multiversallogs | i think back home they think i've lost my mind

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i think back home they think i've lost my mind

Who: Lucius Malfoy (Sr) and "Vanessza Bernát"
What: What's the use of kind turns, if you can't call in a favour? A little bit of patching up ensues.
Where: Eventually, Syriac Well.
When: Veerdi night.

It's a good thing, Lucius Malfoy reflects, that he had advocated to her the benefits of the kindness of strangers.

Or else this might seem unusual.

Not that there is much unusual about his current circumstance. A normal Veerdi evening in Baedal should see a wizard peeling back the mock up bandaging he's fashioned from conjured silk, soaked through with blood, and evaluating the damage. More complaint in the furrow of his brow for the torn fabric than broken skin, but then again, he isn't looking at that latter thing as closely as he ought, and he's already magically numbed the injury so as best to carry on with his fucking day. The charm had worn out by sundown, however, and he can feel the encroaching beginnings of human pain needling at his senses.

He runs the tap to let red come off his palm and spiral down the silver drain. A train has pulled in at the station, audible even in the public bathroom he has claimed for himself and magically locked against unwanted intruders. In the narrative, this implies a state of crossroads. Except he usually Apparates.

Hand clean, he takes out his CiD. Hesitates, as is only fitting. They call him 'family'.

you implied you are a doctor

And waits.

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There was a time when he could have stood to be less clean.

Fancy that.

"It will not be the last," he notes, with the kind of detachment that implies he isn't actually talking about himself, necessarily, as that depends on how the next hour or so goes. Kind people, in his experience, get used, not only because they welcome it. He sinks into the slouch that has become almost customary for him, watching the tangle of hands he has upon cane, and wondering what all he's going to have to tell her for this thing to be done and complete.

"No," she concedes, though it doesn't sound like she's disturbed by the idea; it's a niche she slots into often enough, a different angle on the way she can usually be found sinking her hands into a community that she's made herself a part of. Legitimate philanthropy isn't bad - and she does plenty of it - but this way involves a different brand of networking that she tends to find useful, over time.

She keeps a half an eye on him as they leave Barrackham, thoughtful. "You caught me coming off a shift. Good timing."

Lucius hasn't done much in the way of look at her, since meeting - once, when she first came along, and he had delivered his name. Since then, his attention has wandered, the discomfort inherent in associating with Muggles dictating at a less than conscious level.

He's made many compromises since arriving.

But he glances at her now, somewhat sharper in study, an eyebrow rising. "You've found employment," he says, aloofly observant. "That was quick."

"Trauma surgery at the Glory Shada," she says, briefly, and it's clear she expects this to more or less explain matters; she can't imagine hospitals are any less in need of support and staff in whichever England he's from. She proved she knows what she's doing and they hired her - end of. (At least until she screws up and they're sued for malpractice, but the likelihood of that happening is slim.) "The technology level isn't quite what I'm used to, but one adjusts."

He'll see that she's got a place of her own, too, when they arrive in Syriac Well-- she steers him up to the second floor, into a pale-hued and comfortably-furnished flat in her slightly over the top Parisien tastes. It largely serves to underscore what a mess he is, in contrast, but Benevenuta gives no indication of distaste or discomfort, for her part.

He does get the feeling like he shouldn't touch anything.

Admittedly, he occasionally felt that way around the Malfoy townhouse, but that had more existential reasons behind it than simply spending the day bleeding into his clothes. In this case, Lucius is. Surprised. He had not imagined finery when he'd texted the unassuming young woman, expecting perhaps needing to find a place for them that wasn't the Valhalla Inn or whoever she found to stay with, or, at best, the cosy hovel that newcomers might dig out for themselves.

Appreciation doesn't do too much to relax him, however. But he is too proud to say anything or even show either thing outwardly beyond a sharper glance around. "I won't attempt to monopolise your whole evening," he says, having a go at being gracious.

Her faint smile skews wry in a way that at least looks older than her years. "We'll see." Given that she's not ruling out the possible necessity of having to hose him down like a recalcitrant puppy, she suspects this is going to be a long evening whatever he attempts, but she merely leads him into the bathroom rather than commenting on it further. This room, like the rest of the apartment, is finely put together but not oversized; it's a very neat place, much like Benevenuta herself.

Still-- it's of a sufficient size for the two of them to move around without feeling trapped together, and has enough elbow room for her to work. There's a cushioned stool in front of the ornate white vanity, which she'll point him to in just a moment, but first...

"Are you going to need help with your coat and shirt?"

"I can manage."

