Valerian watched tensely as Ford rummaged through his coat pocket, eyes widened slightly in worry at the thought that he might have something in his pocket he didn't want Greengrass to see. He'd flirted with a few men since their breakup, and even taken a favor or two—nothing outwardly romantic or vulgar, but tokens he kept in case he ran into them again. Fortunately it was not another man's handkerchief, a note, or anything else Greengrass might pick up on, but a vial of...

"No, not that," he said quickly, recognizing it as one of his mother's poisons that she'd asked him to tweak the recipe on. It was unlabeled, fortunately, but also potent and unlikely to respond well against Greengrass' skin in the event that the bottle spilled or broke. That would be something he'd be unwilling to forgive himself for. "It would be wide, diamond-shaped, green in hue," he rambled on, nervously glancing back between Greengrass and his bag.

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Macnair's response was so rushed and vehement that it startled Ford. He managed not to drop the vial but couldn't help shooting a confused glance up at Macnair's face, which he'd been very intentionally not looking at since his confession earlier. Ford flushed and hurriedly shifted his gaze back towards the bag, dropping the vial into it and searching for the one Macnair had described.

Did healers normally walk around with all these sorts of things in their pockets? And why had Macnair been so touchy about the last one? Not that it was any of Ford's business, really, but given the circumstances he couldn't help but wonder.

"Here," he announced, pulling the green vial from inside. For a split second he reflected on the similarity of this situation to another one he'd been in that spring, sent to locate things he wasn't familiar with armed with only a vague description. Of course, this was nothing like being in a storeroom with Billy Darrow, because Macnair wasn't holding him hostage and the thing Ford was looking for wasn't going to be used against him once he found it. Except Macnair had followed him when Ford had been quite desperately trying to run away, and he'd given no indication he intended to let him leave once his arm was healed. Maybe this had a little more in common than he would have thought at first glance. Maybe handing over this dittany was going to doom him, leaving him vulnerable in ways he didn't want to be.

Not that it made any difference, really. Ford still held the bottle of dittany out; there was never any question of his leaving.

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Set by Lady!

Valerian found himself holding his breath, wondering whether Greengrass would listen to his instructions or ask questions. Fortunately he chose the former, sparing Valerian the need to explain himself in what would undoubtedly turn out to be a string of far-fetched half-truths made even less believable by the pain he was experiencing. Even more fortunately Greengrass was quick to find the bottle, and once it was in his hand he made quick work of it.

He'd had dittany used on him before. It was common for healers to allow themselves to feel the effects of specific remedies to help themselves better understand what their patients were feeling, and dittany was frequently used in its diluted form to assist with rashes and flesh-eating plant wounds. However, pure dittany on bare skin—especially on such deep cuts—was excruciating, so much so that his hand began to shake with anticipation as he slowly tilted the bottle over the deepest wound on his arm. The substance hit his skin, causing it to pop and sizzle, and—much to his dismay—causing him to let out a series of high-pitched whimpers and closed-lipped groans. He dropped the bottle when it hit a particularly painful spot, but luckily it landed upright near his leg.

"You'll have to do it," he said through gritted teeth, "My body and mind aren't cooperating." Which could be said for more than just the dittany today. "Just—slowly pour it over the wounds. It heals fairly quickly, so you'll know you're doing it right, he explained, and then for good measure added, "Please."

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The noise Macnair made when the dittany first hit his arm made Ford wince and scoot backwards slightly. There were many reasons he hadn't become a healer, but one of them was certainly this: witnessing other people in pain made him highly uncomfortable. Knowing that Macnair was in enough pain to make noises like that was even worse. Ford pointedly looked away, hoping he could try to block the whole thing out until it was done... until Macnair said he'd have to take over.

I can't, he thought, as the bottom of his stomach dropped past the top of the pavement. But it wasn't as though he had much of a choice, so he swallowed hard and reached for the bottle of dittany with a hand that was only slightly trembling. Merlin help him. If there were any other options he would have demurred, but there wasn't anyone else around whose hands would be any steadier, and he couldn't just leave Macnair bleeding in an alleyway.

