Faolan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
reticence) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-02-07 02:26 pm
reticence) wrote in undergrounds2016-02-07 02:26 pm
Entry tags:
early february catch-all
I. WESTMINSTER - Closed to Night Council
Faolan knows that the headaches Lancelot had had the month before were not due to any earthly illness, but rather the further development of his abilities. Still, as he pops his second course of painkillers that day, he can't help but but feel like he'd caught it. Well, not exactly. It isn't that his head hurts, exactly. But he feels hot. Dizzy. It comes in spells, which illnesses generally do, and for the most part Faolan is sticking to his desk.
Which, luckily enough for him, is easy to do if you volunteer for the desk work on this purge business. The majority of the knocking down doors and raiding homes has calmed and settled into the occasional report here and there, which suits Faolan just fine. Although he hadn't had much of a choice in the matter, he hadn't liked it one bit. It also meant that there was a lot of background paperwork to catch up on, both keeping track of the seized items and their inventorying, as well as everything that had fallen to the wayside when their priorities had been elsewhere.
Still, Faolan can't seem to keep his eyes focused. He sits forward and puts his head in his hands for a moment, leaning his elbows on the edge of the desk. If he went home early, would anyone notice? Does he need special permission for that sort of thing, he wonders to himself. Having hardly ever taken a sickday in his life, especially not since he'd become a Guardian, he hasn't the slightest idea.
II. HILLINGDON - Closed to Hillingdon
Hillingdon House can be awkward at times, for the fact that it had at one point been a real house. As such, it's fitted much the same as an older mansion would be, even if not quite in the same way. Kitchen, library, sitting room, dining room, living room, the last three of which double as larger meeting rooms, with the upper floor containing offices, smaller meeting rooms, and yes, one or two rooms that have kept their function as a bedroom. It's odd, unique, and sometimes it works well for what you want to do there, sometimes less so.
Right now, seated on one of the rigid-backed sofas in the sitting room, in front of an actual fire in the actual fireplace, Faolan has very little regret about the fact that it had been a house at one point at all. He's even gone so far as to search out a slightly pilled old throw from one of the bedrooms upstairs, which he's huddled himself under in an attempt to regulate something of his temperature. He's feeling better now that he's sitting here in front of the fire with a coffee perched on his knee, having created himself a home away from home of sorts, but he's got a feeling that it's not going to last. That's the trouble with being ill, after all. As long as you're not doing anything, you're fine. He might actually be able to concentrate on some of the reports he has upstairs at this rate, but the trouble is that that's where he's left them...
III. ANYWHERE - OPEN
Despite feeling lightheaded and feverish, that hasn't kept Faolan from making appearances at his regular cafe, as he is known to do in the course of any regular week. To the average onlooker, there might not even seem to be anything wrong, as he makes his order and parks himself in the back corner of the cafe itself with a regular coffee and a bowl of soup. To those who do see Faolan on a regular basis, however, he might seem sluggish. He certainly feels that way, as if he's navigating the world through varying levels of fog that he can't seem to shake no matter what different medicines he tries. And for another thing, he's ordered soup, rather than his regular heaping of god knows what that he would happily help himself to.
He keeps his jacket on, but his body can't quite seem to decide whether it's too hot or too cold or what at odd intervals, and it's oddly disconcerting. He knows that if he really is this ill, he probably shouldn't be walking around, frequenting cafes as he is. But if it were contagious, he would have shaken it by now, shouldn't he have? As the first few weeks of February drag on, and Faolan's symptoms remain the same, he starts to wonder. And he starts to get really tired of soup.
IV. LANCELOT'S FLAT - Closed to Lancelot
Faolan knows that he probably shouldn't be hiding how awful he feels from the other man, considering how he'd reprimanded Lancelot himself for much of the same thing. But this is different, isn't it? Well. Sort of. He's been trying to take care of himself, really he is. Perhaps better than he would normally, even. But he can't quite seem to shake whatever this is. And at least he hasn't holed himself up in his own flat, waiting for it all to pass, yeah? Even if that means that he's been sticking to Lancelot's a bit more than he might otherwise have done. Hoping that the steady meals and more regular hours might have something of an affect.
