Snippet #1526754

Running a hand through his hair, he leaned back in his chair when she stirred. The rag in his loose grip swung slowly to and fro. She mumbled almost incoherently but he heard her words. Rolling his eyes at her pathetic defense, he leaned forward again and grunted when she raised up. About to speak, his mouth closed when she flopped back to the bed; losing consciousness again. Thankfully. Licking his lips, he undid the top of the liquor bottle, and took a deep draft before placing the bottle on the vanity and going back to dressing around the wound. From what he deduced so far as he worked on medicating her skin, her wings had been ripped off. Fragments of feathers, even whole, still clung to her back by help of blood that worked as a substitute for glue. Dipping the rag in the warm medicine he'd made from remembering some healing methods for harsh cuts by an old family member...one that had to be used on him countless times.
Connor shuddered, closed his eyes, took a breath. A deep, calming one. It was involuntary, he couldn't stop it. It was one of the most rare reflexes he ever had. And he needed it, to block off that memory from infiltrating the nothingness of his mind.

Getting up for a while, he headed down the stairs to get something. What it was, he didn't know. But at that particular moment in time, he just needed to be out the room. Away from her. He paused and reached in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes. Sliding one up, he reached for his lighter; lit the end and took a deep inhale. Smoking was one of the few habits he'd picked up overtime, and for an immortal as himself who gained little to no pleasure from adapting some human habits; smoking and drinking were the only two he had to say which helped him on most days to just get by.
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