Wriothesley didn't know what it was with you.

Other than you being Sigewinne’s right hand and the supporting head nurse, he had gotten used to how the Melusine treated him—often a few scoldings here and there every time he got patched up—however, it was different when it was you.

Lately, you’ve been busy, barely sparing him a glance beyond what was necessary. Your hands worked, a press of gauze against his skin, a damp of disinfectant, a hand on the cot. But that usual warmth, the one he had grown so damn accustomed to?

Gone. Just like that.

So he always asked himself—

How come you act so different?

And, Archons, did that thought plague him.

He watched you now, the same way he always did when he found himself in this chair, bruised and bloodied. You didn't meet his gaze, didn't ask if he was okay.

The silence made it worse.

He knew you always caught him at a bad time, also another victim to his busy schedule and his life out of the road—but couldn't you just talk to him? He'll listen, won't he?

Wriothesley finally muttered out something, a breath of a chuckle following suit. "I know I told you last time was the last time. Guess I’m a liar now, yeah?"

You didn’t answer, only adjusted the bandages on his knuckles.

Wriothesley exhaled, something in his chest twisting. "But how could you just…pull the plug? How could you look at this–" He gestured at himself again,

"How could you just pull the plug and leave me flatline?"