The cane is set down, never far and certainly not offered to her to take, leaning in the crook of wall and sink. Lucius is slow but measured, the heavy wool shucked off his shoulders as one-armedly as he can. The surprisingly nice black satin lining inside is pretty much ruined, but there are. Ways. Magicing his laundry is the least of his worries. He lets the thing drop.

The shirt is more or less peeled away, once unbuttoned, slow going unless she interferes and helps with the more difficult shoulder. That everything is black serves to make everything somewhat less horrific until its actually gone, and the injury at his arm looks like something large and with claws got its hit in. Various bruises mottle his torso, less concerning, and older still would be the white scars that mar his other forearm that could vaguely have been a skull and snake in another life time. And was. Small black runes mark in a row against the side of his neck.

He catches a glimpse of the injury in the mirror, lines bracketing his mouth deepening in automatic scowl. "What will you do for it?" What do Muggle doctors even do, anyway?

He knows what wizards and witches would do, but lacks the right empathy, finesse and interest to master healing magics, even for the sake of himself, and he'd always had Narcissa's assistance. As for potions... the idea of going to Severus, as with everyone else, is enough for it to be promptly stamped upon with other ideas less offensive to his pride.

While he's occupied, Benny hangs her own coat up on the back of the bathroom door and puts her sweater in the laundry basket; the last thing she needs is getting his blood on what wardrobe she currently has, but she's not as worried about her tank top and jeans. It takes her much less time, enough that she helps to ease his shirt down over his injured arm before directing him to the stool, a little hint of a moue on her lips as she examines the injury more closely.

"That's going to need stitches," she says, frankly; she's prepared for that, but not as prepared as she'd really prefer to be. "I was going to put you in the shower after I'd tended you, but you're going to need to keep them dry for the first twenty-four hours." Unless he has, you know, some kind of magic spell than can protect the area. "I'd really like to give you a local anaesthetic, but we're going to have do it the old fashioned way. I'll get you something to bite."

He pulls his hair, irritatedly, out of the way, before it can stick to where blood has settled on his skin, shoulder to elbow and smears beyond. His bandaging has helped but it's-- Lucius' bandaging skills, so.

He sits.

"You've not any firewhiskey, I take it," he says, dry enough that he doesn't mean it - even dismissing it with a shake of his head in case her and her ~English second language~ self doesn't parse. He'd rather not also be drunk in some stranger's house, as well as bleeding. "I can use a charm," a glance up, to see if that even means anything to her, "to keep it dry."

Because in Baedal, the usual divide doesn't apply. So maybe he won't have to convince her as to the existence of magic.

Her brow furrows, fleetingly bewildered - he's going to apply charisma to his arm? what? - but context gives her a clue and it clears, although slightly hesitantly, like she's not completely sure she understands. "That's magic, yes? That's good."

...but it's also something they can worry about shortly, so she disappears long enough to collect a (quickly cleaned, by the looks and the sound of distant running water) wooden spoon from her kitchen.

This achieved and set down on the edge of the vanity near him, she crouches down to pull her medical kit out from underneath the sink, and if this is the first time Lucius has ever witnessed someone snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, it's quite an experience. "I'm going to take your bandages off and clean the wound first," she says, conversational and calm- she's used to talking patients through what she's doing and even standing in her bathroom with someone she barely knows, she seems perfectly at home, even professional. "This is going to be uncomfortable."

"I certainly did not contact you for comfort."

There's that brittle snip to his tone that is so customary to everyone who knows Lucius at all, and this time made manifest in the kind of help he is getting. He grips injured arm at the elbow, mostly to force himself to keep still so that she can do as she needs. "And yes, it is magic," he adds, quieter, to make sure all is understood. "You're familiar with it."

That, too, is good.

"In a way," she says, diplomatically, sidestepping the way he almost snapped at her just now; she handles him much as he was earlier described, a wounded animal with nigh tangible pride. (One might get the impression she's been here, before, if not in quite the same way. One would be right.) "If you need to, bite the spoon, but try to hold still," she says, settling to work; unwinding the bandages (useless now, good job, Lucius) and taking a closer look at the wound itself as she rinses and cleans it with the antiseptic, careful and deliberate.

She'd based her assessment largely on how it looked before she got the bandages off, but she was right; this needs sutured.

He watches her set sponge and gauze to wounds to clean, and no, it's not comfortable, but he'll save any biting for when the needle is pulling through his skin. At first he is still, jaw tight in steely toleration, and then the cleaning chemical finds his wounds, and he jolts once in automatic flinch back. What on earth--?

"That feels like poison," is lazy accusation, more complaint than anything else. If he thought it was, he'd probably be out the door with his ruined clothing in hand. As it stands, he's willing to humour the Muggle.

She did warn him.

It's true; she did.

