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

ix.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ The floor's bright from artificial light, imitating the sun at noon and its movement across the sky. Khan blinks awake, swallowing heavily against a wave of nausea, the morphine in his system somewhat diluted at this point but potent enough to make him feel slow and cumbersome. He listens. Places John in the room next to his, tending to... who's in there? Sniff, sniff (lungs complaining loudly). Atlas, yes. Rachita took him down as well. He wonders how that came about - usually, he'd be wise enough to stay out of her path.

Must have had a purpose.

His hand, fingers healing up (taking a longer time due to all his other injuries, blood loss, slow cell growth from lack of oxygen), scrambles along the side of the bed briefly until landing on the panel, pushing a few buttons. The backrest rises slowly in response, until he's mostly sitting up, the movement jostling his still-healing lower-back. He coughs. Curls one arm over his torso, riddled with holes still, the bandages around it growing wet from blood. He can sense his consciousness slipping and growls, feeling stubborn, though he doesn't actually know why.

So he punches the panel next to the bed to lower the morphine dose in the IV because surely, the thing isn't helping him think any clearer. ]

[presurgery]

[ It's been four days. Four days of next to no sleep (aside from the two naps Amélie's corporally forced him to take), only basic fluid and nutrient intake (aside from the two lunches Amélie's forcibly had him eat) and constant on-his-feet treatment of Khan and Atlas, both of whom have been mostly unresponsive. Maybe a good thing in these particular circumstances, less work for John, right? Less work.

He washes his hands after having checked on Atlas' bandages and is about to grab a granola bar, well out of harm's way, when he hears the telltale punching against the panels on the bed next door. Jesus, what's the man doing? Not again. Khan's been up once since his showdown with Rachita and it didn't end well, not for him and certainly not for John's pride. The problem of handling a patient who's stronger than you even when halfway drained of blood, yes? He's never afraid around Khan, mind, but he's got a healthy skepticism in regards to his strength. Dazed from morphine and pain, who the hell knows what stupid decisions he might make. Like now. John stops in the doorway, watches Khan who has raised the headboard, his upper body contorted into a position it's in no way ready for, his bandages soaked with fresh blood as a result. Yeah, like now. Look at this idiot. Christ.

Sighing deeply, he walks over to his bed, physically removes Khan's hand from the buttons and starts lowering the headboard once more. ]

No, we're not doing that. [ His eyes feel sensitive against the bright lights, it's sleep deprivation mostly. John blinks a few times, leans in over Khan to check a particular soaked spot on his chest. No touching, just the visual. A headshake and he turns away, moves over to the cupboards and finds a couple rolls of fresh ones. ] I changed you half an hour ago, you know.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He can't actually manage to regulate the morphine dosis - apparently, that requires more advanced motor skills than he's currently capable of - and when John walks in once more, he's so oddly relieved by his presence that he doesn't resist being moved away from it and lowered down again. His back protests at the motion though he senses his muscles relaxing better as he's returned to his reclining position. Blinking harshly, he manages to lift himself onto his elbow, just enough to look at John, his hair clinging to his brow.

Eyes narrowing, he takes in the other man's appearance - whole, first and foremost, but very visibly exhausted - and takes another ragged breath before speaking, his words coming out dry, voice hoarse. ]

You should rest. [ Spoken as matter-of-factly as he can manage in his current state. He takes another shallow breath, putting some weight on his side, his hip miraculously pain-free. At least some parts of him weren't destroyed. ] Have Amélie call in - [ Pause. Cough. Cough. Chest pain. He blinks water out of his eyes, then continues, unperturbed: ] - reinforcements.

[ To begin with upon waking up, he'd been almost panicked at the feeling of tubes going into him, seemingly from everywhere, along with the heavy feeling of sedation coursing through his body. He's not used to any of it. John, however, seems to deem it necessary and on this particular battlefield, he'll... defer to his judgment.

He thinks about Rachita, her head squashed between his hands. His call, then.

In this place, John's. ]

[presurgery]

[ When he returns to Khan's bed, he's hoisted himself up on one elbow, very much against doctor's orders, yes, and John frowns at him while he listens to his slurred, hoarse speech that gives him a good idea of exactly how holed and beaten up the man still is. Okay, they're not there, yet. Far from it, seeing as Khan sounds like a collapsed lung and several malfunctioning internal organs, pretty much. John steps up to him and starts unwrapping the soaked bandages with efficient, but gentle fingers, secure handiwork, no accidental touches of anything, please. He bares his chest in stages, the blood beginning to run in actual little streams near his skin. The final layer's soaked through. John doesn't look up at him, instead focuses on wringing a wet cloth, guiding him with a hand against his shoulder to make him lean forward a bit so John can tend to both his back and his chest at the same time.

