Flinching when Arthur pushes the needle through her skin again, Eames bites her bottom lip. Worrying it between her teeth, she whimpers and, just to cover it up, curses, "Bloody hell Arthur, don't fucking be gentle, its just a bullet wound. Didn't hurt nearly enough to begin with."
She will physically hurt him if he says anything about the whimper.
He wasn't going to say anything, just nudged her head with the back of his hand, moving it out of the light that he needed to work with, "What were you doing anyway? How does going to get coffee turn into a gunfight?"
"It's Shanghai Arthur," Eames moves her head where he wants it, causing a cascade of her hair to slip off her shoulder and into his working area. She would move it, but he's got her arm in his grip and her other hand is clenched, white knuckled, into the cushion of the seat she's perched on. "I'm surprised it took this long."
Which is a joke really. They both know that information was leaked somewhere along the line. Arthur, competent as ever, whisked them out of the cramped, horrid little building they were using as a base of operations in less time than it took him to realize Eames was bleeding all over the back of the cab they'd hailed. She honestly should have hid it better.
Which is how they ended up here, in the room Arthur had rented for himself, wads of gauze littered around on the floor and Arthur sitting next to her, playing doctor- or nurse, as Eames liked to imagine it. She's been shot and is being sewn back up with no morphine; she has a right to think of him however she pleases.
He'd consider it a fair assessment, really, because he was no doctor and he knew it. Once he managed to get the graze, and it really was just a graze, albeit a deep one, closed and bandaged, he'd go find some painkillers. Stopping the bleeding was the important part.
"Good point." Was the reply, just as dry as ever, finishing with the stitches and tearing open a fresh bandage, wrapping it tidily and taping it down, "There, we'll be safe enough here for the time being."
Lying back on the bed, Eames groans. Now that the residual traces of adrenaline have dissipated, it's not so much her arm that hurts (she isn't sure if she's reached a new level of if I don't acknowledge it, it must not be happening or if her arm has just gone numb) as much as it is her entire body that aches. She hasn't been keeping a tab, but she's sure she's lost a fair amount of blood, if all the bandages and the angry shouting the cab driver had done was any indication.
To be fair, everything in Chinese sounded vaguely hostile to Eames.
"I wish I had enough energy in me to acknowledge that I'm hungry." Eames grumbles, putting a lot of effort into staring at Arthur's ceiling while he putzes around doing who knows what.
Mostly he was cleaning up, securing the remains of the first aid kit (and Arthur's first aid kit always more resembled an army surplus field medic supply case than anything) and making sure the place was presentable, just in case anyone came by.
What he said, finally approaching with a glass of water and a couple tablets was, "Codeine. Best I can do right now." There was actually something close to concern in the tone, mostly because it was weird to have Eames not being acerbic about everything, "And I can probably scrounge up something to eat, if you need it."
"If its something that's been in that pack for five years," Eames pauses, reevaluating her next words as a wave of nausea pounds through her head. When it passes, Eames sighs, closing her eyes. "I think I'll pass."
He hasn't given her the tablets and she's drifting a bit now, eyes closed and focusing on staying alert- or, as alert as her state will allow. Her body feels terribly heavy and she thinks maybe sitting up to take the codeine isn't worth the effort. The rustle of Arthur's perfectly tailored pant legs is coming closer, but Eames has a lot going on behind her eyelids at the moment.
"Medication is well before it's shelf date." He replied, trying for amused and coming across as vaguely concerned again, setting both the glass and the pills on the bedside table, "Food too, for that matter." He nudged the uninjured shoulder then, "C'mon, up, you can pass out once you're medicated." He'd make sure she took them, partly for the painkillers and partly for the antimicrobal they also contained, because while he trusted the tools to be clean, hurried surgeries, however minor, had a tendency to turn out badly.
About all she can muster is an annoyed swat at his hand and a groan to accompany it. She's had better bedside manner from the pelt-wearing Russians in Siberia, and that's saying something. Then again, there had probably been a lot more vodka involved in that knife wound than there was with this gun shot. But still, it'd be nice to have a little bedside manner from the other. A cool cloth, a dash of empathy, a kind hand to hold- really, he would make a terrible nurse. Not even the cute little white hat with the medic symbol on it, as fetching as it might look sitting on his perfectly coifed head, would make up for his frank, no-nonsense approach. He's probably wouldn't carry around suckers in his pockets for good patients who don't cause a fuss when they're being stitched up.
Which, is about when she blinks open her eyes to see him looking down at her as if she's said someth-
Bollocks."Whatever I just said, I meant it in the nicest way possible." Eames assures, not sure when she'd let her mouth run away with her but, as a general
( ... )
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She will physically hurt him if he says anything about the whimper.
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Which is a joke really. They both know that information was leaked somewhere along the line. Arthur, competent as ever, whisked them out of the cramped, horrid little building they were using as a base of operations in less time than it took him to realize Eames was bleeding all over the back of the cab they'd hailed. She honestly should have hid it better.
Which is how they ended up here, in the room Arthur had rented for himself, wads of gauze littered around on the floor and Arthur sitting next to her, playing doctor- or nurse, as Eames liked to imagine it. She's been shot and is being sewn back up with no morphine; she has a right to think of him however she pleases.
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"Good point." Was the reply, just as dry as ever, finishing with the stitches and tearing open a fresh bandage, wrapping it tidily and taping it down, "There, we'll be safe enough here for the time being."
Reply
To be fair, everything in Chinese sounded vaguely hostile to Eames.
"I wish I had enough energy in me to acknowledge that I'm hungry." Eames grumbles, putting a lot of effort into staring at Arthur's ceiling while he putzes around doing who knows what.
Reply
What he said, finally approaching with a glass of water and a couple tablets was, "Codeine. Best I can do right now." There was actually something close to concern in the tone, mostly because it was weird to have Eames not being acerbic about everything, "And I can probably scrounge up something to eat, if you need it."
Reply
He hasn't given her the tablets and she's drifting a bit now, eyes closed and focusing on staying alert- or, as alert as her state will allow. Her body feels terribly heavy and she thinks maybe sitting up to take the codeine isn't worth the effort. The rustle of Arthur's perfectly tailored pant legs is coming closer, but Eames has a lot going on behind her eyelids at the moment.
Reply
Reply
Which, is about when she blinks open her eyes to see him looking down at her as if she's said someth-
Bollocks."Whatever I just said, I meant it in the nicest way possible." Eames assures, not sure when she'd let her mouth run away with her but, as a general ( ... )
Reply
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