Ford didn't want to touch him (because of the bare skin or because of the blood, he wasn't sure) but it didn't seem he'd be able to get through this without doing so he reached out and placed his free hand under Macnair's elbow, gently turning his arm so that he could see the wound better. Which, Merlin, he immediately wished he hadn't done. Ford wasn't especially squeamish, but that didn't mean he enjoyed looking at a gash like this. It was unavoidable, though; he could hardly proceed if he couldn't see what he was doing.

He glanced over at Macnair's face and bit his lip, as though he wanted to give him one last chance to change his mind and do it himself. Taking a deep breath, he started to pour the dittany, with an agonizing slowness in the hopes that that might make it hurt a little less for Macnair, even if it prolonged this unpleasant ordeal for Ford.

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

As much as he'd have loved to enjoy the momentary skin contact, it was hard to do so when his skin was quite literally burning. Or it least it felt like that. Merlin, had it always been this bad? Somehow the added noises made the pain all the worse, because even turning his head didn't allow him any distraction. Greengrass being the one to do it didn't make it feel any better, but it did make him less comfortable voicing his distress. The droplets made contact with his wound, and it was all he could do to stop himself from wrenching his arm away. He felt himself trembling under the steadying support of Greengrass' hand, but he couldn't bring himself to watch Greengrass play nurse. His head was tilted down and his eyes squeezed shut.

"I can't—fuck," he snapped, pulling his arm away from Greengrass and instinctively reaching up with his opposite hand to press against the wound. No the brightest idea. He whimpered again, only he knew it was a stupid mistake so he waved Greengrass off, still unable to make eye contact. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he repeated, hoping Greengrass would not think he was to blame for his suffering (well, not this suffering. He was to blame for the splinching, but he couldn't bring himself to blame him. Not after what he'd admitted.)

"I just—I really do hate dittany," he explained, the burning sensation dying off just long enough for Valerian to find the the willpower to hold his arm out. In doing so he looked back up at Greengrass, feeling more vulnerable than he ever had and not in a good way. "Keep going. I trust you." Enough to pour a few droplets of dittany, at least.

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Ford inhaled sharply when Macnair swore, sure that he'd done something wrong. He was ready to accept all the blame and hand the task back over to Macnair, or to do whatever else he needed — take him to a hospital, go find someone with steadier hands from inside Black's, even take him back to the Greengrass house if that would help anything. That didn't seem to be in the cards, though, because Macnair was apologizing and seemed to be steeling himself for another round. Ford swallowed, trying to get his own nerves back up to the task, and then Macnair said I trust you. Ford looked up at him, shocked, and then his lower lip trembled dangerously.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought as he hastily shifted his eyes to some indistinct point down the alley. No, no, no.

Ford took a deep breath in through his nose, then looked back at Macnair's arm. Not his face, not his eyes — just the bloody wound. He reached out to take Macnair's arm in his hand again and scooted a little closer, so that he'd be able to hold on if he tried to pull away again. "Hold still," he muttered, so quietly he barely heard the words himself, then tipped the dittany bottle until it started to drip out again. At the first indication from Macnair that he was in pain again, Ford moved closer. He put his body essentially between Macnair's torso and his arm, his shoulder and his whole side pressed up against Macnair's chest with his head turned towards the wound. It was more instinct than conscious thought, perhaps born out of a desire to try and comfort Macnair or Ford's own unwillingness to have to witness him in pain or some mixture of both. When he realized where he was, Ford stopped breathing, but he kept pouring the dittany in the hopes that he'd be able to get through this ordeal sooner.

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

The eye contact was brief, but it was enough to make Valerian's heart skip a beat. There was something there in his expression, something he desperately wanted to unpack and act on... except it was quite possibly the worst time for that, considering that the pain had not subsided even after half of the wound had been coated with dittany already. He kept his mouth shut, still afraid that he would let out some embarrassing sound; he could do whimpers and hisses and groans, but he refused to squeak or squeal or sob. He tried to distract himself with the image of Greengrass' expression again—slightly widened eyes and a trembling lip, looking so innocent and confused and upset all at the same time. It was almost as maddening as the dittany.

