But then, he was rather curious as to how the lab looked, and forcing Makhus to stop acting like a petulant manchild was something that bothered him far less than the prospect of disturbing what was doubtlessly a bonding moment for the two warrior-women.

A small albeit very real part of the reason for his apprehension towards disturbing them and his investment in seeing this curious relationship develop was simple academic curiosity. He’d read much about such relationships in the history books, but he’d never been close enough acquaintances with anyone who took part in one that stretched beyond a momentary fling.

So it was that he leaned his mop against the doorframe and made his way down the stairs to the basement, quietly opening the door to the lab. He felt his eyes glazing over as the grand hall of scientific pursuits stretched out before him, his gaze naturally floating across it from left to right as he tried to take it all in. No wonder Makhus used the first excuse to come down here.

Much to Sigmund’s surprise, Makhus was neither at the writing desk, nor at any of the many supply closets or display cabinets, or even tinkering with one of the myriad tangles of glass tubing that covered most of the tables. No, he sat hunched next to an industrial-sized still in the corner, murmuring a litany of expletives and slurs as he toiled away, yanking hunk after hunk of desiccated plant matter out of the bottom of the machine.

“You uh… Need any help there?” he called out. To his amusement it startled his friend enough that it made him leap to his feet, grasping bundles of dry twine in both hands as he realized there was no reason to be startled.

“I’m good. Why’re you down here, are they being that noisy?” Makhus questioned, clearly nervous about something. Something other than his words insinuated. Sig shook his head, leisurely walking through the lab and in his general direction, looking about. Truly, this place was a veritable museum of wonders.

“Nothin’ inappropriate goin’ on upstairs far as I can tell,” he remarked, making his country bumpkin accent come through far more strongly than it would even if he didn’t try to hide it. “Not so sure ‘bout down here, though.”

“W-whaddya mean?” Makhus replied in kind, his own accent sounding through in full force.

Sig leaned against one of the tables and shot Makhus one of the stern looks that so reliably got the younger man to come clean. He found it to be tremendously effective, this fatherly stare that he’d learnt to project despite the fact he had no children and hadn’t gotten to teach a class for more than two years before the war.

Perhaps it was his one-time use of Victory Wash that galvanized his facial features, that night of slaughter alone must’ve been worth a decade of combat stress. To this day, he couldn’t remember so much as a split-second of it all. He needn’t so much as say a word to make Makhus break under the psychological pressure of his gaze.

“Fine,” the alchemist relented. “I’ve found somethin’. Remember what Zelsys told us at the inn?”

Sigmund gave a slow nod, nonverbally prompting him to continue. Makhus briefly rubbed his chin, murmuring verbal filler such as “Well…” or “Y’see…” under his breath before he finally just gestured for Sigmund to follow, walking towards the writing desk.

“Alright, just keep your arms up…” Zef instructed as she wrapped a fresh set of bandages around Zel’s chest, so tight it was almost uncomfortable. Almost, but not quite. She would’ve complained under any other circumstances, but she knew this was just to keep her wounds shut.

The old bandages she had used for chest-wrappings were soaking in the sink after Zef skillfully cut the most-damaged parts away with surgical scissors, the water already a light off-red.

It took a good couple minutes to finish, and by the time it was done, most of Zel’s chest was wrapped, with only the lower half of her stomach exposed. Even still, the bandages clung so tightly to her skin that every crease of muscle and even her ribs could be seen through. Much to her relief, Zefaris had the foresight to layer the wrappings many times around the upper portions of her chest to preserve what little modesty the amazon had.

Showoff that she was, she still wished to keep certain things away from the leering gazes of the townsfolk.

“I should get something properly tailored,” she remarked as she rolled her shoulders, testing the limits of her movement. Surprisingly enough, her wounds didn’t limit her range of motion much, especially sealed as they were. She turned to Zefaris, who was now in the process of readjusting her own clothes to hide the fact her shirt was clearly a man’s cut. “...And you too. Want to come to the tailor with me?”

“Huh?” the markswoman’s eye snapped to her at that question. “Why?”

“You obviously don’t have much spare to wear, if any at all. When’s that shirt last been washed?”

“Ah… Just before we went for that patrol when we met you, actually, so three days ago or so…” she furrowed her brow, knowing full well that her answer was correct yet still feeling like it was off. “Feels a lot longer than that, for some reason.”

“So it does…” Zel agreed. Had it really only been three days since she climbed out of that bizarre bunker-lab? “Either way, we obviously both need spare clothes, we can just have a nice time in town and get the shopping done later. I’ll foot the bill, since I just got paid.”

“Alright, alright. But I don’t do tailors, mass-produced stuff is just fine by me. You’ll probably need to have something custom-made, with those tree-trunks for legs. Could crush someone’s head with those things.”

Zelsys couldn’t help but laugh at that remark, jokingly reassuring, “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful to not crush yours.”

Her smile turned to a grin as she watched the realization of what she just said settle into Zef’s mind, her face flushing quicker than she could turn away.