Drunkards & Drinkers

The strain was almost too much. Slick with a nervous sweat it was difficult to keep a grip on his patient, his knuckles paled with the strain, shoulders screaming and arteries bulging. More than once he nearly dropped the stranger, the damp, soiled fabric rustling awkwardly each time. Exposure therapy, they call it. What a pile of Moblin shit.

He grimaced and once again tried his best not to look too high or too low: a lowered chest at one end, direct eye contact at the other. It was a difficult balance to strike. Painfully so. Faust was almost certain that his heart was going to suddenly combust at any moment now. Either that or the muscles of his face would melt off the bones, sending the trio screaming and/or turning on him to beat him to death: the latter seemed more probable.

Fuck women were intimidating.

Resolutely making up his mind that the majority of people must likely have drowned when learning to swim in the deep end, Faust silently swore to be more sensitive to the more psychological issues of his patients in the future. It was an oath that wouldn't last long, given his bad attitude. But heck, it was the thought that counted right?

Nearly there, thank bloody Nayru.

The irony of praying to a female deity to escape females was not lost on the doctor. A wry smirk twisted a corner of his mouth and he felt the sting with bitter amusement.

"Here." Faust grunted, though Abigail certainly looked like she knew what she was doing. "Just push everything off the main table in the centre and drop him there. All of it is just shit anyway."

The establishment was a-...well, let's just say the nobler folk would likely never pay a visit here. Maybe their concubines and most possibly their servants, but there was nothing refined or gentle about this place. More of a butcher's kitchen than a sanctuary of health, anyone with a frail heart would likely get the shivers in here. The place reeked of potent cleaning chemicals, their peculiar origins having bleached hard stone worktops and the tiles underfoot. Medical supplies lined the walls with illegible, squiggled labels. Some ominous looking tools laid in a sink of acid. And if you listened carefully you could just about make out the whimper of someone in the next room.

Monica cleared the table, allowing Liza and Faust to put the drunk man on it, then indicated the door with her head. She and Liza left after brief goodbyes to Abigail, eager to get on with their night, leaving Abigail alone with an unconscious drunk and a man that really looked like he should be dead.

Abigail inspected the newly-made mess around the table for anything broken or otherwise dangerous to her bare feet, but it mostly looked like paper work and other innocuous things. She was slightly concerned about the noises coming from the other room, but she figured that if Faust had left someone there, they were probably fine. In pain, but fine.

"Will that be all, or did you need further assistance? I am not terribly well versed in the medical arts, I confess, however I am trained in first aid and can likely follow along given concise instruction."

Help? A brief moment of perplexity flickered across Faust's face before a subtle - but nonetheless amused - smile settled in. He glanced back one last time, admittedly with guilty relief, at where the two helpful strangers had left before languidly maneuvering over to a large jar of oddly coloured gel on the kitchen counter. The offer was still turning in his head as he screwed it open and massaged a generous dollop all over his hands. 'Gyorg Fat' the label read: an ingredient Faust used as a cheap disinfectant. Well, cheaper than most alternatives out there, especially the magic-orientated ones.

"What a know-it-all." The doctor muttered to himself with a chaffing laugh. Without warning he lightly threw the jar towards Abigail and jerked his chin at her hands. It all honesty it probably wasn't worth it right now, bearing in mind how awful the rest of Faust was, but old habits died hard. "Well you offered."

Restraining a toothy smirk, the doctor returned to his patient's side with a scrutinising glare. Several deep wounds marred his skull with a notorious amount of bruising all over his body and - ah yes - after a testing twist and prod, also a dislocated shoulder and a possibly fractured wrist...? Great. Unlike his more fortunate brawlers this scrawny lad had been down on his luck, Faust already exhausted to only practical and non-magical means by the time it had become his turn back in the Dog's Tears. While a few others appeared well enough to not die on the streets this one had worried him. A concern well placed by the looks of things. Yet even so, drained as he was there wasn't much else he could do for him besides a few stitches and a quick fix.

So then...the wrist, the shoulder or the stitches first? Well if he wakes up then it's all fucked. He's probably still intoxicated too.

"The dark blue jar," Faust began, a firmly authoritative - by distraction rather than intent - tone settling naturally into his deep voice. He was at the other side of the room again collecting a hefty amount of bandages, glue, a large roll of thick waxed thread, a terrifying needle and a pot of plaster. "The Freezard breath and ground Floormaster nail mix. Dab it on a cloth and wrap it around the man's mouth so he doesn't wake up."

