themorbidsocialite | A Marsh Guest

"Fuck you're losing too much blood," Devil muttered. Mori needn't lean against anything, because once the Devil got up to the door he briefly balanced on one leg and kicked the door a few times, "Jane! Emergency! We've got a bleeding idiot here, in both senses of the word!"

After a moment some hurried footsteps came towards the front. Maven opened the door, dressed in a wrapper over her chemise with her hair pulled in a loose low ponytail. It was clear they had not been expecting company this evening.

"You're already back? What-" Maven started as she opened the door, then gasped at the sight, "Oh my goodness what happened?!"

"Marsh wolves," Brash Devil said simply as he carried the Socialite inside.

"I do apologize, Doctor Rosewood, for the short notice as well as the mess. I did insist I be allowed th' trek home, but someone was insistent..." Mori waved a hand as he passed by. "I c'n assure you, I can stitch m'self up just fine once the, um... Once the dizziness passes. I'll be right."

In the light of their home, it was much clearer that the Socialite had lost quite a bit of blood and was a sickly pale. How they were sitting upright was a mystery in and of itself, let alone how he was still awake. He squinted up at the Devil. "'m sorry, 'm leavin' blood in your house and I never got your name, lad."

Maven was in the process of getting her doctor supplies as Devil brought Mori over to the couch. He had briefly considered the table since it would be a bigger surface to lay him on, like those operating tables he'd seen. Plus then there wouldn't be blood seeping into the couch. But he knew Maven would insist on making Mori comfortable as she worked, so the couch it was.

"It's Derek, now pipe down and stop with this nonsense about you doing this yourself. You aren't the only Doctor around here."

"Quite right," Maven had placed all the needed supplies on the table beside the couch, then walked over, "Okay Mori, I'm going to have to undress you in order to see the wounds better." While she still spoke with concern for the Socialite, her voice was becoming a bit more clinical, the panic of the sudden appearance of the wounded classmate replaced with the sense of a professional at work.

Despite being told to remove the clothes in a normal manner, Mori pulled a set of shears from his bag and cut along the buttons of his shirt and the whole of the pants leg. "If I'm losing 's much blood as I likely am, can't waste time on formalities. Best t'jus' do away with the lot of it. Jay-sus, the loss is dizzying... If you don't have disinfectant handy, we'll need clear alcohol like a gin or vodka. Might take a swig of it, too, to numb the pain. Bastard shook its head in the brawl, so the leg'll need a proper restructurin', maybe even a death an' reform. The side, however, can be stitched proper. I c'n do the stitching myself. 's what I do best. But the leg's the nasty bit. I can respect, if you don't want to do it on short notice. I c'n go home to have a game with the Boatman."

Even around the tired slurring, Dr. Malodrema was focused, zeroed in on the issue at hand, even if the assumptions on how to best fix the worst of it were overly dire and blunt. They were already looting their own bag for medical supplies on hand.

Happy to see Mori taking this seriously, Maven knelt down beside them and got to work, "I'll see what I can do about the leg. If you insist on stitching your side you may, but I will have to insist you not drink any alcohol if you do. Your mind is dizzy enough from the blood loss, you need to keep your wits about you. I can give you disinfectant to sterilize it, and maybe later once we've taken care of everything and gotten some food in you we can get you a drink for the pain." She glanced at the Brash Devil, "Can you prepare the towels for afterwards?"

He nodded and left to do that.

Edited 2025-07-06 21:21 (UTC)

Mori was oddly quiet in their focus, sterilizing the curved needle and cleaning their side of blood before starting work stitching. There was an unmasked exhaustion and dread across his face, unfamiliar and uncanny on the usually jovial, expressive features. There was something hard and cold behind the eyes that spilled the hand and pushed sight through the blinking stars in his vision and focused on the wounds.

Of course, shirtless, there were countless other scars across his torso, including a recently agitated one on his arm and a surgically precise wound, surface level, on the other hip. Each one had been closed with perfect sutures, a hand practiced at closing bodies to appear perfect and unmarred. Breathing was carefully timed with each stitch, ensuring that the chest was neither moving as the thread pulled through nor exhaling, allowing any inhale to strain, tear, or pop the stitching. He'd done this again and again and again; for what?

