droppingin | The Ton

[ It would hurt Leon's wounded pride more if she wasn't looking for the levity here, and that's stinging enough that he had to ring backup. Not that it's unexpected, getting up close and personal with Krauser in the full, heated throes of a violent rage. Still, Leon heaves a shallow sigh as she leads her mare over, ascends into it and indicates where he'll be sitting. ]

Yes, ma'am.

[ The rickety bed of this cart rotting away in the yard by this seabreeze-weathered shed will serve as a step up just fine, and although it takes some work, Leon eventually slides his weight right up behind her in the saddle. The way his body knocks up against her back is unintentional, a flinch when his side flares up with a hot seize of pain.

He does everything he can to keep that to himself, jaw tight and hands... hilariously indecisive about where they should go to secure himself without getting handsy without invitation. ]

Down this road. That way.

[ Her lips kick up to the corner as he Ma'ams her, and she does what she can to assist from her perch. Of course she recognizes his pain, his body is right up against hers, she can feel his breath in her hair, and she has pretty good hearing, to back it all up. But she's not here to mock him for it, and she wouldn't appreciate it being called out were the situation reversed. Hell, she's not sure she would've called him if the situation were truly reversed. She doesn't...take that lightly.

She's a little rigid, herself, at first. She's never ridden a horse with someone else along for the ride, but how hard can it be? Even if she knows full well how much the man behind her would enjoy this on a good day. (Which is to say, very little if at all.)

She glances over her shoulder at him. ]

Hold on however you need to.

[ And once it seems he's got a grip, she clicks her tongue and kicks her heels, and they're off at a gentle pace. Fortunately for them both, her horse having been rudely awakened this evening means she's a little more relaxed than she might have been otherwise, and it's easy to keep her steady without too much reining in. ]

If you fall off I'm leaving you there.

[ Oh, Leon might have liked it a little, or a very specific part of him, for very specific reasons, such as the way her backside fits against his lap. He's in too much discomfort to appreciate it, eventually taking hold of the horn of her saddle in one hand, arm threaded under one of hers against her side, his other hand clasped over his ribs like it's the one thing holding them in place.

Her comment prompts a very abbreviated puff of breath that resolves into a gasp when, oof, laughing is not medicine for a banged up ribcage. ]

My hero. [ Leon quips dryly, but not without sincerity — it might not seem so, until his right hand strays from his left side and rests, just for a moment, on her hip, his thumb brushing against the side of her back in silent appreciation.

It doesn't last, he presses it against his own side, lapsing into tense silence. ]

[ Not having known exactly what kind of help Leon needed, if it was help at all, she'd been a little sparse in bringing supplies. There was a romanticism in ripping up a skirt to use as binding and bandages... but unfortunately she'd opted for pants. The loosening of societal expectations to merely "fully clothed" had emboldened her. And it was better for horseback riding, anyway.

In short, she wasn't going to waste the experience of ripping up her trousers on him in this state.

But she did feel a bit guilty for how he was literally having to hold himself together behind her.

It feels bold to smile at the soft touch of his hand on her hip, the stroke of his thumb, but he can't see her face so she allows herself this. There's something picturesque about it, if she removes herself enough, of a stroll on horseback by moonlight. So of course her experience with it involves a wounded man and a worry she hasn't allowed herself to articulate, to keep her grounded, to remind her not to allow distraction. ]

You can owe me.

[ She forgets to stop smiling before she responds, and the warmth in her reply is undeniable. ]

[ A smile changes the sound of the words that pass through it. He hears it, it takes him out of his own pain and not only for the glimmer of heartsick hope it sparks in him. It's the shimmer of pleasant, warm Thumos, a mere thread between them when he replies against the shell of her ear: ]

Wasn't aware we were still keeping score.

[ A calling back to more than six years ago.

Though, it's not entirely true. He's been keeping score ever since, the score was what prompted that vindicated smile when they encountered each other in Spain, the bitterness when they did in Andovale at the Trident, still high on their survival of the flood.