Not that it does, really. Despite it all, he still feels the same. Worse, these days, maybe. He can't really tell, it comes in waves, and seems to be worse when he actually lets himself stop and take a breather, ironically enough. The few chances Lancelot allowed him to sleep in. The quiet moments, just sitting with the other man together at the table. He's honestly amazed that Lancelot hasn't noticed or if he has, hasn't said anything yet, at the fact that he's begun to cling to him and this place like his home away from home, aside from Hillingdon house that is. And moreover, he's starting to wonder if it might be connected to...
No, that's crazy. And impossible. Still, as he makes his way back from Hillingdon House that evening and rings the bell (because despite the fact that he's been staying there, he's still not about to just let himself in), he can't help noticing that, as he hears Lancelot's feet padding toward the door, his blood almost seems to heat in reaction to it. ...god, he must be losing his mind, with thoughts like that, he thinks to himself, as he runs a hand over his face and through his hair and tries to cool down.
(ooc note: as stated, this is really only for early february, everything up until feb 14? that should still be long enough to catch working with the new guardians and everyone else besides, though! c: )
Faolan knows that the headaches Lancelot had had the month before were not due to any earthly illness, but rather the further development of his abilities. Still, as he pops his second course of painkillers that day, he can't help but but feel like he'd caught it. Well, not exactly. It isn't that his head hurts, exactly. But he feels hot. Dizzy. It comes in spells, which illnesses generally do, and for the most part Faolan is sticking to his desk.
Which, luckily enough for him, is easy to do if you volunteer for the desk work on this purge business. The majority of the knocking down doors and raiding homes has calmed and settled into the occasional report here and there, which suits Faolan just fine. Although he hadn't had much of a choice in the matter, he hadn't liked it one bit. It also meant that there was a lot of background paperwork to catch up on, both keeping track of the seized items and their inventorying, as well as everything that had fallen to the wayside when their priorities had been elsewhere.
Still, Faolan can't seem to keep his eyes focused. He sits forward and puts his head in his hands for a moment, leaning his elbows on the edge of the desk. If he went home early, would anyone notice? Does he need special permission for that sort of thing, he wonders to himself. Having hardly ever taken a sickday in his life, especially not since he'd become a Guardian, he hasn't the slightest idea.
II. HILLINGDON - Closed to Hillingdon
Hillingdon House can be awkward at times, for the fact that it had at one point been a real house. As such, it's fitted much the same as an older mansion would be, even if not quite in the same way. Kitchen, library, sitting room, dining room, living room, the last three of which double as larger meeting rooms, with the upper floor containing offices, smaller meeting rooms, and yes, one or two rooms that have kept their function as a bedroom. It's odd, unique, and sometimes it works well for what you want to do there, sometimes less so.
Right now, seated on one of the rigid-backed sofas in the sitting room, in front of an actual fire in the actual fireplace, Faolan has very little regret about the fact that it had been a house at one point at all. He's even gone so far as to search out a slightly pilled old throw from one of the bedrooms upstairs, which he's huddled himself under in an attempt to regulate something of his temperature. He's feeling better now that he's sitting here in front of the fire with a coffee perched on his knee, having created himself a home away from home of sorts, but he's got a feeling that it's not going to last. That's the trouble with being ill, after all. As long as you're not doing anything, you're fine. He might actually be able to concentrate on some of the reports he has upstairs at this rate, but the trouble is that that's where he's left them...
III. ANYWHERE - OPEN
Despite feeling lightheaded and feverish, that hasn't kept Faolan from making appearances at his regular cafe, as he is known to do in the course of any regular week. To the average onlooker, there might not even seem to be anything wrong, as he makes his order and parks himself in the back corner of the cafe itself with a regular coffee and a bowl of soup. To those who do see Faolan on a regular basis, however, he might seem sluggish. He certainly feels that way, as if he's navigating the world through varying levels of fog that he can't seem to shake no matter what different medicines he tries. And for another thing, he's ordered soup, rather than his regular heaping of god knows what that he would happily help himself to.
