undergrounds | some kind of resolution (january catch-all for nancy and annie)

"I don't," Nancy conceded nearly immediately. She didn't weigh much, she had no doubt that Lance would be able to carry her.

Nancy stopped, coming to face Lance. "Any way that's easiest for you, feel free." She gestured at her injured body with one hand. As she did so, she winced, pain coloring the edges of her vision, and she reached forward to hold on to something.

"Sorry. Something about- these cuts."

The wince, the way she grabs for something to keep steady -- that's certainly worrying. Worrying enough that he thinks it's better he gets her home to look at the cuts sooner rather than later. He moves forward to scoop her up in a bridal carry, dropping a shoulder so she can loop an arm around his neck if she wants to. She doesn't weigh much, it's true, and Lancelot is a little stronger than most humans to begin with. Carrying her isn't a hardship, and he moves quicker without having to steady her.

"Are they all from the fae?" he prompts, just because it's better not to assume these things.

She could be mad about the assumption, but, wrapping her arms around Lance's neck, she doesn't even bother.

"No," she even admits, because the wounds are going to look extremely different in the light- claw-marks versus teeth-marks- and she's dressed for work. "The ones on the veins are vampires," she tells him. She'd healed them a little, until she got home and could do a better job of it.

"And no one bit my arm." She looks over to see the shredded leather, and something too oddly colored in the dark to be blood. Turning away from it, she closed her eyes, leaning her head on Lance's shoulder.

'No one bit her arm?'

He frowns, glancing down at it, and lets out a slow breath. Something else hurt it then. Maybe acid? Like the fae he fought a while back who seemed to bleed the stuff. How on earth you are meant to treat fairy slime he doesn't know.

"Keep an eye on where we're going," he says, and speeds up - tightens his grip on her. "We can take a look once we get inside."

What can a vampire bite do, anyway? He thought they just drained blood? Unless it's been infected, he supposes, or the fae blood has gotten into it -- far too many possibilities. All of which he knows little enough about.

The fae had slashed it, and she'd pathetically attempted a joke. Just ignore her.

"Okay," she says, turning her head towards the road. It was easy to forget at a time like this, that Lance had no idea where the hell she was taking him.

As far as she could tell, no vampire had infected her. She'd known it had happened in the past, to others, but never to her. The pain started with the fae, and she could only hope that there was a way out of it.

"Just a few more houses," she said a few minutes later as they approached her flat. "My key's in my purse."

Lancelot is too stressed for jokes. He carries her quickly past another two houses, slows down as he waits for her to indicate the right one then begins to lower her to her feet.

"Here," he says, and shuffles to keep a hold of her. "Lean on me as much as you need. Just direct me. Are there stairs inside?"

"Yes," she says, and manages to reach for her keys. She closes them in a hand, and with some difficulty, opens the door.

"Yeah, two flights to my flat. Here." She hands him the keys. "Flat 246."

He adjusts his grip on her so he can take the keys, turn and shoulder his way through the door -- kicks it closed with a foot and starts up the stairs. Two flights of stairs is not so bad when you're a little supernaturally strong to begin with and you're carrying someone light, so he starts up them quickly, eyes half flitting about to check they aren't being watched and keeping an eye on the numbers. He shifts his grip again when he finds it, awkwardly holding her as he turns the key in the door and fumbles to push it open.

"Here we go," he prompts, "which way now?"

Carrying her in he moves to set her down, reaches to push the door closed behind them as he glances about.

The fumbling with the keys has Juliet awake and looking intently at the door when it's pushed open. Upon being set down, Nancy gives the cat a reassuring smile. "Hi, Juliet, just me and Lance."

Looking back up at her rescuer, because the cat is clearly the important thing here, she gives a reassuring smile. "Just the couch is fine." She takes off her ruined jacket with a bit of difficulty, tossing it wherever. Then she hits the light switch, flooding the place with light. The apartment itself is decent, a couch, coffee table, kitchen. There's no actual table other than the coffee table and the center island in her kitchen, but that's perfectly fitting for Nancy. A door leads from the living room into her bedroom.

"I've got bandages and stuff under my sink." She points through her bedroom to where her bathroom is located. Now in the light, she can look at her scratched and oozing arm. Definitely green goo. That alone is enough to make her nearly collapse on to the couch, gritting her teeth. With one finger, she points at one of the cupboards in the kitchen, which opens, revealing a bottle of whiskey. Another moment and it's already headed over for her on the couch.

Being a witch was really handy.

Under the sink. Right. Lancelot frowns at her in concern, begins shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as he goes to check. Nancy doesn't look good, and while Lancelot knows first aid that doesn't necessarily apply to situations like this. To magical injuries.

He pads back quickly, begins setting things down and hazards a glance at her injury.

