[attr="class","beck"]no alarms sound when the blade is held so close to his throat because he knows he's safe. he watches metal slice clean through fabric, gliding across with simple precision. it unravels to reveal the horrid state of his wounds: a multitude of incisions with charred flesh sloppily mended back together. it looks like it's half-healed at best. they'll have to clean it.

merlino should be familiar with the general layout of his office by now. where he had taken water from earlier should also contain a general first aid kit. he waits for the saline solution, understanding they'll need to wipe his wounds with it.

when they eventually start the process, silence envelops them. for whatever reason, this time, it's uncomfortable.

"you can speak, merlino."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

The sharp smell of saline stings his nose, keeps him focused. Where the soothing scent of aromatherapy brought imagery of pain, the sterile notes of first aid speak of closure, of healing. In his Saffron apartment, he often tended to his injuries alone. Ugly scars spoke of self-stitched wounds with improper aftercare, but it was enough to keep him alive. Enough that he could return to work.

Theo knows by the movement of Gavin's hands and the objects within them when there will be the most pain, so no warning is given. His knife slides through flesh where it must to extract the charred fabric within.

He pauses when the admin speaks, as if his mind is processing.

"... would you like me to, sir?"

Gavin's own injuries remain on display; if he moves his left arm too quickly, there's a flicker of pain in his expression. But no complaint; never complaint. His hands resume their work, and he doesn't flinch when saline slides over his split knuckles, stings.

[attr="class","beck"]though familiar, theo flinches against the sharp pain that surges when metal pierces flesh. he tenses, knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the table. it's familiar but it never gets easier.

"a little."

he breathes, heart racing, as his head tilts back and eyes shut once again. he doesn't think about anything this time. instead, he chooses to focus on the only other person in the room.

"tell me about yourself, merlino."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

His work, though gentle, is unapologetic in its necessity. Blood weeps from the wound as muscles tense, and Gavin wipes it away with surprisingly steady hands. Scraps of singed cloth collect in the lid of the first aid kit.

"All right," but he can't think of anything to say.

His mind, brilliant, has been shuttered for his own safety. It's as if he must pull back the blinds, shake off the dust. In the moments where he reluctantly allows his barriers to come down, Theo provides direction. It's not one Gavin likes.

We won't just kill you if you betray us.
Your family, your lover, anyone and everyone you care about.

"What would you like to know, sir?"

It's hard, to think back to simpler times. He'd thought his life was difficult, then. The knife is laid down, needle and thread lifted in its place.

"I was raised in Unova. Iccirus, but I went to school in Opelucid." Lie.
"Got into uni early, studied biology and evolution in Pokémon." Truth.

[attr="class","beck"]lies, truths, they matter little in the moment. words are taken without suspicion — theo nods, showing that he's listening.

"and your family?"

his mind drifts back to a little house on cinnabar with a red-tiled roof overhead and greeneries as far as they eye can see — it's simple. it's peaceful. the memory fades almost too easily.

"what do they do?"

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

He doesn't like to think of them, save one. She's kept out of the equation.

"Mum doesn't do a hell of a lot." Though his tone retains detachment, as if he's answering out of necessity rather than want, a hint of derision coats its edges. He is getting better with his dialect — catches his mistake, adapts. "Came over from Galar and latched onto Father for his money, I think."

Gavin lacks formal training, but patience lends well to keeping stitches neat. He's used to detail work, good with his hands.

"He's — an investor, I think." Frown. "Most of it went over my head, not my thing."

[attr="class","beck"]"that explains the accent."

his grip on the table laxes as he exhales. he glances down at his shoulder, notices the stitches — they're neater than he expects.

"no siblings?"

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

Hairs raise along the back of his neck.

"I do my best to hide it, sir." —and anyone you care about. "Stand out less in a foreign region, and all."

To his credit, he doesn't so much as pause in the rhythmic movements of his hands when Theo asks about siblings.

"Just me," he lies, and cuts the thread.

[attr="class","beck"]his shoulder shifts after the thread is cut. he flexes out of instinct, feels pain pulsing, but it's less than before. he breathes, relaxing slightly into the chair.

"why'd you leave?"

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

He has been in Rocket a while, but not long enough. Bitterness claws through the hollow in his chest, chokes in his lungs, consumes.

"Didn't have a choice," he says, and it's raw, real. "They kicked me out."

He inspects his work so as not to look at Theo's face, wipes the tended wound one last time before retracting. Bloodied cloth fragments are disposed of, and he sterilizes the needle before laying it carefully back into place.

The kit clicks shut, loud in an uncomfortable silence.

[attr="class","beck"]silence surrounds them once again. with nothing left to distract, theo is snapped back, and the remembrance hurts more than it should.

his expression drains as he stands. his hand lifts, hovering over merlino's shoulder, but nothing comes from it. the feeling is suppressed, drowned out by all else. he clears his throat, then walks back over to his desk.

"leave, merlino."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

It's almost a relief, to hear the shift in tone.

It hurts in a way that's difficult to explain, complexities that his brain is too tired to parse — but it's easier, like this. He buries pain and bitterness behind his layers as they return, one by one, to protect the one thing Rocket will never take.

They've not taken it from Theo, either.

"Yes, sir." He inclines his head, and then he leaves.