He's reminded, then, of the benefits of Thumos that often go unnoticed in such times of peace, the way it files off the sharpest corners of his pain, makes this into less of an exercise in sheer endurance. His left hand leaves the horn of the saddle, laying across the taut plane of her belly. Pushing his luck, certainly, counting on Ada to sharply tell him if he's crossed a line. ]

[ He's always had an effect on her.

It's evolved, over time, but whatever it is has always resulted in her doing something, feeling something, she didn't expect, didn't plan for. She's never been one for casual (sincere) intimacy, but some things change, always in increments, always when she isn't looking, and all too often with this man.

She did tell him to hold on however he needed to. ]

Of course we are.

[ Still as warm as before, but a little more teasing now that she's aware of her own tone. Keeping both hands on the reins, she...changes nothing. Which in itself is permission, and perhaps a tease, the act that she is unaffected.

Stay sharp, twice now, gunshot, bandage, debris, bandage, gunshot, rocket launcher, gunshot, hint, hint, hint, risky rescue, risky rescue, rocket launcher, sea-doo... back and forth they go, but frankly he's owed her awhile, if she was keeping score. But somehow, breaking even always costs her. ]

But we never agree on it.

Beginning to think you'd miss me if you didn't swing by now and then.

[ She doesn't react, and another time Leon might have been disappointed. Not now, not when her unaffected tolerance means Leon can act without being waved off, can indulge himself in the distracting micromovements of his fingers, feeling her and the texture of the material between his fingertips and her skin.

He still smells like woodsmoke, summer sweat, and the whisky he sipped on the shore. She smells like heaven, his only excuse for indulging in the scent of her hair is there's no way he can back off without slipping from the horse's back. She said she'd leave him there, can't be helped, right? But god, if a moment could last hours, he'd try to preserve this, the hot pain of his injuries and all.

Not that lucky; Whetstone rises like a pale ghost under the moonlight, a square stone gargoyle squatting near the wine-dark sea, a long slope of green leading to its drawbridge. It's down. Which spares Leon from the need of calling ahead. Which... he should have done anyway, rather than just drop in on Shaxx like this. Leon starts to fumble for his communicator, only to change his mind when he has to clutch at his side again. ]

There it is.

[ She can't even deny it, the way she left in the middle of the night to find him with no information but a location and a worry in the pit of her stomach she refused to put word to. He called, and she'd come. ]

Always having to find you myself.

[ It's mock annoyance; she's got a handle on her smile now, but only because she's reduced it by half to a smirk.

She hears him hiss behind her, already missing the warmth of his arm around her, and compromises, holding the reins in one hand temporarily to reach down and grip his thigh just above the knee, squeezing gently. ]

There it is.

[ she echoes quietly. She'd heard of this particular fort, of course, but hadn't had much reason to make it there herself, yet. ]

You gonna make it?

[ She teases softly as they approach, retrieving her hand after a final pat to his leg so she can keep both hands on the reins, just in case her horse decides to find something innocuous terrifying while on a drawbridge.

Blessedly she doesn't, and the next order of business is finding somewhere to dismount, get Leon inside, and... find a first aid kit along with a hope and a prayer. ]

Pheme hasn't made me go soft yet.

[ In the end, though, as they reach the small courtyard of the fort, Leon has to disembark and chooses to just get the painful business dealt with — by not exactly hurling himself from the back but it's hardly graceful, and for a few moments he'd appreciate no spectating or interference while he stands, slightly bent, significantly pale, and potentially trying not to heave at the agonized protest of his ribs.

Is he good? Fuck no. And there isn't any protest when he carefully steps into the fort's hall towards what is, presumably, a larger common area inside the fort's walls. It's some time before he speaks, and when he does, it's with mere sips of words and breath. ]

Storage room. Got supplies there.

The Ton | I N B O X

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