✚
Send a ✚ for my muse’s reaction to yours walking in on them while they’re getting a wound cleaned.
Octavian’s arm was laid out on a table, the underside turned upwards, exposing a deep cut, it looked pretty bad. Given the circumstances and the fact that he didn’t have any medical grade materials for cleaning wounds, he had to resort to alcohol.
Just as he was about to pour the liquid all over the cut, he caught a figure in the corner of his eye. Glancing up he recognised her as Annabeth, but without a word looked back down. He had other things to worry about right now. Octavian tilted the bottle and pour the alcohol out on his arm. The wound burnt like fire, and even with all his willpower, he couldn’t stop himself crying out in pain just a little.
chasingincisiveness
Annabeth hung at the door's hinges, steel-grey hues narrowing against the back of blondes head. Sure, she had come with full intentions of reprimanding the guy; but there was no satisfaction in doing so when the other party was preoccupied, let alone injured. The blonde exhales, ducking past his side while snatching the bottle of alcohol from his grasp.
"---Well, that's some welcome, give that here."
Annabeth settles herself directly in front of the roman. Reaching out, and taking hold of his injured arm: to stop any involuntary ( or voluntary,) jerking. Dampening a cloth she'd retrieved from her pocket before applying it to the gash along his arm.
"Listen, I think we should talk." The blonde relents with another round of application.
