patch you up

[triarchic]

 Patch You Upshipping meme

Let's hope you're not squeamish. Even if you are, you're going to have to power through it, because your crush, significant other, lover, or fellow practitioner in romantic tension has been battered and bruised. The degree of severity, from a minor scrape to a life-threatening injury, can vary, as can the reason - they may even be hurt because of you. If that's the case, you have all the more reason to tend to their wounds with your own two hands.

No one can take care of them like you can.

Bust out the bandages, even if they don't want you to worry over them or can't believe that anyone would. Though it's not your intention, if you're genre savvy, you may know that your best Florence Nightingale may be the final push if you're not together-together.

That's assuming if you both don't pass out from botched first aide before any of that happens. Don't forget that a kiss to make it better is critical!

• Comment with your character, preferences, and the role you'd like to play - the injured or the attending. Also, would you like a pre-established relationship? One just on the cusp of becoming realized? Etc?
• Reply to others.
• Thread.

Comments

u know who i want

[tougher]

[It was only a matter of time before Fiona slipped up. She's nowhere near close to perfect and, while she likes to think herself a great con-artist, she has plenty of moral hang-ups that she ought not to have that get her cornered at the worst of times. But the only way out was up, and the only way up was family politics.

Family politics involved a lot of...contact sports. Guns, knives, fists. At the end of the day, Fiona isn't a killer -- not really. She's totally capable of it, but its never her default and only a last resort.

So its become more common to see less and less of her, sometimes for days after she's been in a rough scuffle. She's not one for being fawned over or pampered, and the sting of injury often reminds her that she's still mortal. No matter how many times she might scrape away by the skin of her teeth, death could always be just a misstep away.

Tonight, its late when she's opted to return to Lilith's Crossing -- its done purposefully to make it less likely that she might run into someone on the long trek back to her room. She's nursing something at her side, but thanks to her attire, it makes it difficult to see exactly what the problem is.

But, as usual, tight body posture would give her away.]

yesss it's going to be disgusting

[triarchic]

[ He's out and about at the oddest fucking hour, not because he's looking for any sort of trouble, but because he can't sleep. The sisters had apparently thought a punishment consisting of almost-drowning a fellow captive would be an appropriate thing to put on display, making them all watch, and that had set off the familiar nightmares in Toreth's mind all over again. Fucking bitches. He didn't even particularly care about the person who had been tortured, only cared that he had been subjected to the flailing and gargling, the sight summoning back memories of how he had thrashed and fought but it hadn't helped. Water had filled his lungs, his pulse had stopped...

So maybe it's that very sobering recollection that has him not immediately making a derisive or teasing remark at Fiona when he sees her form in the hallway. The lack of a comment means that he gets the chance to observe her while he's unseen for longer than he usually would, and it only takes a few seconds, really, for him to notice that there's something wrong with the way she's walking. Her gait's all wrong, hand clasping at herself.

It's all very familiar. He sees the wounded all the time, or used to, and even if he didn't, it's staggeringly obvious. That it's night time means that she's trying to sneak back, then. Either that or she had only just sustained the injury. Well, bad fucking luck if she's trying to sneak.

He hesitates for only a few more seconds before he's striding over to catch up to her, deliberately taking loud steps so that she isn't caught by surprise. ]

Fiona.

[tougher]

[Damn it.

She manages not to swear out loud when she picks up on footsteps behind her, coming to a very short and straight stop when the voice registers. He will probably hear her exhale loudly through her nostrils, a clear sign that yes -- she had been sneaking. There's probably only one other person she would have wanted to been caught by less, and that was Rhys.

So as to not look suspicious, she doubles back just enough to force herself straight, carefully keeping her wrist out of view with clever positioning. It doesn't hide any of the bruising near her neck or her slightly swollen lip, or the smudged makeup where she had been hit.]

What?

[triarchic]

[ Her response is far too casual for the state of mess her face is currently in, which is a fairly good indicator of the fact that she's completely used to this sort of thing. Well, she is a con-artist, and who knows what the fuck she's been up to around here. Toreth certainly doesn't.