What in the world was Mementomori doing in the Marshes?

Maven was focused as well. The only words out of her mouth were to give Mori warning if she was about to do something that would cause them pain, as a courtesy and because she didn't want to make them slip in their stitches. At one point the Brash Devil came back with sterilized towels. He muttered to Maven something about taking dinner off the stove, to which she merely gave a nod of acknowledgement.

Meanwhile she focused on flushing out the wound of any remaining marsh bits left in and disinfecting the site. Once she was sure the area was as clean as she could make it, she got to work on stitches herself.

Still, she did occasionally glance up and noted the scars along Mori's body. Surely not all of those could be from similar emergencies. Was Mori experimenting on himself?

Something to ask about later, as well as what the Socialite was doing in the marsh in the first place. Right now, focus.

Mori eventually wrapped the stomach wounds with a wince, each one protected by a line of cotton poffs to keep from being disturbed by the bandages.

He wasn't unfeeling. He flinched and grimaced and bit back tears, but a doctor has to know how to work past it all. You don't work with bodies if you're squeamish or afraid of injury or blood. You don't work with scalpels, if you're afraid of getting cut. You don't operate on yourself, if you're afraid of pain.

Mori finally leaned back, blood-crusted arm over his eyes, swallowing down breaths of air like they might be their last as the Maven worked. "You didn't have to do this, Jane..." The voice was weak, soft, but clear in the focused silence. It wasn't biting, though, or accusatory or prideful. If anything, it was ashamed. Ashamed of being a burden, ashamed of needing help, maybe even ashamed of accepting help at all.

Maven was wrapping up the leg when the Socialite said this. At that her face softened. Now that the worst of it was over, she could focus on making sure Mori was alright emotionally and mentally as well.

"Of course I did," Maven said softly as she finished wrapping the leg, getting one of the many towels and wiping her hands, "There was no chance that I was going to just leave you and not help." After she wiped her hands clean, she tossed the towel into an empty bowl and got another one. She sat beside Mori and gently grabbed their arm so she could clean it. (she wasn't wearing her usual white gloves; on the forearm of her right arm there was a small tattoo of the sun)

Mori sighed, letting her take the arm, the other one wrapped around his stomach. "You needn't have interrupted your supper for this. I could have handled it myself, I can assure you. I've spoiled an evening you and Derek were sharing. You needn't have helped a man who can help himself."

Could he have, though? Or would he have just let himself die it off? Could either of them truly know for sure what would have happened?

The bag was pulled close to his uninjured side, pressed against him. It smelled of marsh dirt, mildew, and musty water and clinked with glass when it moved. He hadn't checked the contents yet. Perhaps they were afraid of what they would see inside. Perhaps they were afraid of this all being for naught. Perhaps they were afraid of if they were intact...

"I must leave shortly. My partners will be expecting me." This was, of course, a lie. A yet unanswered invitation from just that morning had said his spouses were away for the remainder of the week: one at zee, the other on a Fourth City expedition.

Maven just gave them a raised eyebrow at that, and after looking at Mori for a moment said, "You really shouldn't be going anywhere right now with all the blood you just lost. We can send word to your spouses so that they don't worry. But in my professional capacity as a Doctor, and as your friend and colleague, I think the best thing right now would be for you to stay here and rest for the night, then you can go home in the morning. The dinner isn't ruined, I can easily heat it back up and finish it. You should join us for dinner, we're having a stew that should help fill you and restore some of your strength."

"I really shouldn't. I've imposed too much already and you needn't bother yourself with--!" Mori had tried to stand as soon as the bandages were secure, but found himself collapsing with a choked cry of pain, only barely catching himself on the couch. Strained tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, either out of continued pain or out of the realization that he was cornered. They weren't going to be able to back out of this one, but they were also certain they wouldn't be able to handle. The mask of formality had already started to slip in the process of getting here and getting patched up. They wouldn't be able to maintain it all night.

