Even for someone who didn't mind a swim, Conall was particularly relieved to be on firm boards again today, and exhausted enough to lay his head back on the boards for a moment, blinking and breathing heavily and still clutching, not entirely consciously, at Miss Fairchild.
In case she stood up too quickly and toppled right off the deck again, probably. Relieved as he was that she’d been recovered (it’d have caused him some trouble, being the only witness to her fall), his concern had not yet been convinced she was entirely well after that, and so, with some urgency he drew himself up, and - being that she hadn’t moved - her with him, only realising as he did so, still grasping at her, what a picture they must look. She was sopping wet from head to foot - so was he - and if he could feel a shiver setting in and goosepimples prickling on his arms through his sodden clothes, then he was in no doubt that she was cold.
And no wonder, given the temperature of the water, and the layers she was... no longer wearing. Conall regarded her blankly for a moment, a little bit dumbfounded, then caught himself staring and hurriedly tore his eyes away. He didn’t need to give her any more reasons for her to think him a barbarian, did he? As for everyone else standing about staring, well - he glared at the faces that looked least dismayed and most amused, hoping to shoo them off to mind their own business, sharpish. One of them had at least the sense to bring a blanket, which Conall promptly ripped from their hand and marched back to Fairchild, throwing it around her shoulders to cover her up and rubbing his hands up and down it against her arms to warm her up. It was at some point amidst this that all the adrenaline and efficiency of his rescue mission thawed abruptly back into awkwardness. (He was sure he had been going to say something to her, but he’d forgotten what.)
In case she stood up too quickly and toppled right off the deck again, probably. Relieved as he was that she’d been recovered (it’d have caused him some trouble, being the only witness to her fall), his concern had not yet been convinced she was entirely well after that, and so, with some urgency he drew himself up, and - being that she hadn’t moved - her with him, only realising as he did so, still grasping at her, what a picture they must look. She was sopping wet from head to foot - so was he - and if he could feel a shiver setting in and goosepimples prickling on his arms through his sodden clothes, then he was in no doubt that she was cold.
And no wonder, given the temperature of the water, and the layers she was... no longer wearing. Conall regarded her blankly for a moment, a little bit dumbfounded, then caught himself staring and hurriedly tore his eyes away. He didn’t need to give her any more reasons for her to think him a barbarian, did he? As for everyone else standing about staring, well - he glared at the faces that looked least dismayed and most amused, hoping to shoo them off to mind their own business, sharpish. One of them had at least the sense to bring a blanket, which Conall promptly ripped from their hand and marched back to Fairchild, throwing it around her shoulders to cover her up and rubbing his hands up and down it against her arms to warm her up. It was at some point amidst this that all the adrenaline and efficiency of his rescue mission thawed abruptly back into awkwardness. (He was sure he had been going to say something to her, but he’d forgotten what.)
