[The damage is stark at once, but Sasuke doesn't shy from it — it is the change in Stiles' face that draws a momentary pause, as if he's walked into view of a wild animal rather than a person, a friend. The feeling fades as quick as it comes over him; for the sake of Stiles' modesty, he approaches the side of the cot to deliver the folded clothes. They're his own: dark sweatpants, a pair of warm wool socks, clean underwear still inside the packaging from a recent trip to the mall for necessities, and a black turtleneck sweater he's used in the past to cover his own bruises.
Mismatched eyes hover on Stiles' throat, scrutinizing discolored skin and the points of two holes. What sort of injury is that?]
I want you to tell me what happened, [emerges his low, careful voice,] but not here. I'll take you back to your room. Can you walk?
no subject
Mismatched eyes hover on Stiles' throat, scrutinizing discolored skin and the points of two holes. What sort of injury is that?]
I want you to tell me what happened, [emerges his low, careful voice,] but not here. I'll take you back to your room. Can you walk?