“Keep still.” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the haze of dawn with surprising sharpness, despite the softness of tone ( perhaps it’s due to the fact that his voice is drained of its usual childlike innocence, the almost gullible notes that so many of his acquaintances were used to ——— you see, Malcolm had a terrible thing happen to him not long ago, he’s never been the same since, but he’s completely harmless, I promise. it’s no small wonder, however, not with exhaustion slowly creeping around the edges and becoming apparent on his countenance, like blotting paper soaking up ink at the corner. but there was no one around to see it, or to tattle about it. just him, and this half-coherent boy. so he allows it. )
A hand presses him down into the softness of the mattress (Malcolm had always liked his bed to be comfortable, even when nothing else was.) Purple eyes come into view, peering down with a mixture of frustration and exasperation ( the boy is still shaking, although it is unclear whether from pain or from icecold sweat brought on by fever). Malcolm’s hand reaches for vial, swirling the shimmering contents in a brisk manner (they lick up the glass, leaving a strong green stain). How did Catarina do this? Perhaps he should have called on her ( but she was nowhere to be found, probably busying herself with the mundanes and their ills, as she usually was; what a peculiar occupation, really. but they all had their... quirks. whatever kept you going, whatever kept you feeling alive. he could not fault her for it, for she was older than he was, and he’s never taken upon himself to dictate to others their codes of conduct.). Hers was the gift of healing. ( what stray cat have you brought in this time, Malcolm? - now that is unkind. he doesn’t even have cats. )
“Slowly now. Can you understand what I’m saying?”