ukan | IC CONTACT

I realize you’re rather busy at the moment. But... there is something I need your help on, if you have a minute.

It might be best to find a spot that isn’t either of our cabins, if it’s all the same to you.

Sure. What about the common room? Or do you mean somewhere more private?

Privacy would probably be best.

All right. There's an empty cabin on level 1, I'll meet you there?

I’ll find you.

[He’ll be there almost as quick as Lark. And Lark may notice that he has a small home first aid kit with him. He doesn’t appear to be wounded, though. Just... sad.]

He looks at the kit and then at Jon, frowning.

"Is that for you or for me?" A mild joke; neither of them have so much as a bruise, as far as he can tell.

“Me,” he says earnestly as he finds a place that he can, at least, lean. He’s noting the frown and he knows this is going to be a hard ask. It also feels....

Not good enough. But he has to do something.

“I won’t talk around it:” a deep breath in. “I would like to ask you to bite me. As a wolf.” A swallow. “Hard enough to scar.”

A long look. It's not a 'no', it's not anywhere near startled. Just confusion.

So he'll be forthright about it, too. "Why?"

A hard swallow because he doesn’t... want to cry. That’s the last thing he deserves to do. Or wants to do.

“Because a friend of mine is dead. Back home.

“And that’s the last thing she gave me before someone shot her. In that world. Before- before I fixed everything.”

And he doesn’t think that whatever he did? Fixed her. Made that better. Because she’d given in well before he ever let the world go mad.

"Jon..." Softly. He understands the power of a mark. He has scars he'd never want to lose, but none as personal as that.

"Will this help you?" It's not a rhetorical question. Jon is smart, he doesn't need Lark to play Socrates right now. If it will help, Lark will do it. Simple as that.

He swallows. And he nods.

“I don’t like pain. What I am, what I can... stand. It doesn’t make me more able to withstand pain. I’m not-“ he chuckles, and it’s dark. Hurting. “I’m so much stronger than I used to be. But that hasn’t changed.”

He looks back at Lark.

“I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, thinking about her. Meanwhile for months she was my- she was my lifeline. And I was hers. I- I came for her, through the foreverdark deep Below Creation. Crawled on my hands and knees until it was crushing us both. And we were together. We helped each other be under all that. I dragged her back out, where her monster could find her. Devour her from the inside- I-“

He shakes his head, because he doesn’t want to go into that, not too far.

“I didn’t want to think about her being dead. But I finally asked him, Martin. And he told me.” He laughs, harsh and full of self-loathing. “I made him tell me which leg. Left.

“The left one. He said, a-as I was there... it was the only thing he saw really hurt me.”

"Tell me how she gave it to you?" He asks, voice low, lest it intrude on everything Jon is seeing inside himself right now.

“We came upon her killing someone,” as he’s not about to sugar coat that, “and when we caught her attention by arguing, she attacked me. My... associate, Basira, her old partner. Killed her.”

"I'm sorry." And he deeply is. Nothing Jon has ever told him has given him a sense that Jon's world is worth going back to, so he's done what he can to just be a steady space here. Often that just means lying at Jon's feet as a wolf and gnawing on rawhide.

Today it means biting him.

"I'm just going to ask once more: this is what you want?"

He looks to Lark.

“In many ways, knowing her...” his eyes are a little wet, though the strange feeling of too much, too many as he focuses on Lark doesn’t change, “knowing her helped me to understand you. To become your friend.”

His eyes close and his breathing is shuddery and harsh as he finishes.

“It should be you. And for once, I-

“I want to choose a scar to carry.”

"Then I will do this for you." He touches Jon's shoulder, urging him to sit down. "Breathe. Relax. I'll be right back."

He has to strip and change forms, so it won't be more than a minute or two.

He’ll nod, and he will sit. He’ll pull a garbage bag, of all things, from his pocket and he’ll put it down on the ground, against the bed a little. He’ll reach down and fold the leg of his trousers up until there’s plenty of space for wolf jaws to clamp down on, to rip him up.

It’s going to hurt.

It’s going to hurt so much more than even the finger hurt.

Moments later a wolf pads in and pushes the door shut with his front paws. He moves over to Jon and licks his face, tail wagging.

It will hurt. Lark is not afraid to hurt those he loves if it will do them good. But that doesn't mean he won't remind them that he cares.

Jon will take the moment to take the licking and even to wrap his arms around Lark a little, hug him. Jon’s not a hugger, not hardly, but in this moment, after asking this, Lark-

Lark needs to know. That he’s loved. That he doesn’t know what he’d do if he thought he was dead permanently.

Then he swallows, audible enough and slips away, setting his leg meat up over the garbage bag.

Lark has jaws that can bite through metal. He has jaws that have pulverized bone in a single snap. He has teeth that don't break or chip, teeth that are meant solely for tearing soft flesh apart.

So the hard part isn't getting over any reservations about hurting a close friend, it's in making sure he doesn't do anything that will require either the infirmary and its magic, or a cane.

And in going fast enough that Jon won't be tense, which would make the damage worse. He lowers his nose, watching Jon breathing, and on an exhale he bites down on Jon's calf, all the way to the bone but merely scraping it, turning his head a little to tear the flesh a little deeper. It needs to scar.

It hurts.

It hurts a lot.

It bleeds as well, because Lark is what Lark is, because those jaws are made for this, and his healing will go slow.

He would have screamed, if he didn’t have a hand over his mouth already. He’s definitely crying, because he’s terrible with pain. But the bleeding ends quickly enough, because he’s what he is and the Eye doesn’t want him bleeding out. The garbage bag catches almost all of it and the pattern on the bedding, well... no one else will probably even notice.

He’s shaking, though, as he goes to grab the first aid kit to get himself bandaged up. Ah yes, this will... this will definitely scar. Thank goodness.

It's one of those times where Lark wishes he could change back fast and do the bandaging himself. But Jon has a handle on it, and so he sets about licking up the scene, as methodically and medetitatively as he has cleaned multiple crime scenes.

When the bag is spotless but damp, he moves to investigate Jon's leg.

Jon's leg has stopped bleeding. It hasn't stopped hurting, probably won't for a couple of days, but it has stopped bleeding. And he's got it mostly bandaged up at this point.

Jon will spare a hand to rub his ears, even though his face is tight with pain.

"Thank you, Lark."

He paces, whining a bit, and then lets himself out the door, changes back, pulls on pants and comes back pulling on his shirt.

"Let me help you back somewhere to rest."

Jon won't even argue with him. He's going to nod, neaten up the first aid kit, and spread out an arm to be helped to his feet.

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