[ cassian spends a lot of time in springstar lately.
he's here when he isn't in kowloon; and he hasn't been in highstorm for a days. not since he left jyn and everything they'd built together behind. not since he'd murdered dokja and dropped off the shard for — who knows what, on hopes of information. for answers he has yet to be given, ones he can only hope will be worth it.
does he sleep? sometimes, maybe. he only rarely seeks out old acquaintences, people he could probably wheedle or flirt into allowing him a spare room, a spare corner, for a night. he doesn't want to answer questions. he doesn't feel the softer touch, though he's not incapable when it's necessary. he only wants to be left alone to do his work, to not pretend, any longer, to be better than he is. he isn't; he isn't; he isn't. that's what makes the relative anonymity of springstar easier, and that's what makes kowloon, surrounded by creatures of the undercity not so unlike himself, easier.
but kowloon is dangerous, and his temper is vicious, and his self-control is held together by frayed threads. this isn't the first time he's gotten into a fight down there, but it is the first time he walks away with a nasty slash to the bicep, blood soaking into his sleeve and peeking through the gash in his coat, dripping down his arm. he'll deal with it; it's not the first or last scratch he's bound up for himself. and he walks through springstar with enough brisk purpose that he expects not to be stopped. walk like you belong, and people are often willing to overlook strangeness.
Not that things have ever really felt normal around here; even setting aside the narrowly avoided disaster of the Blight, throwing a bunch of people from disparate worlds into one place and telling them there’s a ticket home (or to a better place) on the line, and well. Things are bound to get messy. And the frequent buzzing in her thoughts thanks to the Shard-bearers’ shared Communion space is certainly a testament to that.
She expected that after her extended nap, after her field trip to the Isles, that things might mellow out for a while. But Highstorm celebrates the recent Zenith victory in its own low-key way, while Springstar feels oddly subdued in the wake of defeat. And that means tensions are high, which Gavial frankly finds all too annoying. Particularly when she just wants to spend some time in Springstar, in the sunshine and away from the gloom, amongst bustling streets filled with people who (usually) are filled with a pep that aligns with her own temperament more often than not. But rising Discord and side-long glances be damned, she is going to do what she wants.
Bumping into a familiar face isn’t that uncommon around the city—naturally it tends to be those who’ve thrown their lot in with Meridian, but every so often she finds herself faced with a curve ball. This one she nearly misses, caught up in the bustle of the foot traffic during what passes for Springstar’s bright and sunny evening. Seems like just another busy soul hurrying on home after a long day.
But if there’s one thing Gavial’s learned after spending years patching up stubborn idiots who think they can ignore the fact that they’re in need of help, it’s how to spot someone trying to pass off an injury as no big deal. So first, there’s the notice of something that seems just slightly off in her periphery. When her focus shifts, there’s recognition that follows. Melshi—or Cassian, or whatever the hell nickname the guy wanted to use now—storming ahead with a purpose that is distinctly at odds with the faintly exhausted cast of his expression. And then, of course, there’s the blood soaking through his sleeve.
So she halts, pivoting smoothly on her feet just as they’re about to pass each other by.]
Woah, wait up.
[A hand catches him by the edge of his coat and tugs. Insistently.]
[ his immediate, reflexive, burst of annoyance — narrowed eyes and tight jaw — loses teeth when he recognizes gavial. loses some of its teeth anyway. he pauses, looks from her face to the hand at his coat and back, and asks, ]
What do you want?
[ there are less inflammatory ways of asking what she's doing, but he fails to find any of them. his tone is even, at least, if edged; he isn't best pleased at being stopped like this. he isn't best pleased at being recognized by someone he knows, either, even if he generally likes gavial. strange to run into her here, but this isn't the first time he's ever noticed the woman in springstar, nor are they the only zenites to sometimes visit this city. it doesn't matter, really. ]
[Alright, so that was how it’s gonna be, huh? The thinly-veiled attitude isn’t much of a surprise—she’s seen this kind of behavior plenty of times before—though the fact that it’s coming from him is a little unexpected. Maybe it’s just because she doesn’t know the man all that well, but her impression of him so far is that he seems like the sort who was smart, careful. She’d have to reevaluate that.
Regardless, she isn’t fazed at all by the annoyance in his eyes or the slight edge to the question leveled her way. She stands firm, meets his gaze with just a hint of steel behind her own eyes. Doesn’t relinquish her hold on his coat, just to hammer it in.]
