat building up, both from, you know, the fire, and the arduous task of pulling himself together. Still: ]
Beats dying in a cave, though. [ A low whistle of breath, and a wink. He tries twisting his torso in his current upright position, and he manages it without his eyes watering. ] Or knowing that I died before you could try my mushroom soup.
[ Spoilers: he gets frequent complaints about not salting his food properly. The soup is going to be bland, folks. ]
no subject
It certainly makes a lot more sense, knowing what Verso knows now. His approach to Clive shifts a little to the left with this knowledge, all of their interactions slightly recontextualized. ]
I'm very much looking forward to asking for seconds.
[ And maybe he actually will, just to make Clive feel as if he's accomplished something. Verso's appetite has been diminished by decades of tolerable-at-best foraged food and crushed entirely by a chronically poor mood, but he can choke down two bowls of soup if it even slightly makes up for the shit situation he landed Clive in today.
He stands, holding out a hand to assist Clive up. ]
Come on. You can lean on me, if you have to. [ Dry: ] Promise I won't tell anyone.
no subject
Up he goes, helped by Verso's hand. His balance wobbles, but stays. ]
You can tell Monoco. [ Warmly. ] Bragging rights.
[ Of all the things they have to keep track of out here, Verso and his best friend's ongoing win-loss count is harmless and funny, so. Clive holds to it. God knows they all need some levity out here.
He tries for a step, and then a second, helped by the warmth and steadiness of Verso's body against his side. The caved-in wall with the Nevron under the rubble (do Nevron just like, evaporate after they're defeated? oh well) is a problem, but Clive thinks he could enlist Ifrit one more time to press-gang their way through. ]
Remind me never to play hero in a cave again.
no subject
But he tries to look as if he's in good spirits regardless, if only to keep Clive's up. Verso presses a hand flat between his shoulder blades, a steadying but not overbearing touch. ]
You did look pretty cool... at first.
[ Less so once he got crushed by falling rocks, but they can just ignore that part. ]
And you got to learn my deep, dark ballet secret, so I'd say it was worth it.
[ It was not worth it. Clive should absolutely never play the hero in a cave again. ]
no subject
The curse of sentiment. Clive really does love everyone out here. ]
It'll be our secret.
[ Ballet, and the melody of wind between swaying trees. Pinpoints of warmth to fuel Clive as he channels his chroma again, outwards this time instead of inwards. He extends an arm, covered in coal-sharp scales that end in serrated claws where fingers should be; the blast of fire that coils out of that monster-like appendage blows bits of broken rock and debris outwards, scattering it out into the one corridor that leads back out into open air.
For a moment, Clive winces. His breath stills, wondering if undoing that cave-in will just cause another, worse one. But the foundations of their surroundings hold, and fresh air filters back into the gloom, filling him with oxygen and relief. ]
Ah. That went well.
[ And, with that, he falls facefirst onto the ground. ]
no subject
Yeah, you—
[ And then he feels Clive's shifting weight, lurching forward, and he isn't quick enough to do more than scramble after the fact, crouching down to nudge at Clive's shoulder. Afraid to be too rough with him after what he's already been through, but afraid to be too gentle and fail to rouse him if he's fallen unconscious, too. ]
Hey, mon ami, [ he says, because it sounds gentler than "FUCKING CLIVE!!!" Even though that may or may not be on refrain in his mind at the moment. He turns Clive over, slowly— ] Ah.
[ There's blood running from Clive's nose. ]
no subject
Oh, [ he notes, when his fingers come back bloody. ] Fuck.
[ A poignant summation of everything that's happened this night. "Oh, fuck." ]
...Maybe you could go get me a tint.
[ Labrador retriever ears droop... he's sorry, he promises. ]
no subject
I'll have to borrow one from the girls.
[ He doesn't keep any for himself. No need to. But they'll no doubt be willing to share if they know it's for Clive, although he has the distinct idea that he'll be interrogated on what he let happen to Clive. ]
I'll tell them you got injured singlehandedly taking down three Nevrons while I stood there and watched.
[ Or something like that. He helps Clive back to a somewhat upright position before he stands, regarding Clive with a long-suffering expression that suggests he thinks this might actually be a concern: ]
Try not to heroically sacrifice yourself again before I get back.
[ HONESTLY... ]
no subject
I'll lay here and hope that the Stalact doesn't have any cousins.
[ In short: he'll be on his best behavior, promise. A lot of that is attributable to the fact that he can't actually move very well, but a promise is a promise.
The silver lining, though, is that the others know enough about Clive to anticipate that he might get his dumb ass hurt doing something trivial. Clive's mentor'd been infamous in the Academy for doing unconventional things for the sake of "learning and growing", and so, the others expect the same from Clive. Lune says as much, when approached for a tint. ]