[Trevor, in his current state, can only manage a sharp hiss in response to the injection. Were he whole and well, he'd be cursing Adrian to the seventh layer of hell and back again, because for a long moment, he's quite sure he'd rather die. He's cauterized open wounds with a hot iron that burned less than this. It feels like Adrian's dunked the entirety of his forearm into magma and let it sit for a lark. Was that shit antivenom or acid?]
Please don't.
[That Trevor has the strength to grit his teeth through the words is promising. The sting is slow to fade, but it does, along with the worst of the pain from the bite. Trevor wonders if they'd added something to take the edge off, before quickly arriving at the decision that Sypha and Adrian would probably not elect to make his life easier if he'd gotten to the point he needed to use this kit in the first place. He can practically hear Sypha, If he's been that reckless, he can deal with a little pain.
Unbidden, Trevor reaches out to rest his hand over one of Adrian's. It's filthy -- caked with mud and gore and God knows what else besides -- absent his gloves, because it's always been easier to wield the Morning Star without them. But that small bit of comfort, of touch, is essential just now, even as he feels his heart evening out and strengthening from its feeble staccato. The antivenom is working, and he had no doubt it would, but that's--
That's somewhat less of a relief than he thought it would be.]
no subject
Please don't.
[That Trevor has the strength to grit his teeth through the words is promising. The sting is slow to fade, but it does, along with the worst of the pain from the bite. Trevor wonders if they'd added something to take the edge off, before quickly arriving at the decision that Sypha and Adrian would probably not elect to make his life easier if he'd gotten to the point he needed to use this kit in the first place. He can practically hear Sypha, If he's been that reckless, he can deal with a little pain.
Unbidden, Trevor reaches out to rest his hand over one of Adrian's. It's filthy -- caked with mud and gore and God knows what else besides -- absent his gloves, because it's always been easier to wield the Morning Star without them. But that small bit of comfort, of touch, is essential just now, even as he feels his heart evening out and strengthening from its feeble staccato. The antivenom is working, and he had no doubt it would, but that's--
That's somewhat less of a relief than he thought it would be.]
I'm serious about the dog, you know.