But they had no choice. Not after that fall. He'd just doomed himself.

Maven gasped as Mori collapsed back on the couch, then winced at the look on their face. She waited a moment for what she was sure a wave of pain to pass over, then placed a hand on Mori's shoulder and looked then in the eyes, "Mori, please. This isn't an imposition, this isn't a bother. You're my friend, this is what friends do. I understand the impulse and desire to insist things are fine when they clearly aren't, but you don't have to try this hard to put up such a front, it's okay to admit the truth."

Mori wanted terribly to scream at the thought. The truth? What truth? When had the truth ever been valued more than appearances? When did the diagnosis matter more than bedside manner? Nobody wanted the ugly, screaming, bleeding truth, ripped from his hands like a still beating heart. It was never about the truth! It was about ego and pride and being able to tell yourself you're a good person! Nobody wanted him! Not really! They wanted the Morbid Socialite! They wanted the man skilled in talking their way out of any situation! They wanted the poised, composed, jovial man with a penchant for the melodramatic! Nobody wanted the creature that would sooner rip apart his own sternum and sever his lungs than tell another person how he feels! Nobody wanted the monster covered elbow down in dead blood, unexpressive yet feeling far too much! Too direct, too emotional, too morbid, too much! They were only ever too much and he couldn't stand the idea of the Maven pretending to want that from them!

They wanted to take her shoulders and cry that this wasn't about what either of them wanted, that nobody cared about what was best for either of them. He wanted to open the bag and show her, show Jane Rosewood the skeleton in his closet before she could find it herself, ruin their friendship before it could take root. Their chest burst with the desire to just stop pretending, knowing that doing so, dropping the mask fully, would terrify and hurt the witnesses. He wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that he was about to spit in the face of God and kick His ribs until the holy corpse rotted and the blood salted the earth. He wanted to rip the truth from his stomach like a line of intestines and grind it into the dirt with his heel. They wanted to look the Maven in the eye and tell her that her sympathy shouldn't be wasted.

To the Maven, it was but a moment of thought, eyes flickering across the ground in front. When they darted back up, the Socialite looked at the woman across from him and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"If you so insist," was Mori's weak, almost emotionless response. Not hateful or sad or scared; simply nothing. Nothing was easier than enthusiasm, even if societal convention forced him to accept. Even if his heart begged him to accept. Nothing was easier. "I cannot guarantee I will be pleasant company."

Despite Mori finally acquiescing to staying, Maven couldn't help but feel disappointed. Just like in the second class, she saw the walls go up around them. Perhaps she pushed too hard.

Either way, at least he was being reasonable and allowing themselves to rest. She gave them a smile, "You were just attacked by a marsh wolf, you can be as unpleasant as you wish, I'll understand."

The Brash Devil popped back in, "Everything fine?"

Maven looked at him, "Yes, they're all patched up."

"Alright, then I'm going to head out and finish the hunt, so it'll be just you two for dinner," he began to get ready to go.

Mori nodded at the Devil, sticking to the script memorized by rote. "Apologies for the interruption and best of luck to you in your hunt."

If there was anything else he wanted to say, it wasn't clear on his face, saved for a better time. Blow out the boiling emotions like a candle, shut it all down, everything under lock and key. Nothing was easier.

The next attempt at standing was with a breath and a slow, careful, deliberate rise from the now stained couch, propped up against the arm.

"Just make sure you're relaxing," Brash Devil nodded at the Socialite, then looked at Maven, "Give him those old clothes I never wear."

"Did you eat at least?" Maven asked.

"Yep, had a bowl just now and a slice of the apple pie that was cooling," Devil walked over, kissed Maven, "Don't wait up, get some sleep." With that he headed out.

When Maven saw Mori trying to stand she hurried to his side, afraid he might collapse, "Careful now, don't push yourself too much."

Mori looked up, meeting her eyes. Just try, his mind told him. He smiled, shaky and unsure, but present. "I'm being careful. I promise. No more collapsing."

