So I spent a lot of today filling out job apps, reading LJI entries and voting on them, and a teeny tiny amount of time writing. I’m actually stopping to do this blog post in the middle of writing right now. Because I want to go to bed soon but I want to hit 750 words before passing out. So close. I think I’m at like 500 now? I should be done soon.

A tiny bit of what I’m more or less free-writing, right now:

***

Jazz leaned against the couch, wishing his whole body didn’t ache and burn with each breath. As he closed his eyes, he heard footsteps approaching him slowly. Savin’s footsteps. He tensed and the pain flared, causing him to suck in a sharp breath.

“Your ribs might be broken,” Savin murmured, his voice subdued and hardly heard over the hum of the nearby electronics in the room.

“Don’t — don’t think they are,” Jazz groaned, snapping his eyes open. He put a hand to his chest before letting it slide over the worst of the pain, wincing at the slightest movement. “Don’t wanna go to the hospital, either. Don’t want the publicity.”

“I can make sure that the media doesn’t know about it at all,” Savin said, sitting beside Jazz on the couch. He kept his distance, his hands underneath his legs as he leaned forward a bit. His eyes didn’t quite meet Jazz’s own. “I am the Emperor, after all. If we can transport you discreetly –”

“You’re –” Jazz closed his eyes and wished talking wouldn’t hurt so damn much. “You’re a doctor, Savin. Can’t you…?”

“Not without x-rays,” Savin answered, cutting Jazz off before he could finish his question. Sighing, Savin ran his fingers through his hair. “They should make sure there isn’t any internal bleeding, too — I mean, if you broke a rib and then punctured a lung –”

“I think we’d — we’d know if I did that by now.” Still, with how much pain he was in, he wouldn’t be surprised. He couldn’t fathom just how much more it would hurt if he had broken a rib. “Not like there’s — any real way to stablize — a broken rib, right?”

A slight smile made its way across Savin’s face as he shook his head. “Not really, no,” he answered. “If they’re just cracked, anyway. If they’re splintered, though…”

Surgery, Jazz realized. He could need surgery. Again.

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