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She needs to find something else in her underwear drawer. Something that isn't body parts. That's just not a good look.
As long as she doesn't crow about it like a fucking cockatiel, I literally don't care what's in there.
Now, Tim. Some people are really proud of the things they find in their underwear drawer.
Is this supposed to be a hint to ask you what's in yours?
Hey- quick check, let me you're not bleeding out in a gutter somewhere?
Nah, I'm still adorable. Only more scarred up.
You alright?
You alright?
Well, it won't bleed out.
[Reassuring, surely.]
My room. I've got cuts up my forearms - could use the help bandaging them, actually.
[Reassuring, surely.]
My room. I've got cuts up my forearms - could use the help bandaging them, actually.
Yup. I'm on my way.
[He bounds in Tim's room, first aid kit in hand.]
How bad is it?
[He bounds in Tim's room, first aid kit in hand.]
How bad is it?
Tim's shirt, abandoned on the floor, has landed just short of the doorway, and the sleeves are soaked well past the elbows, as well as smatterings of it in other places.
"Not as bad at it looks, honestly," comes Tim's voice from the bathroom, over the sound of running water.
"Not as bad at it looks, honestly," comes Tim's voice from the bathroom, over the sound of running water.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters as he hurries into the bathroom to see the damage. Jacobi, for all his faults, is relatively untouched, save for the scars peeking out from the collar of his hoodie and his hands that are so scarred that too much use will make them ache.
"Come on." He reaches out for a towel to dry him off.
"Come on." He reaches out for a towel to dry him off.
Tim's doing his best to wash his arms in the sink with a cloth, but it's a losing battle between his height and the sheer extent of the cuts - which is a generous term at best. It's more like carvings, intricate designs that draw from fractals, or maybe spider webs, that start tight around his wrists and creep up to his palm, but spread out across his entire forearms, front and back, tapering out unevenly as they reach his elbows. At least they're only bleeding sluggishly, welling immediately once Tim stops washing them clear.
They're also gouged over thick scalpel lines: ones just barely healed so that they won't bleed, that go straight up his arms and join over his collarbone, where they proceed up his neck and circle his face in a thick, precise loop, and down his bare chest into his pants, lancing neatly through a fully healed mess of what would have been ugly gouge marks from blunt, dull claws. When he turns to look at Jacobi there's also a fierce bruise on his temple, but the scuffed skin there is clean and dry.
"Well, at least you're looking good," he comments dryly. At least he doesn't sound like he's suffering from the blood loss.
They're also gouged over thick scalpel lines: ones just barely healed so that they won't bleed, that go straight up his arms and join over his collarbone, where they proceed up his neck and circle his face in a thick, precise loop, and down his bare chest into his pants, lancing neatly through a fully healed mess of what would have been ugly gouge marks from blunt, dull claws. When he turns to look at Jacobi there's also a fierce bruise on his temple, but the scuffed skin there is clean and dry.
"Well, at least you're looking good," he comments dryly. At least he doesn't sound like he's suffering from the blood loss.
He shakes his head and goes for the first arm with the towel, wrapping it tightly around his arms so he can start bandaging over dry skin. "Whatever the fuck this flood is, it sucks." He might not have the open wounds, but he does have the scars. The weird mass of them.
Tim hisses sharply at the press of the rough fabric on open wounds, but he manages not to flinch too hard. "Can't say I'm a fan," comes through gritted teeth, but the towelling keeps the bleeding at bay for long enough to get a good start on the bandaging, and Tim reaches out with his free hand to turn the tap off. His sink is an absolute mess of blood, but he'll clean it up later.
"Don't you just love the bloody-- gratuitous injury floods?" he comments, actually taking the moment to look now that he's not so distracted by bleeding out. Because... well. Some of these are familiar, and he frowns as he uses the mirror to examine the old gouges down his chest.
"Don't you just love the bloody-- gratuitous injury floods?" he comments, actually taking the moment to look now that he's not so distracted by bleeding out. Because... well. Some of these are familiar, and he frowns as he uses the mirror to examine the old gouges down his chest.
"Why couldn't I just do the Hunter thing again?" he mutters, quickly and efficiently bandaging his arms. This is something he can do in his sleep.
"But what's the point of this? Every flood has a point. Something we're supposed to learn."
"But what's the point of this? Every flood has a point. Something we're supposed to learn."
"I mean, it looks like you already did," he comments idly, drumming the marks while his other arm gets sorted. "That's how that End-me got killed, remember?"