"That's a little like what I saw in Croydon. When the fae first took it. I fought one who -- shed acid, something like this but... stronger perhaps."

Hesitating a moment he picks up some cotton wool, coats it in strong smelling antiseptic and glances up to meet Nancy's eyes.

"... This is going to sting," is about all the warning she has before he gives it a test dab.

By the time Lance is back, the whiskey bottle is on her coffee table.

As he speaks, she reaches for the bottle and uncaps it, taking a drink straight from it. The whiskey stings down her throat, bringing more tears to her eyes, but it's a good burn. Helps prepare her for the antiseptic that she can smell from the second he opens the bottle.

She barely has time to brace herself before he presses the cotton ball into her injury. She lets out a scream pressed against the back of her hand. Juliet looks up, alarmed. "God damn," she hisses, but she's prepared now for more antiseptic. It stings through the cuts, bringing black to the edges of her vision, but Nancy grips the couch, forcing herself to stay conscious. She'll need to be, for the rest of this.

"C'mon, let's get the rest of this over with," she says, pale in the low light of her flat.

The intensity of her response surprises him and he stops, eyes wide as he studies her.

"Do you want something to bite down on?" he prompts, hesitant to keep doing something that hurts her so much. "Once I have it clean I can close it quickly, assuming this -- well, I admit I do not know how... this slime will react to it but I am hoping it will stop if i get it all off."

Do magical first aid courses exist? He needs to go on one. 'How to deal with magical injury'. Maybe Redbright has one? Guardians should have one, it would be so useful at times like this.

Nancy shakes her head. "N-no. I'm fine. I just- it stings, is all." All of this is hissed through her teeth, and she takes a break to grab for the whiskey bottle. After a hearty sip, she nods.

"Alright, let's just get this over with. Anything is better than my usual method." Which tended to be super-glue, when her magic wasn't going to be able to heal her.

He regards her warily a moment longer, gives a slow nod finally and moves to grab a fresh piece of cotton wool -- soaks it in the antiseptic and begins dabbing again.

"Easy," he murmurs softly, "it's good when things hurt. Means you can still feel what's going on, that it's doing something. It's always worse if you can't feel it."

Lancelot watches her expression carefully, reaches out his other hand after a moment for one of hers to squeeze gently. To give her something to grip for security if she needs to.

This time, Nancy grits her teeth, prepared for the sensation. One hand grips the sofa as he takes care of it.

When his hand approaches hers, however, she switches, placing her small hand in his. "You're good at this," she says through mostly-closed eyes. "I need to thank you."

"You can thank me by getting better. By not getting hurt again, if you can manage it."

He cleans the wound as best he can, squinting at the damage and thinning his lips as he tries to work out the best way to handle it. Cleaning it all is one thing, but now he has to decide how to make sure it closes nicely and doesn't bleed everywhere.

Throwing aside the cotton wool he picks up a few pieces of tissue paper, holds them against it and then gently moves Nancy's hand to cover and hold them herself.

"Feel like telling me what this was all about?"

"I'll see what I can do." This wasn't her idea, for the record.

She holds her hand against the wound, glancing up at him. Of course he wants her to tell him. "No," is the answer, but she adds: "but I have a feeling you won't let up till I do." She takes another drink. Telling him would mean telling a Guardian. His word would get to the Night Council and-

And Norrell.

Even if he didn't tell him, making one person think twice about the man would be good.

"He'd seen me with Norrell's assistant- got the wrong idea." She'll leave Fagin out of it. "He thought I was spying." But she'd never betray those she was close with. Not in a million years.

Well that's hardly ideal. Lancelot winces sympathetically, frowns as he thinks.

"I suppose that telling him how much trouble Norrell has been causing for your own Circle wasn't convincing, then."

Since she's clearly been hurt regardless.

"You said he's not... family to you, but...?"

But, well, she used his name in hers before. A father she disowned, maybe, or...?

"He wasn't much in the mood for listening," she tells him. "He seemed more of a grunt than the smart sort."

The type that only understood violence.

"Who-? The fae that attacked me?" She didn't want to talk about Fagin.

"You know that isn't who I meant," Lancelot chides gently. He can't force her to talk, he won't, but Lancelot can't deny he's curious too. He knows nothing about Fagin himself, after all, other than what Nancy is told him -- which is little enough. "I can't help if you don't tell me what it is I'm up against."

Since after all, Lancelot would like to help -- if his help is welcome or not is another thing.

Nancy wrinkles her nose, turning her top lip up in irritation.

"He raised me." Got her her apartment, put her on the street, still demanded money from her, among other things. "His name is Fagin. And he's nothing but bad news."

But all the same.

"You're not going after him."

Edited (words) 2016-02-24 17:46 (UTC)

some kind of resolution (january catch-all for nancy and annie)

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