Page 117 of Psycho Pack
"I'm not seeing shit, I'm seeing birds," Valek replies simply.
I bite back a smile as Whiskey launches into another round of creative cursing. The familiar bickering helps ease some of the tension coiled in my gut.
It's almost... normal.
As normal as anything can be in this impossible place.
Wraith tenses up again as the attendant begins stitching his wound. His jaw clenches beneath the white scarf, but he stays still. I stroke my thumb across his scarred knuckles, offering what comfort I can.
"Motherfucker!" Whiskey snarls. "That one definitely wasn't necessary!"
"My deepest apologies," his attendant says serenely.
Even Thane cracks a smile at that, though he quickly schools his expression back to stern neutrality. He's handling his own treatment with stoic grace, barely flinching as an attendant cleans a nasty cut above his eye.
My attention drifts to Plague, who stands apart from everyone else, staring out one of the arched windows. He hasn't said a word since we entered the guest wing. The weight of his secrets hangs heavy in the air, making the space between us feel vast despite the relatively small room.
The queen stands beside him, but she isn't speaking, either. They're just standing together in companionable silence, looking out over the kingdom. Though once in a while, she looks up at him, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
She's clearly not planning on executing him.
Good.
I won't have to become an assassin, then.
A sharp intake of breath draws my focus back to Wraith. The attendant helping him has frozen, her eyes fixed on where his scarf has slipped down slightly, revealing more of his face than he usually allows anyone to see.
"Oh," she breathes softly. "Those look painful. Would you let me see?"
Wraith's entire body goes rigid. He shakes his head firmly, one hand coming up to adjust the scarf back into place.
"Please," she presses gently. "We might be able to help."
His blue eyes dart to mine, filled with uncertainty and barely concealed panic. I squeeze his hand reassuringly.
"It's okay," I murmur.
He stares at me for a long moment, muscles tight beneath my hand. Then, with agonizing slowness, he reaches up and pulls the scarf down from his face, unable to meet the attendant's concerned gaze.
The attendant can't quite hide her wince, but there's no horror in her expression. Only deep sympathy as she takes in the full extent of his disfigurement. The exposed sharp teeth and sinew. The deep furrows of scar tissue.
"May I?" she asks softly, her hand hovering near his face.
Wraith's breathing quickens, but he gives a jerky nod. Her fingers ghost over his scars with impossible gentleness, mapping the damage. "Does this hurt?"
He shrugs, but I can feel him trembling. Can see the way he grits his sharp teeth even at her light touch. It's not just that he hates being seen, either. He's clearly in pain.
His hands move in sharp, agitated signs.
No one tries to fix. Leave it.
"He says he doesn't want anyone doing anything to his face," I translate, keeping my voice gentle. "And he has issues with medication like anesthesia, too."
The attendant nods, withdrawing her hand. "To be honest, we couldn't fully repair damage this extensive even if that weren't a problem, anyway. Some things are beyond even our abilities." She pauses, considering. "But we could smooth the scarring somewhat with laser therapy," she says to him. "It wouldn't be invasive, and it would help with the pain, if you're interested."
Wraith starts shaking his head, then hesitates, his hard blue eyes flicking to me as he tugs the scarf back up. His gaze softens fractionally. Not much, but a little.
Maybe,he signs with clear reluctance.