cicatricem | saltburnt Inbox

[ is sang-wook enjoying some peace and quiet? is he actually getting a good night's sleep? regardless of what he's doing, one night, at an absurdly late hour, he'll get a sudden knocking at his door, and if he checks to see what's on the other side, there'll be a nightgown-dressed bella, in nothing else but her slippers, with a somber look upon her face, pausing between her knocks to wait for a moment before repeating the rapping of her knuckles. ]

[Sang-Wook doesn't hear any urgency in the rapping — or, well, the kind of urgency that usually sounds like someone on the verge of getting eaten or stabbed by something. He rolls over in his bed to stare at the door for a moment, one eye opened into a slit, the other closed.

He's not particularly worried about werewolves, round two — but even then, he probably would still get up and start toward the door begrudgingly. Also, he picks up the hammer he's kept under his pillow on the way.

What? It's a crazy world out there.

When he opens the door a sliver, he squints. Then he slightly lowers the weapon where it's cocked back in the shadows and ready to bash. The uneven ridges of his right cheek cast harsher shadows in the hallway lights.]

... It's late.

[Translation: What are you doing here so late?]

[ bella has had quite the restless night. the end of the werewolf game should have brought about relief, especially in the return of so many that had died, bodies that she herself had opened and studied. and yet, it is because of that very same reason, the closeness she'd had with those corpses that had left her so concerned with questions on its possibilities.

but it hadn't been until matt's death — unrelated to the game — that she'd been truly shook in the face of it. it had been a return of the helplessness she'd felt when harry had shown her the suffering of the poor, left to die.

as she could not sleep, she had chosen to walk, and in that walking, she had been brought here, as their promise (or the one she had forced upon him) would have permitted her to seek his aid when distressed.

she looks at him now, eyes faintly wet. ]

Hello, friend. Would you allow me to step inside?

Uh — Hello.

[Stilted, suddenly awkward, for a multitude of reasons. One, to haltingly decide not to use the word 'friend' for the first time since he was a healthy, happy teenager. Two, because there is a woman outside of his room in the dead of night — a situation that both feels familiar and yet utterly unfamiliar all at once.

First thing is first: he looks out the door further, eying the hallway with a glint of something predatory, something sharp. Fingers clench around the hammer at his side, as memories of past jobs flitter through his mind.]

Is someone trying to hurt you?

[He doesn't see anyone, and there's no point in making her explain outside, so he opens the door to allow her entry past his half-naked figure; he'd have grabbed something to put on, but sometimes you just got to grab a hammer and prepare to bash something's head in. You know how it can be.]

[ it's only that he's blocking the path between the doorway and the room that she doesn't merely step inside all on her own, though it's for the best since she knows she must learn to ask permission for such things — polites of society, she reminds herself. with his question, she gives a firm shake of her head, though that's the most of an answer she provides as he allows her the space she'd requested.

she slips directly past him, unbothered by his state of dress or lack there of, as such things as clothing or exposed skin gives her very little bother. her attention is far too caught up in her own emotions, regardless, and she practically makes a bee line for his bed, turning on her heel when she reaches it so she can climb backwards over the edge to sit atop it, lifting her legs to scoot her knees up to her chest. ]

No one has sought to harm me. It is just that I feel ... quite sad, with heavy emotions that are difficult to convey into words. [ whether he stays by the door or moves back into the room, bella continues. ] Matt Jamison is dead. He has died by the hands of another, as many have in these weeks. But he had been my patient while he was alive. I had performed surgery to save his life and he had lived — except now he is not. I ... I have failed someone. [ her face scrunches, tears growing heavier in her eyes. ] I had sought to protect another and I could do nothing. How am I to be a doctor if I can't keep others from death?

[Sang-Wook watches her the entire way, before placing the hammer on the dresser. He doesn't approach just yet — just listens to her speak her mind with his hands finding his pockets. He's never been very good at comforting people. He's never been very good at even touching people, let alone being near them. But. He's trying. He's always trying these days, even while its haunted him since bleeding out against the backside of a car door.

He approaches and sits on the edge of the bed. Aches for the cigarettes on the nightstand, far out of reach, but disregards addiction with pointed indifference to it.]

... A doctor keeps their patient alive as long as they can. But everyone has to die. Whether it's the next day, or sixty years later.

It's not on you to invent immortality.

[ she breathes out a sob, her cheeks becoming wet as she ponders these invasive, cruel thoughts, lingering on her failures with so much uncertainty on how to make it better. she doesn't move as he approaches the bed to join her in sitting on it, though she does gives him a glance as she sniffles.

listening to his words, she lets them sit with her for a moment. ]

So many died in the games and yet they came back. [ she turns to him with her eyes wide and questioning, wet with a kind of silent desperation. ] Can I not do the same? To bring someone from death?

[ a naive question and yet bella still lingers in, on the line between absurd ideals and sensible reality. ]

I want to give more to the world. It is painful to have so little to give.

[oh god not CRYING, he has no clue how to HANDLE CRYING-]

[Okay, his double-take is over, he needs to process this situation with newly acquired and very unpractied sensitivity. He awkwardly scoots closer, hesitating before putting a hand on her shoulder. Pat, pat.]

Good people give a little at a time, and it adds up.

[Sang-Wook can't relate to that, but it's fine.]

Maybe you're thinking too big.

Think smaller.

saltburnt Inbox

action — during one of the nights following the werewolf game.

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