"So it did." A nasty bite too, more bruising than blood, which means realistically the most he can do is clean out the few scrapes she actually has and just give her an ice pack when they're downstairs. There's a certain theatrical magic in just paying attention to hurt areas, though, especially with children - the weight of acknowledgement and the shared burden of getting help can comfort even adults.
There's a little first aid kit in the bathroom's linen closet, on a low shelf that Patricia can reach. With Neosporin and band-aids, it's moreso a safety net and a way of making her feel a little less out of control, should he ever not be home during normal scrapes and bumps. Above that, of course, is a kit that's had to come down...not too frequently, all things considered. If the way Patricia eyes his banisters when she thinks he's not looking is any indication, though, then Hannibal has maybe two more 'settling in' months before she's comfortable enough to really act out. They'll see how long the 'not even minor injuries' stretch lasts.
Hannibal kneels in front of her again, kit opened on the immaculate floor. He'd treated several children in his time as a surgeon, although never for something this minor. It feels more like a heavy ritual than a medical routine. Her hands are so pale, miniature against his palm where he holds one steady.
Patricia, like all children, apparently still has that ability to sometimes hit things innocently, exactly, on the nose with no warning. "That is what I'm hoping." He's cleaning the abrasions with care, although he can't help the fact that raw skin is always going to hurt. "Triss. I know you don't like discussing magic. But that creature that took you is a magical being. I believe that your mismatched rescuers may know things that will help us keep that from happening to you again." Band-aids aren't really going to work on her palms, even as small as they are. So he wraps gauze around them, very aware that children are often more entranced than put-off by large bandages on themselves. She looks not entirely unlike she's about to go have a tiny, terrible boxing match, and Hannibal thinks that on any other day, he'd have a chance at catching her shadow-boxing in a mirror.
Not this morning, not likely.
Her calves - somehow both skinny-flat and curved, in the strange shapeless strength of children - are a bit more rough. Hannibal wonders if the kelpie's sides presented more scales to scrape against, whereas her hands might have been cushioned by its mane. Her knee remains the worst by far, and he is very careful as he plucks dirt from it with bright red, plastic tweezers. He is absolutely not going to gloss over a horse bite, as far as the antiseptic goes. "This will hurt, but it will also be quick."
no subject
There's a little first aid kit in the bathroom's linen closet, on a low shelf that Patricia can reach. With Neosporin and band-aids, it's moreso a safety net and a way of making her feel a little less out of control, should he ever not be home during normal scrapes and bumps. Above that, of course, is a kit that's had to come down...not too frequently, all things considered. If the way Patricia eyes his banisters when she thinks he's not looking is any indication, though, then Hannibal has maybe two more 'settling in' months before she's comfortable enough to really act out. They'll see how long the 'not even minor injuries' stretch lasts.
Hannibal kneels in front of her again, kit opened on the immaculate floor. He'd treated several children in his time as a surgeon, although never for something this minor. It feels more like a heavy ritual than a medical routine. Her hands are so pale, miniature against his palm where he holds one steady.
Patricia, like all children, apparently still has that ability to sometimes hit things innocently, exactly, on the nose with no warning. "That is what I'm hoping." He's cleaning the abrasions with care, although he can't help the fact that raw skin is always going to hurt. "Triss. I know you don't like discussing magic. But that creature that took you is a magical being. I believe that your mismatched rescuers may know things that will help us keep that from happening to you again." Band-aids aren't really going to work on her palms, even as small as they are. So he wraps gauze around them, very aware that children are often more entranced than put-off by large bandages on themselves. She looks not entirely unlike she's about to go have a tiny, terrible boxing match, and Hannibal thinks that on any other day, he'd have a chance at catching her shadow-boxing in a mirror.
Not this morning, not likely.
Her calves - somehow both skinny-flat and curved, in the strange shapeless strength of children - are a bit more rough. Hannibal wonders if the kelpie's sides presented more scales to scrape against, whereas her hands might have been cushioned by its mane. Her knee remains the worst by far, and he is very careful as he plucks dirt from it with bright red, plastic tweezers. He is absolutely not going to gloss over a horse bite, as far as the antiseptic goes. "This will hurt, but it will also be quick."