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The bag fits nice.
It is new in the same way that it make take a period of time to get used to wearing a hat.
(He isn't fond of caps; they always made him look rather silly, so he never actually kept them on long enough to try and get used to them.)
The bag fits nice, however.
(And he almost feels ashamed about it.)
Of course, he has to take it off every once and awhile. To apply the medicines (bought sheepishly, face covered for the first time in a pharmacy), for one. Having his one eye healing from being blackened; it would simply be an impediment to not try and speed it up.
(Never to relieve the pain, you mustn't remove the pain, who are you without your pain?)
("I don't know yet.")
But his face is mostly fine by now, is the best part. His hands are still shaky when he writes on his clipboard (doctor's handwriting is a fine excuse for now), but he can see just fine, and the throbbing is dulling on the part of his head that is
("When I beat you down, I want you to stay down—")
no longer symmetrical. He rarely took painkillers for it at first, anyways and
(The old bags get dirty, he puts a new one on.)
now, he can make it through whole days without them.
(he's having to replace them less for getting wet around the eyes. at least it's not the blood anymore.)
His head is still too...busy. It's frustrating. He's not falling apart anymore, but he shakes at all the wrong things and half the time he doesn't recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth until he gently places a hand over his mouth and apologizes for volume, volume, volume. It never feels like he's wearing his own skin, save for the bag.
(The skin isn't yours, but the pain is.)
The bag fits nice. It's grounding, in a way. Some may see the reduced vision as a hindrance, but he was already quite good at what he did. He liked the reduced light. Easier on the senses, already being taxed. Wounds heal slowly and gently; a lesson to be learned form swords to the chest, he supposed.
(his head starts to hurt less, so his arms start to ache. it's easier to hide his legs, however; he's trying to start moving the pain there, but when he sees his hands he almost can't help himself)
Deep breath in.
And out.
His first job was terrifying, but he's over it by now. Many people besides himself were left injured at the tournament grounds, left for dead. The only difference was that they didn't deserve it, so he make it back quickly. None of them seemed to recognize him. If they did, they didn't say a word as he muttered under his breath, gently wrapping their wounds while a nosebleed snuck under his bag and drip, drip, dripped onto the dirt next to them. Holy silence.
(The smell is still haunting)
He does not plan to go back to the tournament grounds anytime soon.
(like blood and sulfur. It scratches a part of his brain he hasn't quite figured out how to manage yet except)
It's just a little too much for him. He should've gotten everyone taken care of, at least.
He's planning on making arrangements with a town plenty far away, actually, so it's not like he would ever have to head back there in the first place. It's a little town; he's helped plenty of their children who had wandered off too far into the forest and gotten themselves hurt. They scoffed at the doctor without a practice, but not in the way he expected.
"Why should a man like you be working without a practice—"
(The voice warbles in his head as he tries to remember it. Everything's been so fuzzy for so long.)
"—when we have an empty one from where our last doctor has left us?"
"Left you?" He remembers himself saying, with a near voice-cracking level of concern.
(volume control.)
"That's just terrible! You seem like lovely people, I don't know why anyone would just go like that."
(didn't you leave? or does it not matter to you anymore, just because they're all dead? hm?)
"He hasn't come back since that sham tournament ended. He had a wish to make." The old man had said it so solemnly, taking off his hat and laying it over his chest.
(He doesn't know you might've been the man that killed him. What terrifies you is that you can't apologize.)
Faust's hands had twitched at his bag, (and what if you had shown him? would he have screamed? would he have even recognized you? maybe, with the bruises still littering your face, he would've shown you pity. perhaps that would've been the worst outcome) for only a second. He saw the sudden wide eyes from the other man, and quickly waved his hands in front of him, spouting a "Sorry, sorry. Forgot, I suppose. I have to keep it on."
He didn't look disappointed.
(Rationally, he know he was.)
Deep breath in.
And out.
(he tends to get caught up in his own head. he knows this.)
But it's been a few days since that, now. Faust (Faust, yes, Faust) said that he would move in by the end of the week, and he does plan on keeping that promise. A well-stocked place with plenty of space and plenty of rooms, for the incredibly small size of the village. A quaint practice. In all honesty, it's exactly what he needs right now. A practice in a small town, all by himself.
But he still plans on traveling! That he first thing he organized. All it took was a demonstration of his teleportation to reach an understanding. He would always be there when they needed him, he assured the kind old man.
(lest he also be able to smell it, faust never told him about how. the rot is caked under his fingernails, his skin, the writhing in his veins drives him mad.)
He sighs softly, curling in on himself under the shadow of a large tree. The wind blows around him peacefully, nudging the edges of his bag, but never becoming a threat.
It is peaceful.
Faust
(That's you! How wonderful it is. Faust. Faust.)
stares at the humble little building from afar and weeps.
It's confusing, but maybe it's going to be alright.