( matt's hands move, carefully removing the helmet on his head. there's a crack in it--which clearly isn't supposed to be there, given matt's usually careful attention to detail in fights--but he's only human, even if sometimes he doesn't feel it.
there's a wound on the back of his head, not necessarily deep (because, you know, that'd kill him), but it's bleeding out and turning the hair there stiff. honestly, it's a miracle matt hasn't passed out yet, but he'd been thinking of getting here the moment he'd been hit.
[ It's uttered mildly, like an upper east side society maven commenting about the weather. Or the tardiness of a tennis instructor. Something that doesn't quite touch the fabric that separates individuality from the masses. Wounds bleed. He knows that from experience. God, he knows that fact better than the back of his own hands. Hand. ]
Then puke in the sink. I'm going to guide you over there, okay? [ He reaches out slowly with his right, if only because the feel of skin will probably be less jarring than steel and whatever other metals they forged into his bionic limb. And, with the patience of a sniper assassin, he waits until Matt tells him its okay to lead the vigilante over and prop him carefully against the counter. Well within range of his dinky little sink in case vomiting does happen. ]
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catholichasm) wrote2016-06-19 03:05 pm
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( matt's hands move, carefully removing the helmet on his head. there's a crack in it--which clearly isn't supposed to be there, given matt's usually careful attention to detail in fights--but he's only human, even if sometimes he doesn't feel it.
there's a wound on the back of his head, not necessarily deep (because, you know, that'd kill him), but it's bleeding out and turning the hair there stiff. honestly, it's a miracle matt hasn't passed out yet, but he'd been thinking of getting here the moment he'd been hit.
bucky's place is nearer than claire's. )
I might puke.
no subject
[ It's uttered mildly, like an upper east side society maven commenting about the weather. Or the tardiness of a tennis instructor. Something that doesn't quite touch the fabric that separates individuality from the masses. Wounds bleed. He knows that from experience. God, he knows that fact better than the back of his own hands. Hand. ]
Then puke in the sink. I'm going to guide you over there, okay? [ He reaches out slowly with his right, if only because the feel of skin will probably be less jarring than steel and whatever other metals they forged into his bionic limb. And, with the patience of a
sniperassassin, he waits until Matt tells him its okay to lead the vigilante over and prop him carefully against the counter. Well within range of his dinky little sink in case vomiting does happen. ]Gonna get the kit. Don't move.