He keeps his jacket on, but his body can't quite seem to decide whether it's too hot or too cold or what at odd intervals, and it's oddly disconcerting. He knows that if he really is this ill, he probably shouldn't be walking around, frequenting cafes as he is. But if it were contagious, he would have shaken it by now, shouldn't he have? As the first few weeks of February drag on, and Faolan's symptoms remain the same, he starts to wonder. And he starts to get really tired of soup.
IV. LANCELOT'S FLAT - Closed to Lancelot
Faolan knows that he probably shouldn't be hiding how awful he feels from the other man, considering how he'd reprimanded Lancelot himself for much of the same thing. But this is different, isn't it? Well. Sort of. He's been trying to take care of himself, really he is. Perhaps better than he would normally, even. But he can't quite seem to shake whatever this is. And at least he hasn't holed himself up in his own flat, waiting for it all to pass, yeah? Even if that means that he's been sticking to Lancelot's a bit more than he might otherwise have done. Hoping that the steady meals and more regular hours might have something of an affect.
Not that it does, really. Despite it all, he still feels the same. Worse, these days, maybe. He can't really tell, it comes in waves, and seems to be worse when he actually lets himself stop and take a breather, ironically enough. The few chances Lancelot allowed him to sleep in. The quiet moments, just sitting with the other man together at the table. He's honestly amazed that Lancelot hasn't noticed or if he has, hasn't said anything yet, at the fact that he's begun to cling to him and this place like his home away from home, aside from Hillingdon house that is. And moreover, he's starting to wonder if it might be connected to...
No, that's crazy. And impossible. Still, as he makes his way back from Hillingdon House that evening and rings the bell (because despite the fact that he's been staying there, he's still not about to just let himself in), he can't help noticing that, as he hears Lancelot's feet padding toward the door, his blood almost seems to heat in reaction to it. ...god, he must be losing his mind, with thoughts like that, he thinks to himself, as he runs a hand over his face and through his hair and tries to cool down.
(ooc note: as stated, this is really only for early february, everything up until feb 14? that should still be long enough to catch working with the new guardians and everyone else besides, though! c: )
no subject
He shivers slightly as he lays back on the futon, looking up at the other man, though it's not because he's cold. It's more like an involuntary spasm as he watches Lancelot's face and finds that he doesn't like what he sees there. The worry, the concern. "It's not reading that there's anything wrong with me, is it," he asks the other man, without truly making it a question. He's pretty sure, judging by the look on the other man's face, that he already knows the answer.
no subject
He lets out a sigh and smooths hair back from Faolan's forehead again, adjusts the home-made cool pack on it as he tries to think.
"We could try the strip thermometer, or... We could leave it. See if this gets any better, and I can buy a new one tomorrow if not."
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"You don't have to go through all that," he says. "Buying a new thermometer. If it's worked before there's no reason to say it isn't now. I mean. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I just feel this way, I don't know..." Though it's doubtful that he could feel like this and have no reason to. Which begs the question, what else could be causing it? A curse? A spell? The only other things he can think of causing something like this with no science behind it.
no subject
Or, he supposes, they could head to a hospital -- but he isn't sure it's that bad yet. Maybe a local GP would see him if he doesn't feel like travelling? He picks up the cold pack and turns it, rests it on Faolan's forehead as he thinks. Ibuprofen might bring it down eventually, of course, if it is a fever...
no subject
"No," he says, after a moment. "Look, I'll. I'll be fine. Maybe I just need to sleep it off..." Despite the fact that he's been feeling terrible, it's not like he'd been taking it easy exactly. Trying to sleep through the night and actually feed himself well for a change, yes. But that's what he should have been doing from the start, and working two jobs as he has been both at Hillingdon and the Night Council, it's certainly not taking it easy by anyone's standards save perhaps his own.
Of course, even Faolan isn't sure that just getting some rest will make him feel better, but as far as he's concerned it's better than the alternatives given thus far.
no subject
"Maybe you will," he admits, "but if you don't you have to promise to let me do something about it. You'll ruin my reputation as a good host otherwise. I can't have people falling ill and passing out in my flat then going untreated."
