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It was another one of those nights.
Wriothesley sits at his desk, posture abysmal for a man known to have impeccable form; always standing upright, back straight, chest out and head up. Instead, he's hunched forward. Elbows plant on the metal trim that outlines a wooden desk, head bowed between upright arms with fingers that curl uncomfortably inward.
They're stuck in that position, cramping in place with no way to move them without sending ripples of pain through his hands. The twitch of an index finger is enough to tell him just how badly his muscles were locked in place.
Consequently - yet a testament to his luck - the Duke is alone this night (as he has been many times before this) with the office door locked. His forehead comes to rest on the hard wood with a thud too cruel for a man in his current disposition. This is a night he suffers from past recklessness, mistakes, and inexperience. The gauntlets were unnecessary to handle a dispute that'd gone a tad too off the rails; All it took was one punch at the wrong angle to send shockwaves of discomfort first, pain later.
Forearms ache, hands burn, and he wonders if his fingers will ever unlock from their static position. Bravely he makes an attempt to move them, and the agony is so severe he's gritting his teeth through a locked jaw; deep down, he wonders how he hasn't cracked a molar yet.
Shaking hands move by sheer willpower, exhaling a labored breath as he chokes back a pained grunt or enduring growl. No need to alert the guards to his situation, as he certainly wouldn't hear the end of it from Sigewinne if found like this. Not that it'd be the first time, his subconscious reminds him. Or the last, he internally replies. Wriothesley is - quite literally - painfully aware of his worsening condition, and keeping people in the dark makes his job easier. No concerned earfuls, no pity, no offerings to help him like someone incapable of fending for himself. These hands were meant to protect, and he would do so until his dying breath. If that means finding, or manufacturing, the technology to replace nerves, bone, muscle, or even the whole appendage... he would.
Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. He moves his arm slowly, meticulously at the shoulder first. Then the elbow moves down towards the drawer to his left, accompanied by a wince. There is no need to rummage through the contents once it's opened, as there's only one item in here these days: a bottle of pills, unlabeled, with a sticker that looked suspiciously like Sigewinne... next to a shark rendition of the Duke's likeness. Prescriber, and patient. Retrieved, the drawer is left agape as he lifts the bottle up and rests his elbow back in the same position.
Fingers scramble for the cap, but there's almost no strength left in them for the moment. His hands feel simultaneously numb, yet afflicted with an ancient ache so deep he could call it a residual haunting of his self-destruction. After all, he did this to himself. And he will continue to do so until he can no longer move them.
The pills within rattle tauntingly within shaky hands, but such is the consequence when the hand tasked with opening the bottle happens to be worse off. Wriothesley makes the executive decision to attempt a switch, makes the more damaged hand hold the bottle in a hopeful attempt to pry the lid off with the other.
He succeeds in the transfer. Pulls. And with a comically cruel clatter, the bottle tumbles from his feeble hold. It hits the desk first, rolls right off the edge, bounces off the edge of the still-open drawer, and clatters to the floor. Afterwards, it makes a home run halfway across his office before mockingly rolling to a halt.
"Fuck," is all he says in defeat. The thought of standing to retrieve them makes him dizzy, and the throb of agony makes him physically nauseous. For the first time in a long while, he feels as though the pain will snatch his consciousness from him. His vision falters in and out of focus, he can't breathe without hissing through teeth, and some part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of the ordeal.
For the first time in a year - after all the times he's been in this chair or on the couch fighting the pangs of hurt - his knee jerks upwards to the button beneath his desk and relents. An emergency procedure set in place, one that notifies all with a device connected to the simple technology that he needs help.
Only then does he allow his eyes to slip closed, temple to wood, arms carefully lowered to the surface where fingers so carefully avoid the metal chill of desk's edge. He will rest here, knowing whoever comes to his aid will surely deliver an earful in kind.
Wriothesley finds himself smiling fondly at the thought.