spaceparanoids | !ic inbox – fasti

Following the events of his last fountain communication, as well as Minerva's generosity in engaging with them, Will could be seen at various places throughout the day. The library, speaking with the praetors in the street, investigating murals and also sitting with a couple pieces of papyrus that he was filling with notes.

He did appear to have survived his open wounds and dunk in the dirty river. This was more likely the result of Flynn and Pierson's actions than Will's own sense of self-preservation.

In the evenings particularly, the braziers in his room got a workout as he made notes of his day. The warm light spilled from the windows, but also through the door which he left propped open to encourage the flow of air. Despite its occupant's reserved manner, the room at least appeared to beacon.

Will wasn't forgotten throughout the course of Flynn's own day, busy as he was. This part of the week was for laundry in the courtyard, a ritual of soaking his things in boiling lye water, rinsing and washing again with soap until the linens near-squeaked. There was something meditative about it, hands in the trough, beating the shit out of a stubborn stain with a laundry beetle– silly to behold, maybe, but in each whack was catharsis to a guy generally not predisposed to violence.

Laundresses were onto something, man.

Once the sun had climbed low, Vulcan's patch of courtyard overtaken by strung lines of damp tunics and billowing sheets, and the still was scoured and new bottles sterilized ahead of tomorrow's batch, Flynn was there to darken Will's threshold, knocking on the door frame.

"How's your head?"

Flynn's knock was perfectly polite, though it still appeared to startle the other man. Will's head came up quickly and he blinked his eyes a couple of times in rapid succession as he chased away whatever cobwebs had wrapped themselves around his mind.

His head?

Oh! Right.

"It aches," he admitted, setting down his writing utensil and motioning for Flynn to walk on through the doorway. "But no more than I'm used to dealing with."

He gave a small nod towards the mug on the desk, suggesting he had Willow Bark tea within.

"Did you need something?" The question probably comes out a bit more blunt than intended, just because Will is Will. But his bemused expression may soften it a bit, as he appears genuinely curious.

The question was blunt, but Flynn worked with programmers and engineers back home, for whom tact wasn't often cultivated as a necessary personality trait, so he just grinned, undaunted.

Crossing into Will's small sanctuary, he offered him a small oilcloth bag with a bit of flourish, like a magician unveiling the rabbit he's drawn from his hat.

Ice, for his bruises.

"Just wanted to see how you're doing," he admitted. "You gave everyone a pretty good scare, man."

"That wasn't my intention," Will said as he reached out for the oilcloth bag. His voice was quiet and his eyes lowered. Some of it was apologetic for having caused a fuss, some of it exasperation for ... having caused a fuss. "But thank you, my ankle is a little sore."

He'd wrenched it scrabbling desperately up the riverbank and the ice would do better to reduce the swelling around the joint.

"Just hope some people can make use out of the information."

Mr Flynn, I hear you're the man to talk to regarding alcohol.

( she had magnus's number too but more contacts were always a good thing, and she didn't want to tug on her friend for this job )

I have a small request if you'd be amenable.

!ic inbox – fasti – house vulcan

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