He knew that he was surrounded by people, but his body and mind were too tired and too sluggish to actually care. He felt a little intial panic at the crowding, absolutely at ease with the familiar Rowyn just being here without the other two, but they had come along to help regardless and he would just accept it with as much mutual distaste as the vigilantes afforded him.
He wondered...if he had found either Nasuuma or Achilles lying broken in a ditch...if the roles had been reversed...would he have bothered to lift a finger or a call of help to come to their aid?...He would of liked to think yes, absolutely, but some part of his mind muttered darkly that he wouldn't have given them the time of day.
But no such paranoid voice murmured in the back of his head when Rowyn came into the question and, in all actuality, his brain rejected the very idea of picturing the female Inquisitor in such a state, replacing the images with flowers or a deer whenever his imaginary self got close enough to his parallel, mental ditch precipice.
He swallowed reflexively and his eyes would have gone wide if they were able...
Was one of his greatest fears being realised?
Death? No, no don't be stupid...
Was he going...soft?
The work was too taxing on his brain and he merely lay there, trying to force his rebellious body into cooperated like they once had. He tried reminding it that they were best buddies once, didn't go anywhere or do anything without each other...he acknowledged and apologised (mentally) for the mistreatment and asked what he had done to make his body throw its toys out of the pram and punish him for it with aching sulks and fierce, agonising tantrums and screams.
Nikos' head lolled around, putty in the hands of whoever was manouvering his raven-haired head. He heard voices, dull and faint with words that bled into each other but eventually they died down and he heard the tail end of;
"...more useful here."
Opening his eyes as much as possible, (because the sensation of sprinkling tabacco had surprised his tender flesh), he found himself looking up at his Inquisitorial partner and, in extension, guessed that this comfortable place his head had found itself in, was Rowyns lap.
"Well I never..." he croaked with an attempt at a light hearted smile to go with it.
His vocal cords felt stretched to tight and scraped raw with sandpaper.
The tourniquet around his arm, he didn't feel. That was the arm that had spent a brief spat in the snow and thus, the feeling was sluggishly returning; dragging its heels as if it had been called in early for dinner when it wanted to be gone and playing some more. He felt a slight twinge that made him moan in his throat, but that was forgotten when his eyes focused on the collection of red above him...the nice kind...not the blood kind.
Smiling, he went to move his hand up to Rowyn's face, but a) decided against it halfway through the journey and b) partially because his arm was as difficult and being as obtuse as a lead pipe. It collapsed back onto his stomach with a thud and he angled his head slightly to the left to see if that was more comfortable. It was.
"You should...wear your hair down more often..." he managed to say wearily with frequent pauses in his speech, (as his muscles were being uncooperative, his tongue being heavy (silver turned to brass) and his mind was tired), and he shut his eye with contentment before he uttered out the slurred;
"...Looks pretty..."
