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circle72011-02-10 08:49 pm
fightfair.livejournal.com) wrote in circle72011-02-10 08:49 pm
Entry tags:
the historian's secrets (cologne)
Vico brushed into the room with a clear air of irritation, obvious from even the sound of his footfall as he stomped up the stairs, and clearer yet when he all but kicked open the door and slammed it shut again, throwing his heavier weapons onto one of the beds of the room they had rented during their (hopefully) short stay in Germany. Foreign missions, higher in priority, also cost higher, in terms of resources and time spent, and it was customary for recruits to be gone up to an entire week while carrying out the Brotherhood's orders in unfamiliar lands. There was situating, scouting, and planning involved, all made more difficult because neither of them knew the streets of Cologne quite like they knew those of Romagna, and the patience required in the preparation stage of the mission was wearing on Vico's not-quite-infinite supply of patience.
When he pulled down his hood, mussing up the brown curls on the top of his head, Vico rubbed at a particularly impressive bruise forming on his left cheek, small, compact, and shaped like a rounded rectangle. They had seen enough of such bruises to know that it was probably the work of a well-timed and well-aimed punch, most likely one that Vico had returned with just as much accuracy and probably three times as much force. "These Germans are more skittish than the pigeons in Italy," he muttered, as means of explanation, perhaps. "They jump at every little thing, it is ridiculous!" He waved an arm, expressive as his Italian blood made him, and threw it up at the ceiling as if cursing some imaginary god up there. "You so much as breathe the wrong way and they start pointing their spears at you!"
When he pulled down his hood, mussing up the brown curls on the top of his head, Vico rubbed at a particularly impressive bruise forming on his left cheek, small, compact, and shaped like a rounded rectangle. They had seen enough of such bruises to know that it was probably the work of a well-timed and well-aimed punch, most likely one that Vico had returned with just as much accuracy and probably three times as much force. "These Germans are more skittish than the pigeons in Italy," he muttered, as means of explanation, perhaps. "They jump at every little thing, it is ridiculous!" He waved an arm, expressive as his Italian blood made him, and threw it up at the ceiling as if cursing some imaginary god up there. "You so much as breathe the wrong way and they start pointing their spears at you!"
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He settled back, the weapon falling to the floor at his side with a dull thump. Vico was slouched against the wall, sitting to favor his right leg, because the arrow sticking out of its side, a few inches above the knee, probably made everything else a little...uncomfortable. The German guards were fast, he would have to admit that much. They were on surprisingly diligent alert considering Cologne was nowhere near as tumultuous as Rome.
"Were you followed?" he asked, fighting a hiss as he shifted. "Get away from the window before everyone in Germania sees you lying there like a sitting duck."
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Kneeling down, he let what little light was in the room illuminate the wound, fingers brushing up to the top of the arrow. This was the easy part - snapping off the end with a small crack of splintering wood for a smooth exit. The tip was not like the bolts of an arrow, though; it was smooth, only a little wider than the wood itself, but it would still irritate the wound if it went an opposite way of its entry, and that small difference in width could still hurt. Best not to push it with a person like Vico.
"Feel free to punch me if you must," Adamo said, perhaps trying to be funny (or maybe he meant it), yanking the stick straight out.
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His eyes were hazy with pain and blood loss when he finally opened them, Adamo already in the process of tying up the wound to staunch the bleeding. It must have been luck, because the arrow had not stricken anything fatal, and given a few weeks time (and perhaps a few visits to the oh-so-beloved doctors), there would only be a scar to mark its memory. He settled back against the wall, uncharacteristically quiet, and simply stared down until Adamo drew away. Then he slowly raised a hand and...
...Pressed the thumb right into Adamo's cut. "Oh. Sei feriti."
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Adamo's hissed as the intrusion broke his focus, arm flinching away, hands withdrawing from the knot of bandages he just finished tying. His other hand covered it, his palm wet with the blood. Part of him almost believed that Vico knew already, and was doing this on purpose. He searched his face for any sign of a grin or smirk.
"Si. I hope you are not being sarcastic."
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Putting the bandages within Vico's reach, he turned sideways where the wound was facing the other man. He took off his bracer sliding the reddened sleeve up to clear the area. (His sleeve, too, needed some repair - but he lacked the materials for that.) It looked worse than it was, the blood having smeared across the skin from not tending to it. The cut itself was fairly smooth, and while deep, the bleeding had stopped for the most part.
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When he was done, he dragged himself up to his feet, heavily leaning his weight on his good leg as he did so. Stubborn and proud, he didn't ask for help, but either way, the pain was inevitable. "The ride is going to be hell," Vico said with a small laugh as he dropped himself onto the bed, wincing when the impact shot a jolt of pain up his side. His eyes were closed; the weariness of the day had to be catching up to him, and like he had been as a child, Vico did not deal well with sleepiness. It almost always came out the victor.
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