PSL no. 2: cruel wars

[presurgery]

CHRONOLOGICALLY -

i. alternate universe
ii. picture prompt
iii. quote prompt
iv. random scenario
v. psl
vi. stargazing
vii. psl
viii. psl
ix. psl
x. insomnia

Comments

[presurgery]

[ Little by little, in recognisable stages, Khan comes to - eyes (well, eye) opening and his hand scrambling for purchase along John's upper arm, shoulder, whatever's within reach, pretty much. John eases him down on a mostly untouched spot of floor, shrugging out of his shirt quickly to give him something to rest his head on. It's blood-soaked (Mike's), but more comfortable than the ground, so it'll have to do. Bare-chested, he gets to work on the other man, looking him over properly, checking out his most severe injuries (try with all of them), the external ones, the rest he'll need an x-ray machine and the works for, right? Broken leg, all those bloody holes... ]

I'm here, I'm fine.

[ John grasps his hand briefly, it's chewed up and bleeding, but still feels like nearness and intimacy. Shit, he must have difficulties breathing, with both his lungs shot to bits, air escaping through the open wounds. John releases him, moving over to grab one of the blankets off the nearest chair and folds it up, spreading it out over his chest. Then, he undoes his belt and straps it around the blanket and beneath Khan's back, tightening it up with all the strength he's got. It's an intermediate solution, far from perfect, but it'll keep the air in his system somewhat. And although Khan might not need it to actually, you know, breathe, like he doesn't need morphine to heal, it'll probably help his cells regenerate, if they're not lacking oxygen.

Only once that's done, a turned-over chair popped underneath his broken leg for support as well, does John stroke his hair (because, shoot him), mutter be right back and run to the nearest intercom panel, swiping his card over it and saying exactly four words: ]

Library. Bring medical supplies.