when you bury your pain
It is a testament to Finn’s fever that he smiles back at Falke, the gesture boyish and sunny, void of any of the weight the Spyglass usually carries. ”That sounds nice,” he says of both ice chips and soup, though it’s very likely that he’d have responded the same way regardless of what the Fixer planned to give him. Still, it’s a dizzying and entertaining few moments, to see the cup fix itself before him, to have the bed lift him into something reminiscent of sitting.
At first Finn tries to grab the cup with the left hand plastered in a cast, and he mumbles an oops under his breath as he nearly knocks it over. His right comes up next, gripping the cup and guiding it clumsily to his lips. ”Doctor,” he says of who Falke is. ”Fixer. You’re my... Fixer.” The words are mumbled around ice chips, and he gazes up at Falke again, like that might give him more of an idea.
At first Finn tries to grab the cup with the left hand plastered in a cast, and he mumbles an oops under his breath as he nearly knocks it over. His right comes up next, gripping the cup and guiding it clumsily to his lips. ”Doctor,” he says of who Falke is. ”Fixer. You’re my... Fixer.” The words are mumbled around ice chips, and he gazes up at Falke again, like that might give him more of an idea.
THE SPYGLASS
you only strengthen its roots