There's still a flash of surprise at how fucking beat up she looks, though, even if the sight should come as no surprise to Toreth if he thinks about it too much. That's a nasty-looking beat-up on her face and along her neck, let alone whatever had happened to her side. His eyes fall on where she had been clutching just a few moments ago, an indicator that he hadn't missed it. ]

Jesus fucking Christ. [ And then: ] Don't fucking 'what' me, what the hell happened?

[ He moves in closer, mostly to examine. He's iffy about offering help. Mostly because it's Fiona, and he's certain she'd rather fight him in her current state than accept any help. Still, she looks awful. ]

[tougher]

[She doesn't make any effort to fight him when he approaches -- she'd lose with a broken wrist, and she's not about to embarrass herself like that. Even if he's seen the problem, she keeps it where she's hidden it out of pride. But Fiona does stay standing straight and gives him another sort of deadpanned stare when he tries to show concern.]

Don't worry about it.

[There's a lack of an aggressive or proud note in her voice, but she does avoid looking him in the eye when she says it, glancing down at his hands instead for intent.]

[triarchic]

[ Christ, she's stubborn. Toreth shoots her a fairly unimpressed look at that, especially because there's no fervor in the way she's speaking. She's usually quite adamant and passionate about Toreth fucking right off, although she's surprisingly diplomatic about how she phrases that sentiment most of the time, given how much he antagonizes her. ]

We're going to play that game, are we?

[ He remains still for a few seconds, and then, very tentatively: ]

Come on. My room's closer.

[ Because he isn't going to risk one of the sisters creeping up on them, or whoever Fiona had just scuffled with. ]

[tougher]

[He'll likely notice her jaw go tight with slight offense, like she's preparing to tell him off for trying to baby her before she glances down the opposite hall and decides against it. The sigh out of her nose is softer this time, but its there all the same as she turns to follow Toreth toward his room.

The charade is over, so its not difficult to see her swollen wrist and her torn and bloody sleeve once they're walking together. The blood doesn't seem to be her's at first glance, at least.]

Why are you even awake?

[triarchic]

[ It's his turn to stiffen up slightly, the tension across his shoulders noticeable especially because his body is turned towards her, assessing her injuries as they walk. The question's agitated him, but he tries not to let it show, even if the circles under his eyes are pretty evident, even without close inspection.

He shrugs, forcing himself to let go of the tightness in his body. ]

Who cares? What the fuck were you doing that you ended up like that?

[ Redirect. Redirecting is easier, especially when the question is entirely genuine, Toreth taking in the state of her wrist and sleeve, and that blood, fuck. ]

You sure gave somebody a run for their money. The question is, did you do that literally, or figuratively?

[tougher]

[The redirect would've been thrown out the window if he hasn't been smart enough to ask the question the way he had. She scoffs very lightly, which ends up hurting and making her wince just a little.]

Can't talk about it, but I try not to let anyone get the wrong idea about me.

[Like that she was a good girl who couldn't fight. She didn't necessarily want to fight all the time, sure, but you couldn't let anyone know that on Pandora. Why would things be different here?]

Got ganged up on anyway.

[The Maeve would likely let her have it later for embarrassing them. She should've known not to go to the same house twice, especially alone.]

[triarchic]

Yet you managed to get out pretty well-off.

[ More a statement than a question, and he sounds slightly impressed. Her wounds are bad, sure, but they don't quite look like ones sustained by somebody who's been ganged up on and gotten the shit kicked out of them.

He finally looks away from her only when they've reached his door, and he goes through the motions of unlocking it, letting himself and her in. He waits for her before he moves to closes the door behind them. Very casually: ]

Work for the sisters?

[tougher]

I'm really good at running away.

[That's about where she goes silent, focusing on keeping her wrist still when she moves in after him. With light, its much more obvious that the fight was not as clean as it looked. The red shade of her jacket his most of the dirt and grim, even if her white patched pants hadn't. It still doesn't look like anyone managed to do more than get some punches in and maybe a few swings of a weapon.