[ he exhales, annoyed. but — maybe it's how unflappable her demeanor is right now — he seems to think better of his immediate, initial answer. he's quiet a moment, then shrugs. ]
I can take care of it.
[ he's fine. it's not a small gash but, barring infection, won't be a major problem by his estimation. the force knows he's been injured worse than this, and has taken care of some similar wounds on his own, too. he doesn't know gavial well, but he knows enough to realize this might not be enough to satisfy her. so he adds after a moment, modulating his tone, ]
I will take care of it. Don't worry yourself about me.
[Technically, not anymore. This isn’t Rhodes Island where she’s on payroll to look after people. But it had never really been about the money for her anyway. It wasn’t just a job.
So yeah, she’s going to be annoying about it, going to make sure this knucklehead takes care of himself before he runs off to—if she had to wager a guess—search out more of the trouble that put him in this state in the first place.
What that means is: her eyes narrow, her lips turn down in the barest hint of a scowl. She finally lets go of his coat—only so that she can reach out with intent to put a very firm hand on his shoulder to begin steering him away from the bustle of the street.]
So we can take care of it now.
[She had a reputation as a good doctor, yeah, but not a very patient one.]
it's not like cassian is unfamiliar with the idea of professional integrity, nor how seriously some of the medically-inclined can take it. gavial likely wouldn't be surprised to hear that she isn't the first to take this kind of a tone with him. the med droids scattered across hundreds of temporary rebel bases had a particular tone they would adopt with him; and, in truth, not just him. rebels always have too much to do and too little time or manpower to do it. none of them ever lingered in medbays as long as recommended, when they could get away with doing otherwise.
he could resist gavial, making a scene in public be damned. but there's one thought that stops him: primarily, that it'd be faster to let her have her way than to fight her. wastes less time. so he exhales an irritated huff, but he lets her pull him out of the street without making a fuss. ]
Do you usually come to Springstar to find people to treat?
[It’s a good thing he doesn’t fight her on it, as she’s already half-prepared to haul him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes to get him to comply. So even if his tone makes his attitude about this clear, his cooperation is at least getting some of the hardness to drop from her expression.]
Only when I can tell someone’s got a bone-headed idea into their head to put off dealing with an injury.
[Retort delivered with much the same dryness as she corrals him over towards a small area tucked between two buildings where a few benches sit beneath leafy green canopies and the shadows of those decorative pillars Springstar seems so fond of.]
Lucky you. Here, sit down.
[She motions toward one of the benches, letting go of him in order to slip a small black bag from her shoulder and onto the sturdy wood of the seat. The bag is emblazoned with the logo of the Gilden Academy, which he may or may not recognize from Highstorm.
It’s an old habit of hers to take a medical supply bag with her on trips and missions back home, and it’s no different here. It’s especially pertinent in Springstar, since, y’know, The Vibes Are Off. Looks like it would pay off here and now.]
[ well, he doesn't answer her, whether because he sees her point or because he just doesn't feel like continuing that argument. he's agreed to letting her treat him, and continuing to be catty — much like putting up a fight, earlier — would only prolong the process. so he's led over to the sitting area, glances her way before sitting on one of the benches beneath the green trees. the sun isn't bright enough to hurt his eyes ordinarily, but does anyway, and he chooses a seat under some of the shade to help with that.
and as she goes to prepare herself, his eyes light on her bag...and he notices the logo, recognizes it. she's surprisingly prepared for this circumstance; maybe she really does go around looking for people to bully treat. he doesn't wait for further instruction; instead, he goes to pull off his coat, heavier than the weather really requires. he's been running colder, lately. beneath that is his shirt, long-sleeved, but the rip where the knife caught him is clear enough, and the laceration beneath that. blood's trailed down and stained the entire sleeve, but if he were fussed about ruining his shirt he would've dealt with the wound sooner. ]
[Sure, she’ll take cooperative—if surly—silence if it means she can do her job without much fuss. She’s had to chase down patients who were either too stubborn or cowardly to sit still and let her do her job in the past. (It’s always for their own good! What gives!!) So by the time he’s shed that heavy coat of his, she’s made a quick inventory of the supplies she’s got on hand and will need to patch up this sort of thing.
When she gets a look at the mess that’s been made of his sleeve, she tsks, grabbing a firm hold of his arm to get a better look at the laceration itself.]
