[Infinity's End] First Impression

[n_wilkinson]

Title: First Impression
Universe: Infinity's End, post-The Edge of Tomorrow
Characters: Malcolm, Cyrus
Description: Malcolm and Cyrus meet. The inklings of a friendship are born.

It was times like these that Malcolm was glad Paragon was not carpeted. He would hate to have to retrace his steps and scrub out blood. Sure there were probably custodians around to do that kind of work, but his father had raised him to take responsibility for his own actions.

Nobility Malcolm might be, but he was accustomed to being self-sufficient. Theron did not approve of laziness for the sake of it. They had a cook and a housekeeper but Malcolm, like his sister, was expected to clean up after himself, do chores, and thank the hired help. Theron had a very unique take on child-rearing, not that Malcolm was complaining.

He winced as another drop of blood escaped his makeshift bandage. Damn, but that stung. He was probably leaving a trail behind him. Some other rebel would come along, see the spatter and wonder how it had gotten there.

He hoped no one sounded an alarm.

And whose bright idea was it to put the healers on the opposite end of Paragon from the practice rooms? That seemed like really poor planning in Malcolm's opinion. Accidents were more likely to happen there than anywhere else.

He really should have dodged that strike.

Malcolm grumbled under his breath and strode into the clinic, wondering who was on duty. It wasn't like they had healers to spare.

“Hello? Anyone in here?”

Malcolm peered around the cluttered clinic, shelves crammed with bottles of medicinal remedies and medical texts. There were four unoccupied beds, the privacy curtains drawn back. A mug sat on one of the desks, steam rising from its contents. Tea, by the smell of it.

Malcolm dripped a little on the floor.

“Hello?”

“Yes!” A male voice called out from somewhere Malcolm couldn't see. Perhaps behind the unnecessarily large cabinet. Then, there was a crashing noise. “Give me a moment.” A loud thunk punctuated the request. “Or two.”

Yeah, sure. He'd just sit on this bed over here and bleed. No problem.

Malcolm dropped down with a thump. He dared peel back the bandage, examining the jagged gash Grayson's sword left behind. Blood welled sluggishly. He hoped he wouldn't need stitches. It might scar though. Something to look forward to. A man could never have enough war wounds, at least, that was what his father used to say.

Scars were manly. Like swords.

Malcolm's lips twitched, but he couldn't decide if he wanted to smile or frown. Some days, he really missed his father. Theron's blunt advice could really be of use right about now. And he wished he could tell his father that he was alive, that he hadn't died in Varos.

The room divider rattled and Malcolm looked up just as it was shoved aside, a slim blond emerging from behind it. Blue eyes were oddly bright, though his cheeks tinged red. He looked familiar. Wasn't he that kid they rescued from Grayshire's prison way back when? The one who was Gale's apprentice?

What was his name? Sirius? Cyprus?

“Sorry about that,” said Cyprus – no, maybe it was Cyrus. Yeah, that sounded about right. “I was doing inventory and – by Aceso, you're bleeding!”

“Really? I hadn't noticed.” Malcolm tossed him a cheeky grin.

Cyrus rolled his eyes and pulled up his sleeves, crossing the floor in swift steps. He snatched up Malcolm's arm, pulling it closer and peering at the wound. The last of the bandages surrendered and flopped to the floor in a wet smack. Gross.

“This is deep,” Cyrus said, tilting Malcolm's poor limb left and right as though trying to examine the slice from every angle.

“Do you mind? That arm's still attached.”

“Lucky for you.” Cyrus chuckled and his long fingers traced the outline of the wound with a touch that was barely tangible. “How'd this happen anyway?”

Malcolm's head was starting to feel light. “A sword.”

Cyrus blew out air in a huff and surrendered Malcolm's arm. But only so he could reach for the nearby shelves, cluttered as they were, pulling down a basket and throwing supplies into it.

“Yes, I know that,” Cyrus retorted, bottles clinking amidst bandages and a tiny, narrow box that Malcolm eyed with distrust. “I was referring to the circumstances, Mr. Wyndham.”

Both eyebrows lifted. “You know who I am?”

Cyrus hooked a stool with his foot and dragged it closer to Malcolm, plopping down into it with the basket on his lap. “There aren't many nobles wandering around Paragon. So that makes what few there are pretty distinct.” He pulled out the box and set the basket to the side. “The fact that you look just like your father is secondary.”

“You know my father?”

“Who doesn't know Lord Theron Wyndham?” Cyrus opened the box, balancing it on his thighs. “He's one of the loudest voices for the lower classes.”

Several coils of a thin thread were visible in the box, a couple of needles gleaming with ill intent. Malcolm's breathing quickened. Stitches? Really?

“Is that necessary?” he asked, side-eying the dozen needles of varying length and thicknesses. “Can't you just heal it up?”

Cyrus selected a spool and a needle, heedless perhaps, to his patient's discomfort. “You didn't pay attention in magical theory, did you? It doesn't work like that.” He reached for Malcolm's bleeding arm and Malcolm leaned back.

Amusement bled into Cyrus' aether, which had been pushing light waves of calm at him prior. “Don't tell me you're afraid of needles.”

Malcolm bristled but didn't move any closer. “Fine. I won't.”

“But you are.”

“Not.”

Cyrus' lips twitched.

“Maybe a little,” Malcolm conceded and stared at the sliver of metal, glinting in the strange light-balls that the Azura scientist scattered everywhere in Paragon. “It's weird, is all.”

“Weird,” Cyrus echoed and his lips repeated that amused twitch, like he was trying hard not to laugh at Malcolm's expense.