The bruise on her neck is telling as to how they got anything at all.]

Yeah.

[triarchic]

[ He locks the door behind them, more for peace of mind than anything. He doubts anyone's followed Fiona if she's made it this far in her shape, but it's a good habit to have, anyway. A good habit used by him to stop Fiona from getting into his room, actually. He almost laughs, but instead just shakes his head, reaching for the light switch and shit.

It doesn't look, at first glance, like she has a whole lot of open wounds, but the scuffle she's been in is apparently way worse than he had previously thought. ]

Christ. Are you working as their fucking attack dog, or something?

[ He runs a critical eye over the state of her neck, then nods towards the chair by the vanity. Because fat fucking chance he'll let her have the comfort of the couch. She's a mess. ]

[tougher]

Not exactly. I'm just popular.

[A line she's used more than once, and one she isn't afraid to use again and again.

At first, it looks like she might refuse the chair. Truthfully, she'd rather be back in her own room wrapping her wrist and sleeping off the rest. She could've showered in the morning, and nobody would be any wiser to her nightly runs. But seeing as he's shut the door and she isn't going to be able to fight him to open it, she drops her ass in the chair a bit heavily and leans back.]

Its better if you don't ask questions.

[infligere]

[He could count on one hand the number of people that he had enough regard for to help him out, and only one of those jerks had the possibility of being available at this point in time. He had no want or need to be coddled, and he would have honestly done it himself in the isolation of the bathtub if the injuries hadn't been in such hard to reach places.

Just his damn luck, that.

There weren't many knife fights that he lost, and this certainly wasn't one of them either. However, the guy in question had been good enough where they had exchanged a few strikes before he had gained the upper hand and picked out vital organs one at a time. It was all messy work, even when he seated himself in the bathroom so as not to bleed too much all over the nice enough furniture in the place. Plus it was cooler here, and his injuries felt much too hot at this point.

Whatever, it could be worse. He could be laying in the streets dead and not here in the relative safety of his current location.]

[triarchic]

[ Toreth had been slightly surprised at the sudden text in the middle of the fucking night. Sleep was fucking sacred to him, and if it had been anybody else he might've ignored the message or simply told the person to fuck right off. That it was Rumlow either meant that it was some technical-minded question that he could look at and quickly answer or fall back asleep to and answer the next day, or it was something urgent.

It had turned out to be urgent.

He had dragged himself out of bed, cursing the odd fucking hour, and hastily gotten dressed before finding his way to Rumlow's room. The door had been unlocked, which probably signaled that he was going to be greeted with a rather messy fucking sight if the other man hadn't stuck around to open the door for him. Security, security.

He was way too fucking tired for this.

Toreth locked the door behind him as he entered, and seeing as Rumlow wasn't in the immediate bedroom, stalked to the bathroom in search of him. And oh, fuck, that was a messy fucking sight, alright. Nothing life-threatening was his first assessment, but it was hard to pick out what was Rumlow's blood and what wasn't. Toreth let out a low whistle. ]

The fuck have you been up to?

[ He approached calmly, eyes running over Rumlow's body in an effort to figure out just what exactly had happened, and what needed to be urgently attended to. ]

[infligere]

[It hadn't taken as long as he expected for Toreth to actually show up. Half of him thought that he would be bleeding in the tub for a few hours while the guy decided to catch up on some beauty sleep after messing with the heads and bodies of people all day. That was tiring work and he wouldn't have held it against Toreth for staying away, though he probably would had found a reason to get back at the man.

That was just how shit worked. He'd expect the same if their positions were reversed. Of course, he mused that any call from Toreth was worth getting out of bed for because it was guaranteed to be entertaining.

He was still literally lounging in the tub when the door to his room opened and he could track the other man's progress through soft steps in the apartment. He raised an eyebrow at the not-quite-awake look and sleep-mused appearance that Toreth walked into the bathroom with, but those shrewd eyes were always watching regardless. He grinned cruelly as he smeared some blood that was dribbling down his arm. Shoulder wounds were the hardest to get to for him.]