Clean, straightforward cut at least.
[Means it's a lot easier to patch up. She releases his arm for the moment, then digs inside her bag for a pair of gloves, casting a glance at him as she pulls them on.]
Tell me you at least gave the guy that did it as good as you got?
[He’d been able to walk away from the fight, after all. Presumably it would mean he won.]
[ gavial isn't trying to hurt him, but there's the inevitable impulse to flinch she grasps his injured arm firmly. he quashes the impulse, though; perhaps unsurprisingly, this is far from the first time he's had to hold still while someone patched him up. in the end, he just breathes out, lets her take her look and make her assessment. understands that a clean cut will be easier to fix up, and at least there's that.
her question catches him off-guard. he looks up and over at her, raising his eyebrows, and — doesn't laugh. but the noise he makes might've been closer to one if he were in a better mood. he'd nearly forgotten, for all the ways she reminded him of alliance medical staff, that this is the same woman whose younger version had wanted little more than a good fight. ]
[The serious edge that had been darkening her expression since she first spotted him here finally begins to slip back into something more relaxed, just slightly. A bit of a delighted glint in her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips. If you’re going to get into a brawl (and you should—it’s good for you!), then you should at least make it a good one.
And for taking care of things afterward? That’s what she’s for. Fighting might be one of her favorite things to do, but the only thing that’s ever given it a run for its money is patching people up. Feels good to help.]
Hope you weren’t too attached to this shirt.
[Because that sleeve of his is gonna get further torn so she can get at the wound without it being in the way. As he may have begun to notice, she doesn’t exactly take a delicate hand to this sort of thing.]
[ he really had nearly forgotten who he was dealing with.
of course gavial would approve of him getting into a fight; of course, also, gavial would approve of him holding his own. he hadn't even killed anyone this time around, so her praise, and her obvious delight, doesn't sting. he would shrug in response to the question about his shirt — no, he's not particularly attached — but that would get in the way of her work, so he shakes his head. she clearly doesn't work delicately, though she is careful in her ways. efficient, avoids hurting him by accident. she knows what she's doing.
he's quiet, letting her work, though curiosity finally stirs him enough to say, ]
I never knew a fighter who was so interested in medicine.
[There is a practiced and confident rhythm to her work as she begins taking care of that wound of his in earnest. It’s simple work for a simple clean cut, but she’s done this dozens and dozens of times before. It almost feels odd, doing something like this along a calm and quiet street in the city and not some battlefield. Whatever’s on his mind, whatever had gotten him into that fight—she leaves the topic alone for now while she works.
His comment breaks the quiet, though, and it draws a huff from her that’s not quite a laugh.]
Yeah, I get that a lot.
[Especially early on, but it never really stopped. Didn’t help that she often got scolded for wading right into the middle of a battle to bash some skulls when deployed as a medic… Her reputation back at Rhodes Island was earned from more than just her lack of bedside manner.]
It’s something I started getting into after I’d left home.
[Her tone is simple, conversational; she’s never been shy about mentioning her past, but most of the time it’s never really felt worth getting too into. But, well, Cassian’s had himself a pretty unique peek at what that’d been like, so maybe it makes sense.]
As much as I enjoy throwing down—and I enjoy it a lot— [she takes her eyes off her work for a moment to catch his gaze, grinning a very self-aware grin,] doing something like this? Helping people? Feels even better.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action, springstar
he's here when he isn't in kowloon; and he hasn't been in highstorm for a days. not since he left jyn and everything they'd built together behind. not since he'd murdered dokja and dropped off the shard for — who knows what, on hopes of information. for answers he has yet to be given, ones he can only hope will be worth it.
does he sleep? sometimes, maybe. he only rarely seeks out old acquaintences, people he could probably wheedle or flirt into allowing him a spare room, a spare corner, for a night. he doesn't want to answer questions. he doesn't feel the softer touch, though he's not incapable when it's necessary. he only wants to be left alone to do his work, to not pretend, any longer, to be better than he is. he isn't; he isn't; he isn't. that's what makes the relative anonymity of springstar easier, and that's what makes kowloon, surrounded by creatures of the undercity not so unlike himself, easier.
but kowloon is dangerous, and his temper is vicious, and his self-control is held together by frayed threads. this isn't the first time he's gotten into a fight down there, but it is the first time he walks away with a nasty slash to the bicep, blood soaking into his sleeve and peeking through the gash in his coat, dripping down his arm. he'll deal with it; it's not the first or last scratch he's bound up for himself. and he walks through springstar with enough brisk purpose that he expects not to be stopped. walk like you belong, and people are often willing to overlook strangeness.
he is not expecting to see a familiar face. ]
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Not that things have ever really felt normal around here; even setting aside the narrowly avoided disaster of the Blight, throwing a bunch of people from disparate worlds into one place and telling them there’s a ticket home (or to a better place) on the line, and well. Things are bound to get messy. And the frequent buzzing in her thoughts thanks to the Shard-bearers’ shared Communion space is certainly a testament to that.
