08-12-2008, 01:39 PM
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For the most part things seemed back to normal. Save for people being sick. As he bent to pick up the bottle that had rolled away from him the night before, casting a careful look over Nikita's hunch frame as she spoke. In any other circumstance he might have laughed at the fact Laurent's makeshift home was being called a sick shack, but a more sober mind drew up the plain truth to what was in there. What had been going on and what would continue to go on. “You're not that sick,” he mentioned as he peered into the bottle where the sand and lake water had managed to mix with the liquor that remained. “Putting you in there would only make you sicker. You're not seizing, you're not hallucinating, no reason for you to go in there over a sore throat and a cough.” As far as he was concerned right then and there, she just had a cold. Colds went away, unless they went to their chest, at which point it became a much serious thing.
Of course, what really didn't help was their lack of having someone who knew all of the medical gibberish. He turned the bottle upside down and shook the contents from it over the dry sand, realising it was wasted. A little hair of the dog would have set back the rusting cogs in his brain from grinding together, but it could wait. “Y’think you can stomach some food? Maybe if we scare up something we'll both feel better.” Food generally helped where booze didn't in his mind and if neither one of those worked then something else could be substituted in. Grass and reeds, water, whatever. Roughage generally worked too. For now though, he didn't have too many intentions of bringing up the night before just because he didn't remember too many parts of it and even then, he almost thought if finding food didn't work, he'd surely go back to sleep once they'd gone their separate ways.
For the most part things seemed back to normal. Save for people being sick. As he bent to pick up the bottle that had rolled away from him the night before, casting a careful look over Nikita's hunch frame as she spoke. In any other circumstance he might have laughed at the fact Laurent's makeshift home was being called a sick shack, but a more sober mind drew up the plain truth to what was in there. What had been going on and what would continue to go on. “You're not that sick,” he mentioned as he peered into the bottle where the sand and lake water had managed to mix with the liquor that remained. “Putting you in there would only make you sicker. You're not seizing, you're not hallucinating, no reason for you to go in there over a sore throat and a cough.” As far as he was concerned right then and there, she just had a cold. Colds went away, unless they went to their chest, at which point it became a much serious thing.
Of course, what really didn't help was their lack of having someone who knew all of the medical gibberish. He turned the bottle upside down and shook the contents from it over the dry sand, realising it was wasted. A little hair of the dog would have set back the rusting cogs in his brain from grinding together, but it could wait. “Y’think you can stomach some food? Maybe if we scare up something we'll both feel better.” Food generally helped where booze didn't in his mind and if neither one of those worked then something else could be substituted in. Grass and reeds, water, whatever. Roughage generally worked too. For now though, he didn't have too many intentions of bringing up the night before just because he didn't remember too many parts of it and even then, he almost thought if finding food didn't work, he'd surely go back to sleep once they'd gone their separate ways.