Would you believe that I was strolling the streets admiring the architecture when I was jumped by a knife-wielding maniac?

[He sat forward and only then pulled off his sliced up shirt. There was a deep seeping injury just under his arm and at a sharp angle down his ribs, one down the left shoulder blade and one long one along the entire small of his back.]

I can't reach these little bastards, so I hope you've got sewing skills because I'm going to need them.

[triarchic]

[ Toreth finally uttered some choice expletives when the shirt came off, both at the injuries -- Christ, they'd be a pain in the fucking ass to take care of -- and the fact that it hadn't occurred to him, in his half-conscious state, to bring along a bottle of spirits for the little venture. Well, this was going to hurt a lot more without hard spirits to enjoy, although Rumlow being in the bathtub meant he could easily flush the wound out with copious amounts of water. Infection shouldn't be a huge problem. Hopefully.

Even though Toreth had only pulled on the black cotton tee what felt like only moments earlier, he was pulling it off again, not keen on getting his clothes messy with blood if he could help it. Blood was hard to get out, and even if the tee was black, you could just fucking tell where it stained if you were in the right light. The coagulated blood stiffened the cotton, too. A bloody inconvenience all around, literally. ]

Might have believed it if you left out the bit about the architecture. [ That was said fairly casually as he glanced around the bathroom, looking to see what he had to work with while Rumlow continued. ]

Where's the kit?

[infligere]

[He finally stood now that it seemed like things were about to get productive and interesting, and it was pretty much a regular HYDRA slumber party at this point. Everyone was taking off their shirts there too, though generally to admire the bruising given to each other earlier in the day. He was the one who was a mess and Toreth was all clean and pristine, which seemed ironic given what he knew the guy did for a living.

He toed off his boots to the side and seated himself on the edge of the tub where the light was best and he still wouldn't make too much of a mess. He had a feeling this was going to be a fun midnight past time.]

Bedside table, bottom drawer. [His clothes were a complete write off, but he wiped at them with a blood-stained hand all the same as if he could just brush off the hardening blood in the material.] I don't think your skills will be necessary on the other guy, if that makes you feel better.

[triarchic]

[ Easily: ] Wasn't going to ask. In fact, less I know, the less I have to lie for you if it comes to it. And I'm not inclined to lie if it's going to be my head on the chopping block.

[ Toreth didn't give Rumlow a second glance, moving to the bedside drawer to find what he needed. It was exactly where Rumlow had specified, and so it wasn't long before Toreth was back in the bathroom, setting the kit down on the counter and opening it. I&I had great first aid care, but being in the whole profession, coupled with his time in the retraining facility and his past proclivities for bar fights, meant that Toreth was fairly dexterous when it came to sewing up cuts and treating sprained joints. He knew what was needed to at least help stabilise a person, too. Tourniquets and the like. ]

You're going to have to wash all that shit off. [ The blood, some of it probably beginning to crust over. Toreth said it as a calm suggestion more than anything. ] Think you can manage that yourself while I do this?

[ Do this being fiddle with the thread and needle and rummaging through the kit for scissors. He was at least waking up completely now, the only signs of his interrupted sleep being the stubble on his face and the eyes that still responded a little poorly when he glanced up too quickly at the light. ]

[infligere]

Yeah, you best distance yourself after this, since I might have earned a little punishment on this one.

[He was perfectly fine with that, since it would at least be as entertaining as it was probably going to be humiliating. He wasn't about to drag people he was on an 'okay' basis into his messes either, not when they were about to stitch him back up in his own bathroom. That just seemed like a piss poor kind of 'thank you', though he expected that he would owe Toreth something. Payment had yet to be specified.]