Abigail cocked her head at Faust's muttered comment, but she declined to comment on whatever it was he'd said. It took her a moment to realize what he intended her to do with the jar, but she had wiped her hands with the disinfectant by the time he spoke again.

The dark blue jar- that, she found easily. Finding a suitable length of cloth was trickier. There was just so much mess that it was difficult to tell what was eligible for the job and what wasn't, much less which bits of cloth could be safely removed from the piles they sat under. Or which were clean, for that matter. Finally, she settled on a white cloth that looked unused and pulled it from its hiding places...causing a small, unexpected avalanche of various items.

Oops.

With a puff of frustration, she returned to the table and applied some mix to the cloth. The combination of smells was...interesting. Good thing the man who would soon have it just below his nose was unconscious, and would be staying that way for some time. She tied it in place and stepped back to give Faust space.

The sound of sudden chaos froze Faust to the spot. In a hesitant, anxious grind of movement he looked back over his shoulder with a habitual glare. It sharpened at the mess and his breath paused only to gush out in a weighty sigh two heartbeats later. He chastised himself for letting a stranger fiddle around with his goods, but in all honesty none of the avalanche contained anything valuable or important: nothing worth bitching over. They were free to lay there in disarray all night. Abigail had done what he’d ‘asked’ of her anyway.

Over-encumbered by a hefty amount of supplies the doctor returned to the patient’s side, placed down the items in a rattling spread and double-checked that he was well and truly unconscious. Once that had been confirmed Faust delicately raised the stranger’s arm and began wrapping its lower half in tight bandages, requesting after a few moments for the Sheikah to open the pot of mixed plaster and smooth its contents over the arm and hand while he piled up the layers. He didn’t have a paintbrush or any other kind tools to do the job so it’d have to have been done by hand: with her own quickly dowsed in the bucket of soapy water if she didn’t want sculptures for fingers.

Once that was sorted all it took was an experienced, quick twist of the drunkard’s arm to set its shoulder back into place. After which he splashed any deep, open wounds with whiskey and begun threading the terrifying needle. Thankfully not all of his cuts required stitching otherwise the doctor would have had to stand there until tomorrow night.

“You can finish the rest if you’re still thirsty.” Faust lightly offered, eyes and attention far too concentrated on the gruesome and meticulous task at hand to give his voice much volume. “The whisky. It’s starting to taste like shit but I don’t have much else to pay you with. I wasn’t expecting a porter and an assistant. Thanks.” Thanks? That was it? Casual and snipped it was the one and only expression of sincere gratitude Faust could manage past his awkward pride and composure, and it was one that could easily go unnoticed.

He still couldn’t quite get over the fact that he was alone, with a woman, at home. Even if there was a bloody body between them and another patient whimpering in the next room, as soon as he remembered that one, jarring, tremulous fact his needle missed its morbid aim and he stabbed himself. Right through his finger. Completely. Utterly. Impaled.

Faust’s lips rolled inwards, his eyes scrunched shut and he silently screamed through his fiery cheeks. He had to take a moment to himself, to lean a hand against the table and bow his head with agonised dismay, screaming internally all the while but still trying to look somewhat cool while he was at it.

Abigail spectated the operation- if it was serious enough to be called that- and pitched in when requested. It interesting to watch on several levels, especially in regards the needlework. The style was entirely different from working with textiles, and contrasting the two methods was a fascinating process. Although...that may have been a stylistic difference between she and Faust's handiwork and nothing more. Sewing up skin could be accomplished multiple ways, and really the only thing that mattered was that the wound ended up closed.

Faust offered her the rest of the whiskey, prompting a wrinkled nose and a raised hand. His pitch was...lackluster at best.

"I shall pass, but my thanks all the same." She gave a wry smile. "Consider, perhaps, not denigrating the taste of a beverage when offering it to another. Regardless of the veracity of the claim, it does make the thought of accepting somewhat...unappetizing."

Both eyebrows raised in alarm as Faust proceeded to stab himself completely through his finger. The irony of the doctor requiring the services of another doctor was not lost on her. Abigail was no doctor, but then, the injury was to his finger. Little risk of bleeding out...danger of infection, but the harm was already done there...removing the needle and wrapping the injury was probably the only option. The wound seemed quite painful, but it was ultimately trivial in nature, and so was the response.

"Hold still. I suspect this is about to be painful, perhaps more so than it already is." She walked around the table, grabbed Faust's hand, and, without fanfare nor warning, yanked the needle right out of his finger- back the way it entered, so as not to pull any thread into the gap. While Faust wrestled with the apparently excruciating pain, she disinfected and wrapped his finger as rapidly as her barely-trained skills allowed, then immediately went to wash her hands in the nearest sink.