The man coughs. Tell him to call in reinforcements, tells him to rest, but not like Amélie who's ready to tug him in herself, more like he's acknowledging the work behind it. The work behind the tiredness. The natural connection. John's field of expertise, yeah? Finally looking up at him, John raises an eyebrow. Also tired, but what can you really do. ]

Next time I see her, sure. [ Dab dab dab at the middle of Khan's chest. ] Could use someone with more knowledge of the way your systems work. [ Dab dab dab. ] How's the morphine taking effect?

[ He had to level up the doses to horse tranquilizer amounts to get a visible reaction in his muscles and nerve response, but it's always difficult to tell how it'll relieve the pain once you're awake and conscious. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John gets to work on his bandages, his hands careful, precise. Khan's never seen much use in medical personal, particularly not in battle when all you need is enough muscle and enough power - before Rachita lost herself, they'd had frequent discussions on the matter, as she'd deemed it downright hazardous to their people, not caring about pain management, proper wound care. We're still alive, she'd said with emphasis, once he'd made her mad enough to actually raise her voice. We're not dead and we're not some lower animal species, either.

Then, he killed her with brute force, proving them both wrong.

He sighs, focusing on the aches in his body for a moment. As John dabs away at him, soaking up bloods and fluids from the various holes scattered across his chest, he tries to come up with a sufficient answer. He's not used to measuring his pain levels. They come, they go. It's all the same to him, really, but then again, he doesn't normally attempt to dull them in any fashion. ]

Mm. It's... efficient. [ He follows John's instructions, leaning forward or backwards, to give him working space. ] I feel as if I could - [ Pause. He frowns, staring at the doorway. ] - go back to work, even.

[ Not that he... should. Obviously. But with the pain dulled to something that he'd never care about under any other circumstances, it takes a bit of mental power to remember. ]

She killed your friend.

[ It's not a question. He doesn't know how he knows - perhaps aside from the fact that he can't imagine Rachita sparing the man anymore than he can imagine the man getting out of her way fast enough to survive. ]

[presurgery]

[ Khan is nothing if not a compliant patient. He moves as he's told to, he answers as he's asked. John's eyebrows are knitted together as he gets as much of the blood and fluids off as possible, before putting the now reddish water away with several soaked pieces of cloth floating in the surface. Unwrapping the bandages, he shakes his head a bit in acknowledgement of the other man's observation - not the last one, the painful one about Mike, but the first. If he feels ready to return to the world of the not half-dead, well then John's doing an all right job, he's going to guess. Not that Khan's going anywhere right now. Pushing him back a little, John leans in over him and starts expertly wrapping his chest up again, closing off the holes littering his torso and keeping the blood flow in, as good as it gets with these sort of injuries. Extensive and inhuman. ]

She has killed a lot of good people.

[ It's a dry, curt statement. True, but unpleasant. He's obviously talking about Sholto here, too, but sure, also Mike. And Khan's people that they've buried. And a good percentage of Europe's population, if they're getting into that. His hands continue to tighten the straps of bandages in criss-cross patterns around Khan's back and chest and that's the most talking he's doing, really. There isn't much to say. It's done. They're dead, Mike's dead, she's dead now, too. Khan's seen to that.

Finishing up, he fastens the loose end off with a safety pin and urges Khan to lie back down completely against the now-level headboard. He's not the kind of doctor to fluff pillows and tug duvets in properly, usually he has nurses to do that, right, but there are no nurses here, now, so John does it himself, efficiently fixing up Khan's bed so the man's as comfortable as possible. ]

We're not going back to normal for a while to come, yeah?

[ Pat pat on top of the duvet, near what feels like Khan's knee. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He doesn't reply. Instead, he leaves John's words hanging between them as the other man fixes up his bed, making it comfortable. He thinks about Rachita's head, exploding between his hands - then, he remembers a night, several really, sleeping curled up with her in the same, small bed, their fingers entwined, back when they'd thought they would always be two. Back to normal? Oh, they are far, far away from that.

Possibly, they've never been anywhere near it.

He lies down gingerly, feeling the exertion of simply staying seated quite acutely. Normally, when healing from debilitating injuries, he'd simply stay down until the pain levels were manageable enough to ignore. Can't do that now, with morphine running through his system and John setting the pace, slow, slower, but more proficiently as well. Less chaotic. He looks up at him for a long moment, blinking heavily, his breathing evening out, completely beyond his control. He thinks about John, curled up in the corner behind the bookcase, very visibly terrified. The choices had been simple at that very moment.

He clings to that now, as he goes back to sleep. ]