I think I can handle, but you'll have to turn your back. I'm really shy about people seeing me naked. [He was already unbuckling his pants as he said such, which meant he wasn't shy at all and perfectly willing to hose himself off right there in the shower. He stood after dumping his trousers next to his boots and stepped back into the tub to hose off with cold water, rubbing the drying blood and revealing the clean edges of the injuries that he bore.

He kept his back to the wall for the most part, but he knew it was impossible to hide the very old white criss-crossed lines that ran the entire length of his back from shoulders to the end of his tailbone. He figured Toreth wouldn't ask, so he didn't care that much despite keeping them to himself for the most part.

Still dripping wet, he seated himself on the edge of the tub and grabbed his ruined shirt to dab at the newly seeping blood down his skin.] Am I going to live, Doc?

[triarchic]

[ It was hardly surprising that Rumlow's body was decorated with scars of old, and the small glimpses that Toreth caught of them had him noting that they were impressive. He wondered, briefly, on the specifics. How it had been done. Whether Rumlow had screamed at the time, or whether he had grit his teeth and took it. Toreth's skills in judging character meant he was leaning towards the latter, but pain did funny things to people. It changed them, broke them down until even they couldn't recognise themselves. That was the whole point, and everyone reached that stage sooner or later. You just needed to apply enough pressure, hopefully enough while not killing.

Toreth spared Rumlow's body about half a second's glance. Long enough to appreciatively note his musculature, but not long enough to be distracted or lewd about it. While he certainly had a nice body, that wasn't really the point right now, and while Toreth liked inflicting pain and he didn't mind a bit of blood, he would be more than alright with not fucking people until their wounds reopened and they bled all over him.

He went ahead with the needle and thread, measuring out an excess before snipping it off with the scissors. ]

[ Dryly: ] Only if you be a very fucking good patient. [ He turned, approaching Rumlow, still making no comment on the state of his back, eyeing the fresh wounds only. ] If you squirm and I jab you in the wrong spot, it's not my problem.

[infligere]

[He figured that most of Toreth's investigation would be some kind of professional curiosity, and he was perfectly comfortable in his own skin. He just didn't particularly want to talk about it, and people had a habit of asking for stories behind things in an attempt to get to know him. He wasn't interested. He had his own objectives, and he stuck to those. There was no need to get touchy feel-y about anything, least of all when there was a mission to complete.

There was a surety with Toreth's hands, something that imbued confidence into him that this would be done right and with minimal fussing. In fact, they both might like it. Who knows when they were together; they had been pretty good about hurting each other whenever they met up.]

I won't squirm. [He set his hands on the side of the tub and straightened, but the muscles of his shoulders tightened in preparation.] Try not to get a boner doing this, okay?

[triarchic]

[ Toreth rolled his eyes at the remark, eyeing one of the larger wounds and deciding to start with that first. He took the needle and, without much hesitation, jabbed it through the sliver of skin, perhaps harder than was really required. That's what you got for making smartass fucking remarks. That was the only unnecessary force he used, though, going ahead and threading the needle through the open wound to the other flap of skin quite properly after that. Easy, methodical work. He was good at that. Had to be, with all the hours he had spent with uncooperative prisoners, using the same techniques, over and over again, with increasing levels of pain. ]

Speak for yourself.

[infligere]

[A muscle in his cheek jumped at the jabbing, but he remained perfectly still otherwise. Toreth was doing him a favour, so he let the roughness slide and actually did his best not to enjoy the slide and tug of flesh being drawn together with the needle and thread. His breathing was even and despite the flares of pain, his eyes half closed.]

I'll do my best, but I make no guarantees. A little pain goes a long way.

[triarchic]

You're a sick fucker, aren't you?

[ Despite the words, it was said without much malice. Toreth hummed thoughtfully, mostly at how still Rumlow was. He didn't do this often, but he was used to people squirming, or at least shaking, under his hands, both during torturing and fucking. To have someone remain still was a refreshing change. ]

You can jerk yourself off if you get a hard-on.

[ He was halfway through done with the larger wound, his fingers steadily becoming smeared with Rumlow's blood from the application of the stitches. ]