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

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[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. ]