There, see? He was not broken. It was not too late. He may have been out of it, but he could keep a handle on this. He could control the outcome.

"Derek mentioned apple pie? That's a New World dessert, is it not? I'm curious to try it." The Morbid Socialite was unsure on their feet, trying to hide their wincing and biting their lip to hide the pain. They could manage. He had to manage. He let the smile fall when she wasn't looking.

"Oh, yes," Maven nodded, "It was a recipe sent to me by... two friends." The way she said that made it sound like there was quite an Exceptional Story behind that, but she merely moved on, "Always difficult acquiring fruit, fresh or canned, but I managed to get some canned apples while out the other day and wanted to make some."

She seemed reluctant to leave, as if afraid he would bolt the second she left. So she held out a hand, "Here, I'll show you where the washroom is and then get you those clothes. Then I'll heat dinner up."

"I do appreciate your assistance, regardless of my capability of self care. You're quite kind." The Socialite took her hand and, carefully avoiding weight on the damaged side, allowed her to lead him to the washroom. Composure, control, force a smile, nod along, just make it to privacy. He could do at least that much before shattering.

Maven led him across the living room, down the hall, and to a specific room, "Here you go. I'll be back in a minute with the clothes."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." The Socialite watched her go, then entered the washroom, leaning up against the washbasin, the door closed. He turned on the faucet, did the necessary washing up, then left it running as he stared into the mirror. Tired. Old. Flakes of dried blood sticking around his eyes where he'd lain his arm. His grip on his mask was loosening.

Perhaps, if he pretended he was doing better, Jane would let him leave early. Mori braced against the washbasin and let his weight shift over to his injured side. Lightning almost immediately shot up the side of him, bring tears to his eyes and nearly cracking his nails with the force he gripped the basin. They bit their lip to keep from crying out in agony. That marsh-wolf did a real number on him and the wounds wouldn't let him forget. He swore under his breath and shifted the weight back over.

There was no pretending around that. They were well and truly stuck in a kind and giving Hell. How else could they manage this time? What did he need to focus on as his priorities?

Firstly, the bag, left on the couch, unlocked, in the open. For now, it was a lost cause. After dinner, he might be able to secure it, but it was currently unguarded. Second, Mori's own mood. Jane was already put off by the quick fluctuations, he could tell. She knew something was up. It would be impossible to keep perfectly situated all through dinner, so to what degree could he allow openness? Thirdly, and of course this would likely arrive as a dinner or brandy topic, the assignment. The crime against nature and the laws of reality. If she asked... Good lord, if she asked... Would he even be able to lie?

Maven went back through the living room on her way to get clothes. She glanced at the mess on the couch and the table beside it. The couch can be a concern for later, but at least she can put the supplies away and put his bag somewhere other than the bloodstained couch. First she'll get the clothes.

The Socialite was being even more obstinate about their facade than usual. She tried not to push them too much because whatever reason they have for this front, it is their business. It did make her sad when people were not their authentic selves, admittedly, but it wasn't her place to tell them how to live life.

But this seemed beyond his mask of upper class pretentiousness, even beyond the frustrating restrains of English pride and decorum.

It felt like Mori was actively hiding something. Probably having to do with why they were in the marsh in the first place.

She didn't want to pry, but it concerned her. She'll have to see if she could talk to them about it over dinner.

She quickly procured some clothes for Mori. Hopefully it would fit them alright. She headed back to the washroom and knocked, "Mori? I brought you a change of clothes."

The Maven's voice broke through the darkening fog of intense thought, bringing the Socialite back to the reality that awaited them. His cheeks felt wet with tears and he quickly scrubbed their existence away. He turned off the water and opened the door a crack. "Ah, thank you. If you would pass them through, I'll be dressed and out shortly."

The challenge of dressing with a severely injured leg was a daunting, yet necessary prospect.

Maven was about to insist on helping them dress, but she knew she was already imposing enough on them. She wanted to allow them some dignity. So she handed the clothes between the crack, but did add, "If you need any help just call for me. I'm going to clean up a bit, then I'll heat up dinner."

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