What had just happened? Did she really just-...?!

Faust's heart caught in his throat. The needle was cleanly torn free and his breath was stolen along with it. It was only once the Sheikah had already left his side that one eye finally relaxed itself, stealing an awkward glance between her back and his wrapped wound with restrained bewilderment. It had been a wise move. In fact, the doctor was almost impressed. She had kept herself collected and wise with clear confidence, acting without hesitance and...yeah...sternly putting the man to shame while she was at it. He'd only impaled his finger: a trivial thing in the face of the rest of his current traumas.

'Only' impaled my finger. He barred the harsh burn of shame behind ground teeth and a crinkled brow. He would've laughed - he tried, despite its mocking, bitter humour – but even that was turned to ash, achieving nothing but some weak, twitching curls of his lips once what was left managed to surface. Oh woe was him, in all his shattered pride.

The doctor struggled to find words. By no means was there a shortage of thought now that his finger had been safely hidden and all silent screams neatly smothered to an end. Yet nothing seemed appropriate. No. Not appropriate. Faust didn't care about appropriate, he cared about pride. Admittedly intimidated and belittled, for some reason everything which started to well up in his vocal chords quickly started to sound stupid. Faust resisted mouthing silent indecision at Abigail's back like a simple-minded goldfish and instead firmly sealed his damned mouth shut. Odd. Uncomfortable. Annoying. He hated being like this.

Eventually the irritation got the better of his prickly introverted heart and he growled through its fresh bruise. "Funny how the smallest of things can be so much more painful when you're not expecting them." Hahaha. Ha... Ha...... No. It wasn't funny at all. The most spiteful, stony excuse of a humoured smile crinkled Faust's hot cheeks.

Oh grow up. She just helped you.

“Ever considered a career change?” Faust added, making troubled attempts to soften his tone for relation’s sake. After all, the Sheikah was the first – and hopefully not the last – woman to be so ‘comfortably’ conversed with in many years: not mention the enclosed room they were in. The fact that the doctor could manage it all was a small miracle in itself. It wasn’t a relationship he wanted to mar so easily.

Just in case they met eyes again though, the Hylian quickly buried his head back in his work. There was little stitching left to complete but he purposefully took his sweet, long time to do it: a welcome distraction.

“It’s not every day you hear of someone treating a doctor.” And not every doctor is like you, Faust. You got hot and bothered about being so close, alone, next to a woman so you stabbed yourself? Great show.

Water flowing over her hands and soap bubbles formed in the bottom of the sink, Abigail gave Faust time to recover from his latest ordeal. Part of it was being thorough- places of healing were oft times breeding grounds for disease- and part of it was allowing him to regain his composure. That process seemed to include a bit of babbling, but pain tended to do that to people.

"I am afraid I am bound by my duty to remain in my current profession," she replied as she dried her hands. She turned back to Faust. "Dedicating my life to healing would also necessitate the narrowing of my magical research, a requirement I am most uncomfortable with. At any rate, the sort of first aid you required took no high level technique. My only contribution was a lack of hesitation."

Hold on- was he merely speaking in jest? I suppose the moment as passed, either way.

She examined the patient with a critical eye, noting that Faust seemed just about finished with his work. His hand had slowed, but that was to be expected. Nodding in satisfaction, Abigail decided she was likely no longer needed.

"You appear to be nearly finished with your task. By your leave, I think I shall retire for the night."

Despite the pass of time and its change of subject, Faust's interest remained piqued at the Sheikah's earlier statement: the narrowing of magical research? His gaze had risen, forgetting the bashful anxieties of mere seconds ago, to linger silent and prying.

Perhaps it shouldn't have been surprising. He had witnessed her flinging spells left right and centre this very same night without remorse or strain like the experienced sorceress she no doubt was. There was intelligence not just in her acute, red stare but in every word she spoke, well-educated and composed down to every cross of a 't'. But to be anything but a dog? To actually have desires and ambitions of her own? Or perhaps they don't belong to her at all and never have.

The term 'bound by duty' tickled his mouth with a skewered smile. His studious intrigue was dampened but not extinguished by the little revelation. There was nothing quite like taunting an outburst of passionately delivered information, but if Abigail truly was nothing but a servant of the shadows and their King, Faust presumed the show to be more dull.

Regardless, he still wanted to know more.