He glances down at his hands when they're both bandaged, and grimaces; there's already faint hints of spotting around his wrists where the lines are the most dense, and his eyes follow up the thick straight line still extending up over his front.
And his eyes widen a little, as something like realisation clicks.
He glances down at his hands when they're both bandaged, and grimaces; there's already faint hints of spotting around his wrists where the lines are the most dense, and his eyes follow up the thick straight line still extending up over his front.
And his eyes widen a little, as something like realisation clicks.
Edited 2022-10-10 01:59 (UTC)
He gently slides fingers along his arms.
And then he sees that look.
"What is it?" he asks, searching him for anything else that needs attention.
And then he sees that look.
"What is it?" he asks, searching him for anything else that needs attention.
"Oh, it's a fucking trauma flood, isn't it?" he grumbles, though his mood doesn't quite cover the sound of dawning realisation in his voice. "Look, this--"
He actively traces the scalpel lines now, tilting his face so he can see the full extent of it in the mirror.
"It's the lines I-- when we were in the Domains, these are the lines It followed to skin someone. I... think it's supposed to be about Danny."
He'd gotten his bicep band tattoos restored on the last port, so the line cuts straight through them. Something about that's probably supposed to be poetic.
He actively traces the scalpel lines now, tilting his face so he can see the full extent of it in the mirror.
"It's the lines I-- when we were in the Domains, these are the lines It followed to skin someone. I... think it's supposed to be about Danny."
He'd gotten his bicep band tattoos restored on the last port, so the line cuts straight through them. Something about that's probably supposed to be poetic.
He looks to his hands and then glances to the mirror, following the trail Tim's fingers take. He then unzips his hoodie and slides out of his shirt, revealing the scars upon scars along his torso. But there's that one he noticed, that one right along his chest that was more prominent. Fresher.
"Oh fuck this."
He turns his attention back to Tim.
"Oh fuck this."
He turns his attention back to Tim.
His gaze flicks across when Jacobi takes his shirt off, and while the lot of those scars are worrying just in general, his eyes immediately fall on that raw one over his heart. Healed, at least, but not much more than his own for Danny.
"Well, aren't you glad we graduated you when we did?" he comments wryly.
He tilts his head again, giving that one bruise on his temple an annoyed glare, now that he recognises it for what it is, and sighs briskly, before he picks up the towel to start cleaning his chest up where the spray covered him.
"Well, aren't you glad we graduated you when we did?" he comments wryly.
He tilts his head again, giving that one bruise on his temple an annoyed glare, now that he recognises it for what it is, and sighs briskly, before he picks up the towel to start cleaning his chest up where the spray covered him.
Edited 2022-10-10 02:27 (UTC)
"Yeah, no shit," he mutters. "I'd be a mess otherwise."
So much that it actually scares him. "Well, knowing people on this ship, it's good to have someone who is mostly functional."
He gestures to Tim. "Because I guess everyone is going to just be bleeding constantly around here. Like you."
He reaches up to put his hand on Tim's face, just underneath that bruise. "What's this?"
So much that it actually scares him. "Well, knowing people on this ship, it's good to have someone who is mostly functional."
He gestures to Tim. "Because I guess everyone is going to just be bleeding constantly around here. Like you."
He reaches up to put his hand on Tim's face, just underneath that bruise. "What's this?"
He pauses at the hand on his face, and something tenses a little. Nothing bad, he just... isn't sure how well Jacobi might take it, now, but he still tips his head on that silent request so Jacobi can see it properly.
"Connor," he says simply, continuing to dry his chest. "When you hacked him. Pistol-whipped me out cold and shoved me in a closet with Taylor's dead body."
Funny, how when he says that, the scuffed skin seems to clear a little.
"Connor," he says simply, continuing to dry his chest. "When you hacked him. Pistol-whipped me out cold and shoved me in a closet with Taylor's dead body."
Funny, how when he says that, the scuffed skin seems to clear a little.
He does flinch a little when he says it and brushes his thumb along his skin, still just shy of the actual bruise.
"I remember when you came to yell at me about it."
He doesn't remove his hand. "I'm sorry, Tim. That was...easily the shittiest thing I've ever done, you know. To Connor, yeah, but to you."
"I remember when you came to yell at me about it."
He doesn't remove his hand. "I'm sorry, Tim. That was...easily the shittiest thing I've ever done, you know. To Connor, yeah, but to you."
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