Relief washed over him when the tense silence was replaced with action. Greengrass grabbed his arm and began working on it once more, only this time he'd positioned himself so his entire body was wedged between Valerian's chest. He hadn't wanted to see what Greengrass was doing before, but now that he physically couldn't see he tilted his head at an uncomfortable angle to try and get a look. His breath came out in pants as the dittany touched his skin once more, but he tried to suppress the groans that pressed at the base of his throat. Greengrass was so close, and now that he'd made a quicker job at handling the dittany he didn't want to make a single sound that would make him hesitate. He was doing a good job—better than he would have expected, and he knew he wasn't making things easier.

It felt like an hour, truly, but realistically Valerian knew it couldn't have been more than two minutes by the time Greengrass had managed to work his way to his shoulder. There was one spot that was particularly painful, but also so high on his shoulder that Valerian could only see the bright red of the broken flesh from where he'd pulled back to allow Greengrass greater access. His chest shook with a silent sob, and he dropped his head against Greengrass' shoulder, unable to consider how Greengrass might take it with how the stinging sensation had so completely taken over his senses.

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Bloody fucking hell, was about as articulate as Ford's thoughts were capable of being when Macnair draped his head over Ford's shoulder. He couldn't necessarily blame Macnair for it when he was clearly in so much pain and almost certainly not thinking straight, but Ford was seized with a sense that this was an injustice all the same. For a moment he wished that someone else knew about this entire relationship, specifically so that he could tell them about this moment and watch their mouth drop open and feel vindicated when they said bloody hell, that's awful. As it was, no one knew, so he was just going to have to bury it somewhere in his chest with all the other things he never got to talk about and hope that it laid dormant there instead of building up until he eventually exploded.

"It's done," he said in a rush, forcing himself to breath again. He was still pressed up against Macnair and Macnair's head was still on his shoulder and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to get out of this situation, but at least this part was over. He fumbled for the cap of the dittany and scanned Macnair's wound again, making sure he hadn't missed anything. The sight of the wound and the blood made his stomach flip, but it looked like it was all knitting itself back together.

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Set by Lady!

Valerian finally lifted his head and was immediately overwhelmed by a dizzy, head-spinning sensation that forced him to keep his eyes shut. He’s always been a better healer than a patient, and he knew that, but it didn’t stop him from wishing that he’d been less expressive while Greengrass was tending to him. As he came back around to his senses he was flooded with embarrassment.

“I’m—” he tried, but bit his tongue and winced. Greengrass was so close, and only then did he realize that the other man looked just as flustered as he felt. What could he say to explain himself? Sorry you had to heal me after you apparated without letting me know? It wasn’t as if this was the time to start in about the comment he’d made at the club. He took deep breaths, trying to get himself to a point where he’d be able to stand and talk without making a fool of himself.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured, pulling himself back to allow Greengrass a chance to free himself.

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Ford was very aware of how close they were, but that didn't stop him from being startled by it again once he had to turn his head to look at Macnair. Close enough to kiss was what came to mind, but even that didn't really encompass it. At least Macnair didn't seem to have any intention of staying that close, and as he started to straighten out Ford scooted backwards until there was a nice, respectable distance between them. Or what would have been a respectable distance, anyway, if Macnair wasn't half naked. Ford's jacket and pants had both been stained with blood by this point and Macnair's arm was still a mess, so it wasn't as though anyone would see them and get the wrong idea, but still. The sooner he was clothed again, the better.

Ford swallowed and tried to consider what to say in response to Macnair's thank you. There was nothing he wanted to say in general, which was why he'd so adamantly refused leaving the club with Macnair in the first place. Even if he said nothing, staying here seemed dangerous. Macnair might say something that Ford didn't expect and turn his world upside down, and he didn't want that. He didn't want to hear Macnair say I trust you or feel his fingers brush against Ford's face. If he'd wanted to be hopelessly and miserably in love with someone that he knew would only end up hurting him, he wouldn't have broken things off in the first place.

He scooted away from Macnair again, just to be sure there wasn't any way Macnair was touching him (as if Macnair could have touched him somewhere without his realizing it and fixating on it) and reached for his wand. "I'm sorry," he blurted out at the last minute. Then he apparated to the garden behind the Greengrass house and collapsed on his back on the cobblestones, staring up at the distant, murky stars.

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Set by Lady!