When she wakes the next day, Thalia feels as though fatigue has taken over her.
Breakfast is a quiet affair, neither her or Zoya (though Thalia is sure she has never looked tired in her life) harnessing enough energy to try and make conversation. She drowsily eats her cereal, milk dripping down her chin, not bothering to wipe it off. Her orange juice does not have its usual delectable flavour, but Thalia isn't entirely sure she cares. Anything to get rid of that horrible, scratchy feeling in her throat.
Afterward, Zoya informs her that she and Thalia were expected to help out with the repairing of the Ultralight. The damage was not irreversible, and could be repaired by hand. A sort of punishment, Thalia supposed, but it could be worse. They could be made to, like, work out. Perish the thought.
She does exactly as instructed. It takes the better part of six hours and twenty people for the skiff to be deemed A-OK, and Thalia leaves it with bruised legs and heavily cut hands. She'll need to find a Healer before dinner, because so much as brushing them against her Kefta has her in intolerable pain.
Zoya tramples alongside her, mouth set in a scowl. "Brutal work. I'm a Squaller, for Saints sake, not a bloody architect. I was made to rule the wind and look pretty, not get myself all dirtied up doing the work of another."
She laughs lightly, before wincing, answering Zoya's confused look, "Some prick hit me in the gut with a bucket. Hurts like a bitch."
Zoya laughs, too, and they make their way to the Grisha tent once more. Thalia feels like going for a nap, if she's honest. Maybe for twenty minutes, maybe for twenty years. She's just about to slip in through the makeshift, curtain door, when she hears her name being called.
She recognises the voice immediately, unable to combat the smile that comes naturally upon hearing it. Mal is approaching with gusto, bearing his teeth in a grin as he waves like somewhat of a madman. Thalia thinks she must look like his counterpart, what with the smile on her face.
There is something indescribable about the joy that comes with seeing him again. They've only known each other for a few days, not really friends but not really strangers either. Undeniably something more than strangers.
Zoya gives her a knowing look before making her way into the tent, alone.
She walks to meet him halfway, both of them stopping with only a few centimetre gap between. He seems taller, and Thalia has to tilt her head up slightly to meet his eyes. For a moment, Thalia cannot seem to summon the sense to speak, so they are simply staring at one another like utter idiots.
"Hi?" she chokes, somewhat breathlessly. "Oh my Saints, hi! I didn't think you'd still be here!"
"Well, I haven't been sent on any assignments yet, so I've no place better to be," Mal explains. "What in the name of Sankt Valentin are you doing here? I was under the impression that you Grisha spent your time at that swanky palace of yours eating diamonds and wearing grapes."
An embarrassingly high laugh bursts from Thalia's throat before she can stop it, and she has officially decided that death sounds pretty appeasing right now. Look at her: giggling like a Saintsforsaken school girl. This is mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.
But Mal is unperturbed, smiling as he speaks once more, "I know I saw you like, two days ago, but look really well."
"Flatterer," she replies, like a reflex. "There is other ways to get into my pants, you know. I'm partial to being serenaded with melancholy music and cheese boards."
This time, it is Mal's turn to laugh. An unexpected sound, lined with childlike glee and Thalia gets the feeling he doesn't do it often. She wishes he would.
"I'll keep that in mind," he replies, and Thalia's stomach does something funny at that. "Never mind future prospects, though. You didn't answer my question, what're you doing back here?"
She is still recovering from future prospects, her heart beating at am unnecessarily fast pace, and ends up taking a good minute to reply. "Er- right. Something happened back at Os Alta. Me and Zoya got sent here because of it."
"Are you okay?" Mal checks, his eyes darting to differing places of her body. Thalia feels an unfamiliar insecurity creep up on her at his gaze. "I can't see any injuries. Do you have any injuries?"
Thalia holds up her arms in surrender, attempting to showcase her relatively spotless body, "I'm fine—"
"Saints, Thalia!" Mal makes a grab for her wrist, bringing it close to his eyes, thus tugging her forward. Thalia's breath catches in her throat, body stilling entirely, practically feeling his breath on her face. Mal peeks up at her from hooded mahogany eyes, thick eyelashes hiding them almost entirely. "What happened to your hands?"
Silly as it may be, Thalia had rather forgotten about her hand injuries. She had been too consumed in Mal to pay any mind to the pain coursing through her. But it returns with spite now, and elicits a hiss from her lips.
"We were working on the ship," she informs, quiet. "I think I've perhaps got a splinter."
Mal scoffs, "Or two hundred."
"Or two hundred," Thalia repeats, stupidly. "Do you know if any Healers are hanging about? I'll be honest when I say it's packing a punch, and the look of it is knocking me a wee bit ill."
"None. You and Zoya are the only Grisha here. Come on, I'll try and patch your poor hands up."
Thalia follows after him in a daze, his hand still wrapped loosely around her wrist. She's not sure where they end up, only that Mal is sitting her down on a rough seat and letting go. That action snaps Thalia back to earth, where she blinks through heavy eyes. She's still hopelessly tired, but doesn't think she's ever felt more awake. Mal scutters about the room, gnawing on his bottom lip as he consults a large plastic box, before eventually picking up the whole thing and lugging it over.
He pulls over a small stool, seating himself in front of her. He clicks open the box once more, shuffling through the various compartments. He pulls out a small cotton pad, soaking it in liquid from a small spirit bottle. He takes her left wrist in his hand once more, beginning to clean the wounds gently. Thalia bites her lip to keep from crying out, going to clench her other hand to try and relieve the pain, but quickly thinks better of the action.
"I'm sorry," Mal murmurs, peering up her. She gives a single shake of her head, feeling entirely incapable of forming words right now. "This part might hurt a bit."
He reaches into the box again, this time coming out with a pair of tweezers. Even the look of them sends a shiver down her spine, but Thalia takes a deep breath, pushing her hand further into his grip. He begins to pry out the splinters of wood one by one, delicately, as though Thalia were a Shu Doll.
Pretty and void. Easily cracked. Must be handled delicately or will break.
She almost laughs at her own joke, but then Mal is applying an antibiotic cream to her hand and wrapping a bandage around it, and she is rendered silent once more. He repeats the series of actions on her right hand, wrapping that too, and he is done.
"All done," Mal smiles, looking up at her, and they are basically nose to nose. Thalia's heart is in her throat. "Be careful with the bandages, though. They aren't of the best quality."
She can only nod, staring at him. They sit in silence for what feels like hours before Thalia awkwardly clears her throat, pulling her head back and looking around the room. "Where are we, Doctor Oretsev?" She asks, hoping he can't hear the tremor in her voice.
"Medical tent," Mal informs, a small smile playing on his face. He presses his lips together, and looks like he may be going to say something else, but is cut off as another two presences make themselves known at the make-do door. "I'd better—"
"Go," Thalia ushers, pushing his shoulder with her bandages hand lightly. "I'll see you later, yeah?"
Mal nods, looking conflicted, "Yeah. Later."
He exits the tent, leaving Thalia on her lonesome. She feels entirely drunk on the feeling of him. She'd drink it every night if she could. Oh, and there's that funny feeling in her stomach again. She'd really appreciate if it stopped choosing when he was around as a convenient time to—
Oh, Saints.
━━━
😏