He lofts an eyebrow playfully, but there are still lines of concern in Lancelot's face as he watches Faolan. He really is worried about him, after all.
no subject
Faolan may be ill but not too ill to notice the other man's worry. He flicks something of a soft smile at the other man, leaning into the touch of the makeshift icepack that Lancelot has pressed to his forehead as he does.
"You've already done more than enough to insure your reputation remains intact," he reassures softly. "I'll be alright." His smile flickers more tentatively as he continues. "Especially with you to look after me." Tentative of course because he isn't in the habit of admitting his weaknesses. But also tentative because, despite that fact, he really does feel better for Lancelot's presence. Lanclot's fussing. Lancelot's care.
no subject
He lofts a brow playfully, concern softening a little to match Faolan's own tone as the man smiles at him.
"It's no trouble, I promise. Let me. If you don't, there's every chance you'll get worse and then you'll have to go to the hospital. So," and he moves to stand up -- paces over to retrieve the water and ibuprofen and crouches to hand the glass back to Faolan again. "Let's make sure it doesn't come to that. Stay hydrated, get some rest, and maybe you'll start to feel better."
no subject
It's impossible to take the ibuprofen lying down like he is, so after a moment, Faolan takes the glass from the other man and gingerly moves to sit up again. So far so good, he supposes, and gives the other man a look to suggest the same thought. He takes a sip of water, shifting the makeshift ice pack to rest on the opposite side of the futon from him (in case Lancelot should care to join him...) before holding his hand out for the ibuprofen in turn.
"You can stay out here for a while longer. If you like." The words are out of his mouth before he's able to really even give them much thought.
no subject
Lancelot twitches an amused smile, placing the box in Faolan'shand.
"Careful with these, you already had one remember."
And the last thing he needs is Faolan to add to this all by overdosing on painkillers.
no subject
He glances down at the object in his hand at the reminder, though. Oh. He had managed to take some before he'd passed out on the other man, hadn't he? Honestly, it had all been a bit of a blur, in the moments leading up to when he found himself waking up laid out on the futon with Lancelot hovering above him. Speaking of...
"How did I get over here?" he wonders aloud. Because he knows he'd lost consciousness, but just how far had he been gone? He understands that the other man is worried but, well. Maybe he has more reason to be than he'd realized.
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He smooths Faolan's hair back a little and turns the makeshift icepack again, faint lines of concern pulling at his face.
"You'll be fine, Faolan, don't worry. I'll keep an eye on you."
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"I had a feeling that might be your answer..." he sighs, and he can only imagine what a picture it must have made, passing out on him like that and then needing to be carried. He opens his eyes again and tips his head towards the other man, watching him quietly for a moment before nodding.
"I'm not worried. Not really. Maybe I should be, I don't know. Maybe it's because I do have you to look out for me," he admits. He flickers a smile at Lancelot, before sobering slightly as he continues. "Someday, I promise I'll make all of this up to you. I swear it."
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He flicks a smile, hand dropping away from the ice pack again as he offers a slight shrug.
"I doubt I'm the best nurse maid you could have, but I'll do my best. I'm the only one on offer, at any rate. Get some rest. I'll be right here."
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"You're the only nurse maid I want," he admits, quietly. "So it's just as well." He leans his head to the side, towards Lancelot. "You might as well make yourself comfortable, then," he offers, opening his eyes to glance up and flick a smile at Lancelot.
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"I'll fetch my book and a chair," he says, and vanishes away to the bedroom to do just that.
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Lancelot isn't gone long, but he finds himself drifting slightly, opening his eyes to watch the other man return. "I'll let you have your futon back someday," he murmurs, quirking a smile up at the other man. "I promise."
no subject
He stays reading there until he's sure Faolan is sound asleep, then finally retreats to his room with Lily once it's -- leaving the door open just in case. Lance isn't the world's lightest sleeper, but he's hoping he'll stir if Faolan needs help -- or that he won't be too proud to wake him.