Mildly, one hand steadying him at the elbow and not looking up from what she's doing, "Don't put it in your mouth. Most things are poisonous, used the wrong way."

Though it is, as noted, not the most pleasant experience, she has as light a touch as she can get away with without compromising efficiency and handles the task as one familiar that she can get through without wasting time or drawing it out unnecessarily.

And he doesn't bitch for the rest of it, one raised eyebrow in a reply she isn't looking at to notice before sinking into silence.

He closes his eyes, too, after a while; as if to retreat somewhere else that is both less painful and vulnerable both, and taking small satisfaction that the beast's claws had sold quite well, especially once he'd cleaned them. By the time she's done, it may take effort to bleed the tension out of his muscles, hard along his spine.

"All right," she says, finally, touching the back of her knuckles to her eyebrow for a moment as she rocks back on her heels, "now we do the hard part. I'm going to do a few sutures, here, and then I'll give it a last clean and bandage."

She's sorting the needle, thread-- "Tell me when you're ready."

"I am," is automatic and almost overlapping her last syllable. Lucius hesitates, as if actually readying himself instead of simply saying it before he can change his mind at the sight of hemostats and needle, before he adds, "Carry on."

He knows of stitches, of course, although has never required it himself when potions, balms and superficial charms on the end of someone else's wand had sufficed, and usually in battle he was. Quicker. On the retreat. Morbid curiousity has him looking when she goes to start, brow knit in some disgust at the concept of simply being sewn back together, and there's a small, strangled sound at the back of his throat.

He'll be using that spoon, then, laying deep bite marks in it where harder bone dents softer wood. It is mostly to stop himself from saying anything.

Benevenuta has done this often enough that she has her own comfortable method; the stitches are small and tight, taking care that the wound shouldn't scar too badly when it heals. (It will, likely, scar.) She falls silent as she works, taking him at his word that he didn't come for comfort and doesn't wish to be talked through it more than is required.

Once the stitches are in and knotted off, she replaces his bandage with one from her supply, rolling it securely around his arm and fastening it in place with a pair of metal clips. "I don't like using these," she observes, "but needs must here." In Baedal, generally; they were what was available when she stocked up. "If you're all right to take a shower-" notably, she's not actually giving him a choice, just willing to negotiate whether it happens immediately or if he'd like to take a little while after the stitches, "-then I'll write down aftercare instructions and we can go over those when you're dressed."

The spoon will clatter into the sink where it's dropped, Lucius rolling his good shoulder to diminish collected tension, looking vaguely ill once she's done, but also relieved that it's over. Doctors are barbarians, clearly. He chances a look down at the ugly sight even neat stitches tend to be, a hand coming up like he might touch. These hopefully aren't forever, or something.

He stops just short as she says these next things, the prospect of staying long enough to get clean. "I really think it best if I simply leave it at this for the evening and get out of your hair," he states, dully.

On that note, rising and rolling her gloves off, Benevenuta gives him a long, level look.

"No," she says, finally, as simply as she's said the rest. It's not hostile or even irritated, just matter of fact; for all that she's so quietly unassuming, there's a certain air of brooking no argument here and it doesn't seem at all contrary to her nature to dig her heels in when necessary. "You're going to need to come back to me in two weeks to remove the sutures, I need to go over how to take care of them in the meantime with you, and you need a shower. I'm sorry if it isn't what you had in mind, Lucius, but you need to let me do this properly if you want it done at all."

For some reason, in this moment it doesn't seem entirely out of the question that she's not only willing to but also capable of making him.

Lucius has a long career of believing these kinds of possibilities when women get these stone wall tones of voices, and it's probably why challenge flickers awake in a gaze that was otherwise dull in aloof weariness as he glances up at her. Moving slowly, because getting dizzy at a time like this would be awful, Lucius stands, wary of the tug-feel of the stitches in his arm.

It's also unexpected, either due to the quiet persona put across the network or otherwise, or the assumption that Muggles simply should do as they're told. There are some habits that die hard, and at least, by now, he knows that.

"What I had in mind, Dr. Bernát, was doctoring. I was simply attempting to be courteous."

"Well," she says, almost but not quite smiling, "do me the courtesy of accepting that I know what doctoring involves. I don't want you coming back to me later with an infection that could've been avoided."

She washes her hands in the sink, warm water and an anti-bacterial soap, and leans against the edge of it with an exhalation that isn't exactly a sigh; she needs a shower, when this is finally finished with, and then she thinks she might just crash out. It's been a few years since she last worked emergency medicine like this, and jumping in both feet first is tiring, even if she knows she can handle it.