"By my leave?" The doctor repeated in amused contemplation. For a brief flicker of his heart's desire he almost succumbed to the urge to deny her freedom - if for nothing but to see how she'd react.

Finishing up his needlework with a neat twist, knot and a clean cut, tension he hadn't felt building gushed from his lungs in one long, exhausted exhale as he straightened up his aching spine. Now that he paid it attention it was hard to deny that the room had grown lighter. Not by lanterns or ominously vibrant liquids in their shelved jars, but by the very sky itself. The night was breathing its last.

"If you sate my meddling mind, then perhaps." Faust at last properly replied in a tease. He arched an eyebrow at the young woman in an expression so mischievous it would've almost been charming: almost. He was still entirely ignorant of her preferences after all. "Will I meet you again?"


I cringed just writing that last line, haha. My poor Faust.

Abigail's brow wrinkled. Her comment had been mostly a polite formality, intended to confirm her help was no longer needed. Or wanted, that is. She supposed it had never been entirely necessary to start with. Still, she could hardly asked others for help and not accompanied them, and leaving together with them would have been awkward, so she had stayed.

His next words were rather illuminating, however. Abigail was not a social genius, but she had spent enough time flirting with women- and being hit on by men, for that matter- to recognize the signs. The expression, the tone, the suggestive subtext...oh. Oh, dear.

"Doctor, I must issue my apologies. It grows obvious that I have not been so explicit in my conversations with you as I needed to be. You see, I have no interest in men. I am, and always have been, a lesbian. I made an assumption that you had witnessed enough of me flirting with Liza to realize that, or at least caught some glimpse of the woman I was kissing earlier than that...I confess I did not catch that one's name. Regardless, I was mistaken. While I have no qualms in continuing our acquaintance, it will never be on romantic terms."

Her summation complete, Abigail watched Faust carefully. Men had attacked her before in recompense for 'leading them on,' as they might put it, and while she did not expect that reaction from Faust, one did not survive in her line of work without a healthy respect for caution. She was too experienced to let her thoughts show on her face, though, so she put on her best 'studious and anticipatory' face, as if awaiting some lesson or interesting tidbit of information. Or, in this case, awaiting a response to her explanation.

If Faust was asked to describe how he felt right now, in this very moment, with mere ink and parchment the man would've chosen to leave the entry blank after many scribbled, slashed attempts at forming sentences and grasping at seemingly appropriate vocabulary. Blotches of fallen ink would scatter the paper like an reversed sky of dark stars. Loose, scarcely legible letters would be tied here and there together in unravelling bunches of discord. It wouldn't be a description or even a diary entry. If anything it'd look nothing short of a broken mind's struggling release.

There was simply no other choice. For words.-..words were but flimsy, hollow things in the face of this. Nothing. Absolutely nothing could possibly even begin to fathom the complete and utter ruthless annihilation that had just exploded his every thought into pure bedlam. This Hylian wasn't one who often looked so openly mortified or humiliated, yet this... this, right here, was one of those very rare moments where his emotions were all too clear.

Limp and broken, Faust's jaw dropped right open and hung there. Twitching, never really settling, his brow puckered between horrified bewilderment and devastated pride, unable to accept that which had occurred for what it really was: and, ultimately, pay its disastrous price.

The one time he had tried to-... And-...

He should be more drunk than this. Way more drunk. Intoxicated to the point of sudden incapacitation even so he could suddenly drop dead right there and then with no more worries. Just implode. Bam. Gone. Over. Never happened.

"Ha. Haha...Hahahaha....Haaa..." A laugh? Far from it. If anything it was a collection of wheezes and groans from some sort of dying animal struggling for breath after many long minutes of none. Sometimes hard with pain and heavy with the gravity of truth, other times as wispy as a broken cobweb, faltering at a Minish's fart. "Haha...Hahaha...Haha." One cheek trembled and crumpled, the other petrified.

"I...see."

Unstable, inaccurate but successful in the bitter end, the doctor fumbled and then at last leaned both hands on the patient's table for support of all kinds and lowered his head to the infernal burn. The pain in his chest hit new limits of shame as his heart contorted in erratic twists and threatened to turn his ribcage into freshly pulverised bonemeal. With a harsh, puncturing bite of his lower lip Faust tried desperately to fathom some form of something. The quicker he got this over with and buried the better but...he honestly had no idea how to even see that light at the end of the tunnel.

His fingers rapped across the table only to pause, scrape, and with a hard, choking swallow Faust muttered, "Sorry."

