i'm the motherfucking ungrateful

[inkdamage]

Who: SEVTEL
What: Martel fucked himself up with magic. Severus gets to fix it.
Where: ~the apothecary basement.
When: AHAHA A REALLY LONG TIME AGO
Notes: SO BACKDATED, SORRY
Warnings: Comic book WIZARD SCIENCE, some mild eye gore.

He has no clear idea what to expect, or what sort of fool has managed to get himself in this situation, but a job's a job, so he's learned; Severus knows that he could easily employ far more mercencary methods to acrue wealth, but he prefers this. Tedious as it might be, he's remained hidden for longer than he anticipated. (It nags at him, the paranoia - he knows it's closing in.)

It's not his borrowed laboratory, and it's certainly not the dungeons, but it'll do; the apothecary's basement was filthy and wretched before, but he's transformed it. Brick stands smoothed, illuminated by uncanny floating orbs, lined by meticulous, thick-packed shelves. Desk, work table... examination cot.

He's not a fucking healer.

But he waits as one, regardless; this is work for a man with an eye between science and spirit. He can provide two.

Comments

[apostatised]

"She wasn't aware of the specifics." Martel may have been drunk when he agreed to this; he is not admitting that in a month of Sundays, especially not after that bewildering look. "One of the agents at Hellsing is a vampire with a fae power tied into her psyche- she required a binding to ensure her own personality remains dominant." Her desire to maintain access to it had made it delicate work, but his is not to reason why other people are bizarrely content to absorb foreign consciousness.

He's quietly quite proud of that, given he'd had to devise a spell of his own making that he'd only have one chance to get right; all things considered, metaphorically busting the stitches of an existing injury isn't the worst thing that could've happened to him. (It could've been even less terrible if the existing injury hadn't been what it was, though.)

[inkdamage]

Severus raises his eyebrows at the description - in particular, at 'vampire with a fae power tied to her psyche' - he looks a bit like Martel had actually described some kind of grotesque murder, or casually remarked about his dog going on the rug. How fantastically perverse and troublesome.

(And sort of interesting.)

"If you try that again," he begins, "Perhaps ask after a spotter."

[apostatised]

"Noted." He doesn't foresee the same circumstances coming up, mind, and he's steadfastly not thinking of similar work done with his former fellows. Best not to.

Martel massages his temple, absently, sweat-tangled hair one of the first things he intends to thoroughly wash when he's home. (Vain as a peacock.) "Experimental sorcery on an experimental method is always going to have its drawbacks." Especially when there's no opportunity to test it.

[inkdamage]

He doesn't say 'Quite' again, but he thinks it, and gives Martel a wry, peevish sort of look. Yes, obviously that's true, that's what they just did, except Severus is fine and not somehow exploded on the astral plane. Well done indeed.

"I'll need to see you again in a week to follow up. It went well; I don't foresee anything, being careful never harmed anything."

And it's on his reputation if Martel spontaneously disintegrates. Unacceptable.

[apostatised]

In Martel's defense, he isn't an overpowered faerie monstrosity. He's- well, he's not saying anything on the subject, but if he were: he'd just be saying. (He's been described as many things, occasionally monstrous, but he does at least have 'not a faerie' going for him.)

"I'm dead already," he remarks, faintly amused. "It seems a touch late in the day, if not outright wasteful."

That's mostly a joke.

[inkdamage]

"Well you shan't get a refund if you fall to pieces, so you ought to take the offer."

[apostatised]

He tips his hand. "I will concede I haven't got any more inclined to waste money in my old age."