She expected that after her extended nap, after her field trip to the Isles, that things might mellow out for a while. But Highstorm celebrates the recent Zenith victory in its own low-key way, while Springstar feels oddly subdued in the wake of defeat. And that means tensions are high, which Gavial frankly finds all too annoying. Particularly when she just wants to spend some time in Springstar, in the sunshine and away from the gloom, amongst bustling streets filled with people who (usually) are filled with a pep that aligns with her own temperament more often than not. But rising Discord and side-long glances be damned, she is going to do what she wants.
Bumping into a familiar face isn’t that uncommon around the city—naturally it tends to be those who’ve thrown their lot in with Meridian, but every so often she finds herself faced with a curve ball. This one she nearly misses, caught up in the bustle of the foot traffic during what passes for Springstar’s bright and sunny evening. Seems like just another busy soul hurrying on home after a long day.
But if there’s one thing Gavial’s learned after spending years patching up stubborn idiots who think they can ignore the fact that they’re in need of help, it’s how to spot someone trying to pass off an injury as no big deal. So first, there’s the notice of something that seems just slightly off in her periphery. When her focus shifts, there’s recognition that follows. Melshi—or Cassian, or whatever the hell nickname the guy wanted to use now—storming ahead with a purpose that is distinctly at odds with the faintly exhausted cast of his expression. And then, of course, there’s the blood soaking through his sleeve.
So she halts, pivoting smoothly on her feet just as they’re about to pass each other by.]
Woah, wait up.
[A hand catches him by the edge of his coat and tugs. Insistently.]
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What do you want?
[ there are less inflammatory ways of asking what she's doing, but he fails to find any of them. his tone is even, at least, if edged; he isn't best pleased at being stopped like this. he isn't best pleased at being recognized by someone he knows, either, even if he generally likes gavial. strange to run into her here, but this isn't the first time he's ever noticed the woman in springstar, nor are they the only zenites to sometimes visit this city. it doesn't matter, really. ]
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Regardless, she isn’t fazed at all by the annoyance in his eyes or the slight edge to the question leveled her way. She stands firm, meets his gaze with just a hint of steel behind her own eyes. Doesn’t relinquish her hold on his coat, just to hammer it in.]
You’re bleeding.
[Simple, matter-of-fact.]
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I can take care of it.
[ he's fine. it's not a small gash but, barring infection, won't be a major problem by his estimation. the force knows he's been injured worse than this, and has taken care of some similar wounds on his own, too. he doesn't know gavial well, but he knows enough to realize this might not be enough to satisfy her. so he adds after a moment, modulating his tone, ]
I will take care of it. Don't worry yourself about me.
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[Technically, not anymore. This isn’t Rhodes Island where she’s on payroll to look after people. But it had never really been about the money for her anyway. It wasn’t just a job.
So yeah, she’s going to be annoying about it, going to make sure this knucklehead takes care of himself before he runs off to—if she had to wager a guess—search out more of the trouble that put him in this state in the first place.
What that means is: her eyes narrow, her lips turn down in the barest hint of a scowl. She finally lets go of his coat—only so that she can reach out with intent to put a very firm hand on his shoulder to begin steering him away from the bustle of the street.]
So we can take care of it now.
[She had a reputation as a good doctor, yeah, but not a very patient one.]
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it's not like cassian is unfamiliar with the idea of professional integrity, nor how seriously some of the medically-inclined can take it. gavial likely wouldn't be surprised to hear that she isn't the first to take this kind of a tone with him. the med droids scattered across hundreds of temporary rebel bases had a particular tone they would adopt with him; and, in truth, not just him. rebels always have too much to do and too little time or manpower to do it. none of them ever lingered in medbays as long as recommended, when they could get away with doing otherwise.
he could resist gavial, making a scene in public be damned. but there's one thought that stops him: primarily, that it'd be faster to let her have her way than to fight her. wastes less time. so he exhales an irritated huff, but he lets her pull him out of the street without making a fuss. ]
Do you usually come to Springstar to find people to treat?