How many times, he wondered, had Abigail been placed in this position? Was it the first? Or one in many? Had he been the only one so ignorantly oblivious? Was he really so...awfully inexperienced...?

The doctor prayed and prayed for the table to suddenly sprout a foot or two higher so he could bury his face in it and never have to look up but alas not all dreams come true. Staring and a pool of congealed blood would have to suffice for now.

Anxiously the toe of one boot roughed with the stone floor. His teeth caught his lower lip again. Din forbid, Nayru be damned, Farore be fucked, Faust felt like such an ashamed little boy right now he was practically the size of fairy's dropping.

"That...was my first go. Ha."

Oops. I may have broken him.

Abigail waited patiently as he worked his way through his emotions. This was almost embarrassing by proximity, but it was still better than not telling him, or even telling him in a manner which was not clear enough. Still, he seemed to be directing his frustrations internally. She relaxed slightly, the threat of a fight seeming more distant now. It wasn't really her responsibility to make him feel better in this situation, but he seemed a nice enough person she opted to put some time into it.

"It is quite alright, I assure you. This happens to all of us. Ask yourself exactly how common lesbians are, and extrapolate from that how often I must be rejected. Sexual orientation is a fact of life, and the only manner in which you may learn another's is to ask or observe." She shook her head, reflecting on all her experiences with the matter. Abigail raised her hands and started counting off other possibilities on her fingers. "Really, you are handling this far better than many are capable of. Some men attack, others become verbally belligerent. Heterosexual women often react with disgust or insults. Or call upon their boyfriends for...muscle."

Abigail's forehead wrinkled in confusion again as she considered a couple of those points.

"Now that I have given that thought, it really is quite amazing how often people underestimate me due to my size. Somewhat depressing, really. But I digress. The only solution is to keep trying, I am afraid. And really, what are the odds of you managing to court multiple lesbians? Surely you will find a straight woman sooner rather than later," she jested with a wry smile.

It was almost like rubbing salt on an open wound: listening to Abigail attempt to comfort him. His pride suffered throughout, taking a blow with every sentence she eloquently finished: some words lashing at his ego far harder than others, the rest nursing his relief into full bloom. It was painful, yes, bittersweet and sour all at the same time, but it was also a necessary distraction.

The woman was moving things on, calmly and with compassion, pausing here and there with a curious reflection that perked even the head of Faust’s interest up from his exile of mortification. Goddesses be damned, he even smiled at one point! The quirky, unbalanced thing slipping out onto his lips without prior permission. But what could he do? She’d recovered him. Not completely, but any step away from his massive error and crushing embarrassment was a very welcome distance.

And so Faust came to feel a warmth bud in his chest. It mocked him, preyed on him, but he embraced it nonetheless, allowing his accidental mirth to take on a far more sincere, complete form of a grateful smile. He couldn’t quite force the appreciation into spoken words but it showed clear enough on his melted expression.

“Never say ‘surely’.” Warned the pessimist Faust, but he soon returned the Sheikah’s wry grin. For a lingering, almost touching moment he wondered how many women stopped to offer comfort, kind words and even jokes to their dismissed pursuers. It certainly didn’t feel common. Not when it was this earnest.

“Perhaps – just perhaps – it is actually better this way.”

The doctor’s own words caught him by surprise, but the muttering sigh was already out. Admitting defeat and bracing himself like the man he assured himself he still was, Faust straightened up and began piecing back together his pride. “Thank you - for this and for that. I owe you.” A husky laugh growled softly in his throat and with one last, purposefully dramatic sigh of resignation, he outstretched his arm and its open hand cleanly over the table between them. He really hoped she took it, worried even, pained over it, but when Faust poised himself for the worst he knew also that it wouldn't kill him if she didn't - not this time.

“Let’s meet again. As friends.”

Abigail smiled and accepted the offered hand, giving it one shake before releasing. Faust looked to be mostly over his slight break-down now. She cocked her head to the side thoughtfully.

"Yes, I expect we shall. It occurs to me, now, that I have not introduced myself. I am Abigail Cataphractoi...Dr. Faust." She smiled briefly before hastening to add why she already knew his name. "Ah, I saw your placard on the way in. Doctor's office and all. Now, I must to bed. Good night, sir."

With that, she nodded once and left, pausing momentarily once outside to catch her bearings. Then she headed for home, intent on getting what little sleep she could. Soon enough she would be heading into the field again, after all, and she still needed to procure new casual shoes before she left.

And deal with the inevitable hangover.

-THE END-​