He looks around first, checking in the various doors and cabinets and making sure the windows close correctly (again, a force of habit). Once he's sure that things seem to be in place, he makes his way over to the bed, his earlier joking mannerisms already forgotten.
He can sense her pain when he sits down, emanating off of her like a scent. Physical pain has a different feel to it. He doesn't like one over the other, but physical has always struck him as more... interesting. It's heavier, but often quicker. The hand at her abdomen is a dead giveaway, and he can see bruises starting to form on her arm as well. He almost regrets offering to fix it; the idea of basking in the feeling a little longer is... appealing.
But he hums a note and peels one of his gloves off. His fingers are chilled by the open air, the cold settles into his knuckles and bones and after quickly flexing his fingers, he reaches out to brush his thumb against the wound again. He can feel a small crackle of energy pass between them, as per usual. The wound itself isn't that bad--the white of her hair must have made it look worse than it is.
"This one will sting a little." But that's the only warning he gives before he runs his thumb along the cut, dragging the blood with it. He pulls a little of it forward, mixing and breaking up what's dried. The sting comes when he focuses on the blood just underneath, urging it forward and using it to break away dying cells, scab over the opened skin, and stitch itself up, good as new. He uses his still-gloved hand to pull away the old blood, cleaning it off her entirely and collapsing it into a small, congealed shape in his palm. He can't think of what else to do with it.
no subject
He can sense her pain when he sits down, emanating off of her like a scent. Physical pain has a different feel to it. He doesn't like one over the other, but physical has always struck him as more... interesting. It's heavier, but often quicker. The hand at her abdomen is a dead giveaway, and he can see bruises starting to form on her arm as well. He almost regrets offering to fix it; the idea of basking in the feeling a little longer is... appealing.
But he hums a note and peels one of his gloves off. His fingers are chilled by the open air, the cold settles into his knuckles and bones and after quickly flexing his fingers, he reaches out to brush his thumb against the wound again. He can feel a small crackle of energy pass between them, as per usual. The wound itself isn't that bad--the white of her hair must have made it look worse than it is.
"This one will sting a little." But that's the only warning he gives before he runs his thumb along the cut, dragging the blood with it. He pulls a little of it forward, mixing and breaking up what's dried. The sting comes when he focuses on the blood just underneath, urging it forward and using it to break away dying cells, scab over the opened skin, and stitch itself up, good as new. He uses his still-gloved hand to pull away the old blood, cleaning it off her entirely and collapsing it into a small, congealed shape in his palm. He can't think of what else to do with it.