[ She hums her acknowledgment, a simple indication of agreement as her needle works through solid muscle tissue without a hint of resistance. The Savrii were doing themselves no favors in this place, getting them all hurt the moment they walk through to another planet, and their tentative agreement to even bring them along in the first place. Yet their society seemed open and fair, and they'd been offered lodging and jobs without a hitch. Personally, she's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Jack's personal resistance, however, was far greater than that of his body. That sheen of sweat at his brow gives way to the pain he's in and she can nearly see his pulse pounding at his temple, along the taut line of his his neck from the clench of his jaw. Her very presence seems to set him on edge when before it would have been a relief, but he takes her treatment when given no other choice and he does so with familiarity and patience. She can't ask him for much else. (Not yet.)
He mentions Ana, and were he watching her, there's steel in her eyes for just a fraction of a second, the slightest twitch down of her brow to furrow, but... it made sense. Of course it did. Another wedge between them, her and the prior SIC. They had been off to a civil start on their first conversation and that was where they had stalled. Civil, keeping their distance from one another, and now it made sense. Of course she knew. Of course she didn't share such pertinent information.
She'll bite her tongue on the matter. Jack has lost a lot of blood and the pain of the wound and subsequent surgery were only worsening, and his panic has scarcely abated. (Of course she isn't prying.) He's not stable and worse, he's not ok. That went deeper than the physical. Yes, he's Jack Morrison— but in many ways, now, that may not hold so true. He's changed in these years and the toll has been heavy on him. She doesn't have full scope of just how much of a broken man he may be, but she is already seeing those cracks in him, hairline fissures grating against one another with his every step, eroding like tectonic plates. ]
I'll run you a transfusion after this, both for blood and rehydration. [ They're not going to talk about Ana. That's only another thorn to puncture her, and she's well-perforated as it is. ] When you were still throwing fixtures and orderlies around, I asked them to wait for my go-ahead and reserved the room for a while. You'll have a few hours to rest after this. I can likely pull something together for the pain, even if only to take the edge off until I get the chance for something more.
[ Just keep talking business, Angela; perhaps that sharp ache will stay at bay a little while longer. She ties up the last intramuscular thread and then she's switching needles and thread type, and then she begins the finer work of sewing his skin back up. Perfect rungs in now-imperfect flesh marred by scar after scar, and she wonders how many of these he'd had to do himself when they were clearly not her work. No, hers were scarcely visible, now, even without proper aftercare on his part— accelerated healing and her own handiwork left him nigh on flawless given a year's time for the tissue to heal and the scars to fade, blending right in save the slightest sliver if you looked for them.
These go quicker, thread replaced twice, but soon she's tying him off with finality and the tools are set aside in a tin to be cleaned later, dunked into an antiseptic before she dots an antibacterial gel along the length and dresses the wound with paper tape to allow it to breathe and keep the suture thread from catching, then a protective pad of gauze taped down securely on top, and she'll have to have him sit up before she wraps him properly. Her gloves are shed and the silence is heavy before she bustles back to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. ]
All done. Take a few moments, but then I'll need you to sit up. Slowly, as I expect you'll be lightheaded from blood loss. I'll finish dressing your stomach and then I'll get that line in your arm.
no subject
Jack's personal resistance, however, was far greater than that of his body. That sheen of sweat at his brow gives way to the pain he's in and she can nearly see his pulse pounding at his temple, along the taut line of his his neck from the clench of his jaw. Her very presence seems to set him on edge when before it would have been a relief, but he takes her treatment when given no other choice and he does so with familiarity and patience. She can't ask him for much else. (Not yet.)
He mentions Ana, and were he watching her, there's steel in her eyes for just a fraction of a second, the slightest twitch down of her brow to furrow, but... it made sense. Of course it did. Another wedge between them, her and the prior SIC. They had been off to a civil start on their first conversation and that was where they had stalled. Civil, keeping their distance from one another, and now it made sense. Of course she knew. Of course she didn't share such pertinent information.
She'll bite her tongue on the matter. Jack has lost a lot of blood and the pain of the wound and subsequent surgery were only worsening, and his panic has scarcely abated. (Of course she isn't prying.) He's not stable and worse, he's not ok. That went deeper than the physical. Yes, he's Jack Morrison— but in many ways, now, that may not hold so true. He's changed in these years and the toll has been heavy on him. She doesn't have full scope of just how much of a broken man he may be, but she is already seeing those cracks in him, hairline fissures grating against one another with his every step, eroding like tectonic plates. ]
I'll run you a transfusion after this, both for blood and rehydration. [ They're not going to talk about Ana. That's only another thorn to puncture her, and she's well-perforated as it is. ] When you were still throwing fixtures and orderlies around, I asked them to wait for my go-ahead and reserved the room for a while. You'll have a few hours to rest after this. I can likely pull something together for the pain, even if only to take the edge off until I get the chance for something more.
[ Just keep talking business, Angela; perhaps that sharp ache will stay at bay a little while longer. She ties up the last intramuscular thread and then she's switching needles and thread type, and then she begins the finer work of sewing his skin back up. Perfect rungs in now-imperfect flesh marred by scar after scar, and she wonders how many of these he'd had to do himself when they were clearly not her work. No, hers were scarcely visible, now, even without proper aftercare on his part— accelerated healing and her own handiwork left him nigh on flawless given a year's time for the tissue to heal and the scars to fade, blending right in save the slightest sliver if you looked for them.
These go quicker, thread replaced twice, but soon she's tying him off with finality and the tools are set aside in a tin to be cleaned later, dunked into an antiseptic before she dots an antibacterial gel along the length and dresses the wound with paper tape to allow it to breathe and keep the suture thread from catching, then a protective pad of gauze taped down securely on top, and she'll have to have him sit up before she wraps him properly. Her gloves are shed and the silence is heavy before she bustles back to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. ]
All done. Take a few moments, but then I'll need you to sit up. Slowly, as I expect you'll be lightheaded from blood loss. I'll finish dressing your stomach and then I'll get that line in your arm.