[ but not without a dry comment. ]
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Only when I can tell someone’s got a bone-headed idea into their head to put off dealing with an injury.
[Retort delivered with much the same dryness as she corrals him over towards a small area tucked between two buildings where a few benches sit beneath leafy green canopies and the shadows of those decorative pillars Springstar seems so fond of.]
Lucky you. Here, sit down.
[She motions toward one of the benches, letting go of him in order to slip a small black bag from her shoulder and onto the sturdy wood of the seat. The bag is emblazoned with the logo of the Gilden Academy, which he may or may not recognize from Highstorm.
It’s an old habit of hers to take a medical supply bag with her on trips and missions back home, and it’s no different here. It’s especially pertinent in Springstar, since, y’know, The Vibes Are Off. Looks like it would pay off here and now.]
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and as she goes to prepare herself, his eyes light on her bag...and he notices the logo, recognizes it. she's surprisingly prepared for this circumstance; maybe she really does go around looking for people to
bullytreat. he doesn't wait for further instruction; instead, he goes to pull off his coat, heavier than the weather really requires. he's been running colder, lately. beneath that is his shirt, long-sleeved, but the rip where the knife caught him is clear enough, and the laceration beneath that. blood's trailed down and stained the entire sleeve, but if he were fussed about ruining his shirt he would've dealt with the wound sooner. ]no subject
When she gets a look at the mess that’s been made of his sleeve, she tsks, grabbing a firm hold of his arm to get a better look at the laceration itself.]
Clean, straightforward cut at least.
[Means it's a lot easier to patch up. She releases his arm for the moment, then digs inside her bag for a pair of gloves, casting a glance at him as she pulls them on.]
Tell me you at least gave the guy that did it as good as you got?
[He’d been able to walk away from the fight, after all. Presumably it would mean he won.]
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her question catches him off-guard. he looks up and over at her, raising his eyebrows, and — doesn't laugh. but the noise he makes might've been closer to one if he were in a better mood. he'd nearly forgotten, for all the ways she reminded him of alliance medical staff, that this is the same woman whose younger version had wanted little more than a good fight. ]
That goes without saying.
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[The serious edge that had been darkening her expression since she first spotted him here finally begins to slip back into something more relaxed, just slightly. A bit of a delighted glint in her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips. If you’re going to get into a brawl (and you should—it’s good for you!), then you should at least make it a good one.
And for taking care of things afterward? That’s what she’s for. Fighting might be one of her favorite things to do, but the only thing that’s ever given it a run for its money is patching people up. Feels good to help.]
Hope you weren’t too attached to this shirt.
[Because that sleeve of his is gonna get further torn so she can get at the wound without it being in the way. As he may have begun to notice, she doesn’t exactly take a delicate hand to this sort of thing.]
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of course gavial would approve of him getting into a fight; of course, also, gavial would approve of him holding his own. he hadn't even killed anyone this time around, so her praise, and her obvious delight, doesn't sting. he would shrug in response to the question about his shirt — no, he's not particularly attached — but that would get in the way of her work, so he shakes his head. she clearly doesn't work delicately, though she is careful in her ways. efficient, avoids hurting him by accident. she knows what she's doing.
he's quiet, letting her work, though curiosity finally stirs him enough to say, ]
I never knew a fighter who was so interested in medicine.
no subject
His comment breaks the quiet, though, and it draws a huff from her that’s not quite a laugh.]
Yeah, I get that a lot.
[Especially early on, but it never really stopped. Didn’t help that she often got scolded for wading right into the middle of a battle to bash some skulls when deployed as a medic… Her reputation back at Rhodes Island was earned from more than just her lack of bedside manner.]
It’s something I started getting into after I’d left home.
[Her tone is simple, conversational; she’s never been shy about mentioning her past, but most of the time it’s never really felt worth getting too into. But, well, Cassian’s had himself a pretty unique peek at what that’d been like, so maybe it makes sense.]
As much as I enjoy throwing down—and I enjoy it a lot— [she takes her eyes off her work for a moment to catch his gaze, grinning a very self-aware grin,] doing something like this? Helping people? Feels even better.