Malcolm huffed, looking away. “Will you just fix it already? I'm bleeding all over the place.”

“I noticed.” Cyrus' voice hummed with restrained amusement. He grabbed a handful of towels from the basket, laying one across his lap and using another to mop up the mess from Malcolm's arm. “This will sting.”

“I can take it.”

“Of course you can.”

Cyrus peered at the ragged wound, dumped a fair amount of some clear liquid over it, which tingled rather than stung. Malcolm relaxed, tension easing from his body, as some of the immediate pain faded. A numbing agent perhaps.

Pink spilled from the wound, blood and whatever that liquid was intermingled. Cyrus mopped it up, set the towel aside, and got to work. Malcolm carefully Did Not Look as the needle approached. Despite the numbing, it did sting, like drizzling salt water on an open wound.

Malcolm hissed, his free hand curling into a fist.

“So... uh.... you been here long?” he asked, desperate to distract himself from the tugging sensation of the stitching through his flesh. His stomach twisted into a hard knot.

“Since last month's raid on Grayshire,” Cyrus answered.

“You like it?”

“Better than prison.”

“Mmm. Good point.” Malcolm concentrated on breathing. In and out, deep breaths. Like the meditation his father had tried to teach him but never really stuck. Malcolm didn't like to be still and silent. He liked to move.

“Almost done,” Cyrus said.

Thank Kaiyu.

Malcolm drummed his fingers on the mattress, concentrating on the tap-tap-tap rather than the tugging on his flesh. The numbing agent wore off further. His head spun a little. How much blood had he lost anyway?

“There,” Cyrus said, and there was a little snick as he cut off the end of the thread and set his supplies to the side. “Now I can apply some magic.”

Malcolm exhaled slow and careful. “Thanks.”

Cyrus rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “It's what I do. What I'm here for.” He cradled Malcolm's arm with one hand, fingers of the other walking a soft path around the wound.

His aether pulsed softly in the clinic, rising in slow and steady waves. It washed over Malcolm in a warm, soothing flow. His arm tingled, different than the liquid Cyrus had used earlier, a sensation better similar to the pins and needles of limbs that have fallen asleep.

“Well, you're good at it.”

“Thanks for saying that,” Cyrus replied, and his fingers dragged lightly over Malcolm's stitches, warmth following in their wake. “There. All done.” He released Malcolm's arm, drawing back.

Malcolm tilted his arm into view, admiring the neat and even stitches. His skin was a bit red around them, but he could already see where healing had begun.

“Keep it covered and dry,” Cyrus said, gathering up his supplies into the basket and rising to his feet. “Come back in a couple days and I'll give it another boost. By the end of the week, you'll be as good as new. It won't even scar.”

“I'll try not to be disappointed then,” Malcolm said, nodding his approval.

Cyrus chuckled. “If you'd prefer, I can leave the scar.”

“Nah. I think I have enough.”

“I'm sure,” he replied dryly, stashing his supplies where they belonged and tipping the dirtied towels into a nearby basket. “As many as your weapons?”

Malcolm grinned. Yeah, he was fully armed. Two swords, a dagger strapped to each limb, and a few other odds and ends secreted on his person. He was never, ever going to be caught empty-handed again.

“Maybe even more.”

“Must be quite the impressive collection.”

“I could always show you.”

Cyrus paused in the middle of sorting his supplies back onto the rack, giving Malcolm a look with an eyebrow raised. “I beg your pardon?”

Malcolm felt a flush enter his cheeks and travel down his neck. “That came out wrong.”

“No, really, I'm flattered,” Cyrus said and he was grinning now, his eyes dancing with humor that had been only sarcastic before. “It's not often I get such an offer from someone in your position. I do apologize, however, as I simply don't think I'm ready for that kind of relationship.”

Rolling his eyes, Malcolm shoved to his feet. “You're a real comedian, you know that?”

“So I've been told.” Cyrus dusted off his hands and gave Malcolm a lingering look. “Seriously, if any of your scars are bothering you, I can help.”

He waved a dismissing hand. “It's not the kind of pain that can be healed with magic,” Malcolm said, unwilling to discuss the nightmares and the phantom aches and waking dreams.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am!”

Cyrus sighed. “I only asked because you're rubbing your wrist.”

Malcolm startled, looking down to find that he was rubbing his thumb over his left wrist, over and over, in circles. There was a scar there, barely visible. Teeth marks. If such a thing could even claim to have teeth.

“It's healed,” he said absently, dropping his hand. “There's nothing to fix.”

Cyrus turned away from him, reaching for the cup of tea Malcolm had seen earlier, though it must be long cold by now. “Wounds are not always skin deep. I'm also told that I'm a good listener.” He sipped at the brew. “Should you be interested.”

It was tempting, if only for a moment. But when has talking ever fixed anything? Malcolm couldn't think of a single example.

“Thanks,” he said, raking his hand over his head. “But I think I'm good.”

Cyrus shrugged. “So you say. But the offer is there whenever you want to take me up on it.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Malcolm gathered his composure, striding for the door, only to pause, one hand tapping on the frame. “Thank you, Cyrus.”

The blond smiled at him, genuine this time. “You're welcome.”

Malcolm took his leave, idly running his fingers down the bandage encircling his arm.

Cyrus really had done a good job.

***
a/n: Just a little oneshot I've had sitting around on my harddrive. I hope to write more of these short little pieces to better flesh out my universe. If there are characters you'd like to see more of, let me know and I'll be sure to include them!

Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.