This wasn't in his vague 'get in, get out' plan he'd plotted out while waiting at Platform 3, watching her then as she set about cleaning her hands before letting the issue go with a dismissive look away. A glance to his bandaged arm, before he goes to pick up his cane. No threat of leaving, however, as he does not go for his clothing, and instead, twists the walking stick piece around enough to draw the wand out from inside it, turning his back to her as he does so.

"Impervius," is muttered, directed down at the looped cloth buckled tight around his arm, and save for a vague shimmer through the air that seemed to settle on white cloth, that's all there is. Presumably, it will work.

He pushes wand back into sheath, adding, "As you insist," over his shoulder.

It's usually easier to just do as she says, Lucius.

Now that she's satisfied he's actually going to do that, though, she dries her hands and packs the kit away under the sink again, bagging the discarded bandage with her gloves and the other waste that will be separately dealt with to what else she has in the apartment.

"Call out if you need anything," she instructs, though she doesn't expect him to do so and has already palmed the key to the bathroom in the event he locks the door and then falls. (Men.)

Lucius manages not to do that much.

He also takes his time, once he's there, not only to shower itself but afterwards. The injury is to blame for the most part, making him be slow and tentative in each movement, as well as simple vanity - once out, he spends a little time magicing his clothes into some semblance of decency. He fancies he can see where torn cloth has been charmed back together, but only at a squint. Soon, Lucius is standing in her bathroom, coat draped over an arm, the steam thinned to a fine cloud, and contemplating the value in simply Apparating away.

But it isn't just the idea of splinching that has him emerging, door clicking unlocked and swung open at a push.

He finds her at the kitchen island, writing out her instructions for him (in English; she's not sure how much French he speaks, and erred on the side of not making the assumption) and, somewhat understandably, sipping from a small glass of red wine. She doesn't have the stereotypical doctor's handwriting ('chickenscratch'); rather, it's a crisply precise cursive written out in long-hand.

"Sit," she says, waving him down. "I'll go over this with you before I turn you loose."

He goes to her, sitting as asked. There is less of the ghostly death in his skin tone, gone from pallid to a more usual pale if only thanks to the warmth of the shower. A wine probably isn't a bad idea; he'll likely transfigure himself a glass of it before the night is out and sleep through 'til morning with exception to the fog-effect dreams he only barely realises he has.

Fighting monsters and navigating conversation with actual people, Muggle or not, is exhausting.

She turns the paper as she finishes, so she can go point by point with him like she's in her office and not her kitchen. "For the first twenty-four hours, you need to keep it clean and dry-- as long as it's not bleeding or discharging after forty-eight, you can take the bandages off. You can bathe with it after that. I've written down some antibiotic ointment brands here, which will come with instructions, but I don't know what's actually going to be available in Baedal, so I suggest you speak to an apothecary for an equivalent. If you feel like it's getting infected, or if any of the sutures start to loosen or break, call me. I want to see you again in ten days--" she's written down a date, helpfully, so he practically has an appointment with her, "--to see if the sutures are ready to come out. Any questions?"

His eyes skim the brand names, head tilted as he reads, and he imagines even he can concoct the adequate potions that would prevent infection; but he isn't going to tell her this or anything. If Lucius' cynicism to her methods is honest, then he can't imagine there wouldn't be a little bit of that in return, for whatever reason.

"You are working charitably, I take it?" is his question, naturally, despite their surroundings and the apparent state of him. He lifts attention off the page to her. "Otherwise, I can pay you in ten days."

"If you'd be more comfortable paying me," which, from her tone, isn't unusual, "then I'll accept that in ten days, but otherwise I'm happy to assist."

On her own terms, as he's discovered.

He pauses to consider that phrasing, before picking up the piece of paper and neatly folding it. "For your discretion, I may," Lucius says, as he goes to pocket the instructions inside his coat. "As for the rest, I suppose we shall see about that in ten days, won't we?"

He takes his cane back up in hand, moving to get to his feet.

Keeping secrets, she doesn't say, is something she probably knows more about than he does. (Practise, and all that.) She tips her head, instead, rising to see him out of the apartment.

"Call me if there are complications," she exhorts, at the door.

"If there are complications, I'd have a mind to call someone else."

However, the corner of his mouth suggests the barest hint of humour, hedging towards 'smile' territory without every quite making it. Still, a dry tone of voice lends less credibility to how serious he is being. He should, at this point, thank her for her professionalism and efficiency.

"Good evening, Dr. Bernát."

With a huff that's like a laugh, almost - to mirror the smile that isn't quite - Benevenuta waves him out. "As you like. Goodnight, Mr Malfoy."

It seems more appropriate, now he's got his shirt on.

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i think back home they think i've lost my mind

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