“I’d rather not be caught at the tip of the spear point with my shirt completely off, if it’s all the same to you. Just inject these around and it’ll be fine-…” she said, cutting his rampant thought short, holding out some stimpacks but he pried them from her fingers and placed them to the side.
“With your wound hanging open like that, I’m not too keen on trusting just those. It’s my life that hangs on your pulse too, you know.” He didn’t know what came over him to say that. Well, survival was the first thing on his mind, naturally.
“Bloody selfish of me, I agree,” she breathed. “What do you have in mind?”
“We have materials to stitch you up, don’t we?” Indeed, in one of the small pockets of his belt he found and pulled out a lesser package of aid required for injuries more serious than what a stimpack could handle. He looked at the wound again, and blinked, wondering if he had just imagined or if the cut had narrowed somewhat.
“You know how to use a needle?” The helmet tilted to the side, and her voice cracked in disbelief drawing him back.
“Of course I do! I had to patch myself when the chems weren’t enough. Does it surprise you?” Though truth to be told… he wasn’t used to patching other people up. Sierra Madre didn’t allow for much in the way of alliances, even if they were temporary ones. He healed fast. For his flesh – sadly not his skin – a meager stitch was enough so long it kept the wound closed until regeneration kicked in. Proper sewing up of wounds was not something he needed to relay on often. Not to mention how fine detail had since begun to escape his eyes. Oh, he could still pinpoint a pair of glowing green dots in the distances sans glasses but, eh… She didn’t really need to know all that however.
“Given the environment of Sierra Madre, no…” she stared tiredly and sighed. “It’s just that ghouls don’t usually need to resort to patching themselves up,” she said, echoing his thoughts and confirming his suspicions, remembering Raul’s tale of surviving being shot at – repeatedly – before moving on to kill the assholes. She shook her head lightly. For all his talk of failing eyes and creaking knees, Raul had long ago came to grips with what he was, and by all, if he didn’t actually find some perverse thrill it.
Dean settled next to her, wiped the blood with clean gauze and bent over the slash, pressing the tip of the needle at one end. His other hand pressed against warm flesh – and blimey, her muscles had to be made of iron! – holding her down so she wouldn’t wriggle while he worked. He didn’t need to worry about doing some amateurish acupuncture; she seemed quite used to this kind of procedures. What had the world turned into out there, if this has become the norm? Living in Sierra Madre gave him a good idea, but Sierra Madre wasn’t the world and he had no other people to compare it to. Well, no other living people.
“You’re tougher,” she continued. “You heal faster and you can walk right down the irradiated interstate like it’s a walk in a deathclaw-free neighborhood.”
“Yes, which is why I look like I could use some extended ‘me’ time in a mud bath,” he drawled. “A fair trade off, to be sure.” He was clearly being sarcastic. “And if you’re going to ask me what a mud bath is – don’t. I’m not feeling particularly generous with sharing any more of my pearls of wisdom and bygone old world peculiarities,” he cut in immediately when her head rose up a fraction.
Re: F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 6c
“With your wound hanging open like that, I’m not too keen on trusting just those. It’s my life that hangs on your pulse too, you know.” He didn’t know what came over him to say that. Well, survival was the first thing on his mind, naturally.
“Bloody selfish of me, I agree,” she breathed. “What do you have in mind?”
“We have materials to stitch you up, don’t we?” Indeed, in one of the small pockets of his belt he found and pulled out a lesser package of aid required for injuries more serious than what a stimpack could handle. He looked at the wound again, and blinked, wondering if he had just imagined or if the cut had narrowed somewhat.
“You know how to use a needle?” The helmet tilted to the side, and her voice cracked in disbelief drawing him back.
“Of course I do! I had to patch myself when the chems weren’t enough. Does it surprise you?” Though truth to be told… he wasn’t used to patching other people up. Sierra Madre didn’t allow for much in the way of alliances, even if they were temporary ones. He healed fast. For his flesh – sadly not his skin – a meager stitch was enough so long it kept the wound closed until regeneration kicked in. Proper sewing up of wounds was not something he needed to relay on often. Not to mention how fine detail had since begun to escape his eyes. Oh, he could still pinpoint a pair of glowing green dots in the distances sans glasses but, eh… She didn’t really need to know all that however.
“Given the environment of Sierra Madre, no…” she stared tiredly and sighed. “It’s just that ghouls don’t usually need to resort to patching themselves up,” she said, echoing his thoughts and confirming his suspicions, remembering Raul’s tale of surviving being shot at – repeatedly – before moving on to kill the assholes. She shook her head lightly. For all his talk of failing eyes and creaking knees, Raul had long ago came to grips with what he was, and by all, if he didn’t actually find some perverse thrill it.
Dean settled next to her, wiped the blood with clean gauze and bent over the slash, pressing the tip of the needle at one end. His other hand pressed against warm flesh – and blimey, her muscles had to be made of iron! – holding her down so she wouldn’t wriggle while he worked. He didn’t need to worry about doing some amateurish acupuncture; she seemed quite used to this kind of procedures. What had the world turned into out there, if this has become the norm? Living in Sierra Madre gave him a good idea, but Sierra Madre wasn’t the world and he had no other people to compare it to. Well, no other living people.
“You’re tougher,” she continued. “You heal faster and you can walk right down the irradiated interstate like it’s a walk in a deathclaw-free neighborhood.”
“Yes, which is why I look like I could use some extended ‘me’ time in a mud bath,” he drawled. “A fair trade off, to be sure.” He was clearly being sarcastic. “And if you’re going to ask me what a mud bath is – don’t. I’m not feeling particularly generous with sharing any more of my pearls of wisdom and bygone old world peculiarities,” he cut in immediately when her head rose up a fraction.