Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
This is your heart undone, Take all the time you want
"Rude? Oh. And here I thought you were flirting with me." You reply with a snort. One day you'll get Finn to play along. It'll probably be the same day he starts calling you Tobi instead of Doctor Hart. That day, you think, is still a very long, long way away.
"Mmm no, most don't." You agree, softly manipulating his hand to ensure that you've properly cleaned it before you start to bandage it. "It's interesting how the mind and body work together like that. That the body tries to create more pain, to drown out what the mind is having to endure."
You apply an ointment so that the bandage won't stick to the open wound before expertly wrapping his hand in gauze, your long and well-trained fingers making easy work of this. "Well, they'll have to see one of the nurses." You say with a soft shrug. There is nothing to be done about them, not until the test results come back. "If there is anything life-threatening...well, this room is equipped to handle almost anything. They'd have to be quarantined with us, but they could receive the care they needed if it comes to that."
You hope it doesn't, but you'll prepare for it anyway.
"Perhaps Cian has gone to Falke." You say softly, biting your lip and hoping that Cian shows some of the common-sense he demands from everyone else.
”Bold of you, to assume that I know how to flirt,” Finn says, in what might well be an approximation of the very thing they are talking about. Unfortunately his mind couldn’t be further from playfulness, and he winces as she turns his hand, cleaning it out thoroughly and bandaging him. Her remark cuts very close to home, Finn nodding sadly and offering nothing more. Once she’s finished, he turns the bandages this way and that to inspect them, huffing out a soft sigh.
”Do you know how long it will take until the quarantine will be lifted?” he asks. ”I wouldn’t want to keep you from anyone.” And he wouldn’t want to be in company for very long - he isn’t good with people at the best of times, and the good doctor has sadly stumbled on the worst time of all.
”I hope he has.” He sighs. ”We ought to find a way to get word to them.”
This is your heart undone, Take all the time you want
You laugh at that, happy to have coaxed him even a fraction out of his shell. It's all terribly poor timing of course and there are probably better jokes to be made, but given the relationship between the two of you, these waters feel impeccably safe. "What a coincidence. Bold is my middle name."
You watch him twist his hand, nearly scolding him for it, before deciding to bite your tongue. Finn has had his hands wrapped before, and nothing you tell him now is going to stop him from picking at the cotton if it starts to unravel, or playing guitar despite the pain.
"At least 24 hours, so I suggest you get comfortable." You say, knowing well that the Spyglass is not asking out of pure curiosity, and that as soon as you've answered him a countdown will begin in his mind.
"Do you feel tired? I can prescribe you something that I have here, or ramble at you until my voice forces your mind to shut off?" You probably have enough mundane facts in you to force Finn to sleep, and if not, you're willing to give it a go anyway.
Even in the right sort of mood, Finn is the sort of person to take her quip seriously. Luckily he doesn’t have it in him to question how she got a name like October Bold Hart, but it will lurk there in the back of his mind for a better mood. He hardly knows what comfortable feels like, and 24 hours sounds like a lifetime in his current mindset. Letting out a soft, disappointed sort of sigh (and yes, mentally starting the countdown in his mind), he glances around the operating theatre.
”I don’t believe I trust myself to sleep,” he says slowly, trying to scope out a place to sit that doesn’t look infinitely uncomfortable. Not naturally, and especially not with any prescription or remedy that she might give him. If Finn is asleep and can’t wake up from his nightmares, that might just finish him off. ”A shame that you didn’t stash a book in here. Or some music,” he murmurs.
This is your heart undone, Take all the time you want
"You know Finn, some might be a bit insulted at your lack of enthusiasm here." You say, folding your arms and fixing the Spyglass with a sunny look. "I'm not that bad, am I?" You know your optimism can be a few shades too bright for some, but honestly, you think in the wake of the oncoming storm that seems to be brewing over Caido, everyone could just a bit more cheer.
"I could always wake you up, if it gets bad." You offer softly, understanding enough of Finn's condition from Falke to know what his dreams might consist of. Especially after all the things he's just seen. "Well, I've a deck of cards or we could...play ball?" Your head cocks to the side slightly as you grin brightly at this suggestion.
He nearly snaps at her again, and gods he hates himself for it. Instead, he tilts his head up a little as if to stare a hole in the ceiling, forcing his jaw to unclench, forcing his hands to relax so he doesn’t reopen the wound she’s just bandaged. ”No, of course you aren’t,” he says softly. ”It has just been... a very long day. I am not coping well with it.” And that’s putting it mildly. Her sunniness and cheer, usually managing to buoy him out of melancholy, seem to be as effective as a cheese grater on his bare skin today.
Shaking his head softly at her suggestion to wake him up, he is nonetheless grateful for it. Still, his head lifts a little as she continues - and wouldn’t you believe it, the faintest of smiles tries to creep across Finn’s face. With a deeper sigh this time, he nods. ”Let’s play ball, Doctor Hart.”
"I'm sorry, Finn." You say, having poorly judged just what sort of broken Finn is today. What you want is to mess his curls, pull him against you, and possibly give him a raspberry on his stomach. Something utterly silly that will force his mind away from the jagged edges he keeps touching. Like someone watching paint dry, he seems to continually touch the surfaces he's promised to leave alone, continually needing to check.
It's probably best that there's a mask covering your face because the way you smile is utterly nauseating it's so happy. "Mmm. Ball it is." You nearly sing, your eyebrows a flurry of movement as you strain to keep yourself from laughing—or gods, whining—with excitement.
