The curt tone of voice slides off of Cain like water - Paul's allowed to be on edge, it's nothing personal. Truth be told, Cain's aware that he shouldn't be so damn calm about the whole thing. He supposes he's in a bit of a shock. The medical kind, not the pop culture bastardization of it.
Better cut to the chase. "I should be in screaming agony right now, but I'm not. I know basic first aid, you know a touch more... If you could help get me patched up before I start feeling all this for real--"
He shrugs, looks away. "I'd like to be somewhere comfortable when it hits. Some food in my stomach, a few precautionary painkillers. I can live with stale toast and-" sniff "cold rice, if I have to."
Paul grunts, runs a hand through his hair, unable to dispute the wisdom of what Wyatt's saying. He sits back down on the toilet, twirls one finger to indicate Wyatt had better turn his back to him.
No talking for a bit-- he knows Cain's gritting his teeth, by the line in his jaw, the tension in the shoulders-- and Paul himself has nothing much he feels like saying. He carefully cleans the affected areas, applies the antibiotic ointment.
In a few minutes they've got Wyatt out of the tub, the worst parts gauzed up and quite a bit of him greasy with the ointment.
"You'll be lucky you don't have burnt toast," Paul finally says, apparently having been unwilling to relinquish that.
He didn't think ointment could ever burn like fire. The water didn't, so it can't be the moisture itself, must be something else that sends his skin burning and swelling wherever it's been tended to.
His hands feel like a set of rubber gloves filled with air, his feet feel worse. He can live with the rest if he just doesn't have to stay upright.
Shock seems to be wearing off, if slowly.
"I don't care if it's burnt, I'll eat anything at this point. Help me with the sweatpants?"
Paul just nods, offering an arm for Wyatt to use steadying himself. The sweatpants are grabbed and gingerly-- one foot at a time, inching the fabric on up-- pulled up and their drawstring knotted.
"There. And now you will lie down and permit me to bring you food, sick man."
Wyatt smiles, even if he's starting to look a bit drawn, a bit pinched, and nods.
"All right, all right. Go on."
He'll inch and shuffle his way to the bedroom. Got him in here, after all, he can do it again.
Once there he finds a soft cardigan to shrug into. Inch by inch, sleeve by sleeve - but the buttons will just have to be. He can't be bothered, and his fingers can't work the finer points of coordination.
Instead he sits down gingerly on the rumpled bed sheets. And there he lets himself zone out for a bit.
He reaches for the button to transmit, offers a scowl over it which is an expression of worry in Paul-world at any rate.
"Get the fuck back to bed. I'll be over in a bit."
Reply
Better cut to the chase. "I should be in screaming agony right now, but I'm not. I know basic first aid, you know a touch more... If you could help get me patched up before I start feeling all this for real--"
He shrugs, looks away. "I'd like to be somewhere comfortable when it hits. Some food in my stomach, a few precautionary painkillers. I can live with stale toast and-" sniff "cold rice, if I have to."
Reply
No talking for a bit-- he knows Cain's gritting his teeth, by the line in his jaw, the tension in the shoulders-- and Paul himself has nothing much he feels like saying. He carefully cleans the affected areas, applies the antibiotic ointment.
In a few minutes they've got Wyatt out of the tub, the worst parts gauzed up and quite a bit of him greasy with the ointment.
"You'll be lucky you don't have burnt toast," Paul finally says, apparently having been unwilling to relinquish that.
Reply
His hands feel like a set of rubber gloves filled with air, his feet feel worse. He can live with the rest if he just doesn't have to stay upright.
Shock seems to be wearing off, if slowly.
"I don't care if it's burnt, I'll eat anything at this point. Help me with the sweatpants?"
Reply
"There. And now you will lie down and permit me to bring you food, sick man."
Reply
"All right, all right. Go on."
He'll inch and shuffle his way to the bedroom. Got him in here, after all, he can do it again.
Once there he finds a soft cardigan to shrug into. Inch by inch, sleeve by sleeve - but the buttons will just have to be. He can't be bothered, and his fingers can't work the finer points of coordination.
Instead he sits down gingerly on the rumpled bed sheets. And there he lets himself zone out for a bit.
Reply
Leave a comment