It is with decidedly slow steps that you walk into one of the closets used to store supplies, but it's with four feet that tap out your excitement on the linoleum that you return. All fluff and even brighter eyes (if that's even possible), there is a brand new ball in your mouth that you enthusiastically deposit in Finn's lap. As tall as you are, you still need to hop onto your hindlegs to manage this, but you do it easily enough, backing up a few paces, your tail wagging out a steady pulse of joy.
”No, I’m the one who should be sorry. You were just trying to help.” Finn presses his lips together in a humourless smile, glancing up at her just a little as she heads for the closet. He swears he can see the smile on her face behind her mask, and when the click of paws brings her back into view, there’s one on his face too - a real one this time, lifting the darkness from his eyes.
He accepts the ball and gives her a dutiful scratch behind her ear, making sure to throw it for her in his good hand. He sends it bouncing across the room, careful not to let it hit any of the delicate instruments on the shelves or the samples she’s collected. And so it is that Finn finds himself playing ball, barefoot in a hospital gown after nearly driving himself mad.
Exuberant and adorably clumsy, your go galloping after the ball. You're massive in this form, and honestly, you don't actually weigh much less than you do as a human. So you skitter across the clean tiles, skidding a short distance as you snap at the ball. You miss, but that's fine. You've managed to rotate yourself around and can pick the ball up on your return.
Again and again it goes, Finn throwing the ball and you bounding after it. Sometimes he lobs it into the air and you've got to twist and leap after it, sometimes he trickily bounces it off the walls. When he does this, you're sure to leave the ball on the bed instead of in his lap.
That'll teach him.
After a while, you drop the ball and rather nimbly leap up onto the bed. A don't quite bark at him so much as you woof under your breath, tail flopping against the sterile white sheets.
It’s in the sterile halls and locked doors of the operating room that a truly rare sound can be heard - laughter from the Spyglass. He doesn’t tire of throwing the ball as most might when playing, ensuring that his companion is suitably entertained at every twist and turn, every clumsy leap, every proud return. When she’s finally finished he has barely noticed the time go by, and she nearly jumps on him where he’s sitting at the side of the bed.
Raising his eyebrows, Finn tilts his head down at her, reaching out to scritch at the thick ruff of fur around her neck. ”I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” he informs her, cocking his ear as if she might be so kind to say it again. Still, he takes the hint and moves to slouch on the bed properly, tucking his arms behind his head. It’s difficult with her taking up pretty much all the room, but he manages it.
As a woman and as a dog, you're not in particularly good shape. You're thin to be sure, but you've hardly any muscle, and given that your diet is mostly red wine and the bits of wood you chew from your pencils as you work, there isn't much meat on your bones. No one notices of course, since you're always in baggy scrubs. But maybe someone should take you for a few walks.
Berners, for being such large dogs, are terribly expressive. You have patches of brown that act like eyebrows, both of which rise as his sass. Huffing something under your breath, nonetheless, you allow yourself to be scritched because gods if it isn't the best feeling in the world. You lean into it, ears perked forward, as his fingers expertly move through your dark and kinky coat.
Yes, it is difficult, but good on you Finn, for managing. You move where you can, ultimately ending up mostly on top of him with your head on his chest, one paw slung across his belly, and your hind legs fussing down by his knees for purchase. Nosing his chest—there are perfectly good pillows on the bed such that he doesn't need to use his arms for that and can still pet you, thanks very much—you look up at him, amber eyes full of innocent canine happiness.
As the energy and fun of the last however long it has been starts to calm down; as the pup stretches across him, all heavy warmth and silky fur and a thumping tail... Finn lets himself stop, for just a moment. He sighs out a heavy breath, relaxing bonelessly into the bed, good arm moving around her to deliver fuss. It’s not contact that he’s used to in any way, shape or form, and he has to teach himself to release the tension in his muscles.
But eventually his head is lolling back against the pillows, his tired eyes slipping shut, and he lets his fingers move through the kinks in her fur, through the soft fluff of her ears. When horror lances through the darkness behind his eyelids, she might well feel the breath hitch in his chest, Finn’s eyes snapping back open, and he hisses out a very quiet curse under his breath. No sleep, then.
You can feel the way Finn inches towards relaxation, but how something stops him. It's his mind, you both know it's his mind, and if you had the ability, you'd shut it off for a while. All you want for him is for his body to relax. He gets himself nearly there like he might properly sink against you before he tenses and uncertainty makes him stiff again. Much as you adore being cuddled like this, you're here entirely for him.
So when his breath stutters out of its rhythm, his eyes flashing open, you're right there. Sometimes it's with the wet press of your nose against his neck, somethings it's with your tongue against his fingers, sometimes it's just a soft exhale against his chest. Throughout all of this you are calm, the beat of your heart a steady and resounding thing against him, your body heat more than warm enough for the pair of you.
When you finally do crack, Finn, do it somewhere safe. Somewhere you can find all your pieces again. With someone who will put you back together. You think, knowing he can't hear you, but wishing you could extend the groundedness you feel through the attuned bond to him, just the same. Be well, Finn.
It’s this silence that he needs, above all else. Therapy is good but sometimes this is better - in the times where he’s already stretched his thoughts out like taffy, far enough that he might see through them to the other side. He doesn’t know if he likes the man he’ll find there, and so he lets himself sink into the comfort offered by a furry body and a canine nose pressing against his hand. It’s a slow creep, the sort of relaxed state he ends up in, punctuated by the beat of a heart against his side and careful, deep breaths pulled in through his nose.
Finn doesn’t sleep, but he ends up in a pseudo state that’s as close to it as he can manage. Time passes, and he spends it smoothing out the kinks in her fur (he’s never successful, but that’s alright) and scritching at the hard to reach spaces between her eyes, along the back of her neck. ”If I had known we would be here for 24 hours,” he says eventually, a smile playing over his lips, ”I would have made sure to bring more with me.”
