[ there's a lot going on in the safehouses. the rescue missions are proving more successful than he'd hoped they would at the beginning of all of this, but with that success comes an increase in the volume of people needing varying levels of care. Stephen had hoped to stay out there in the field for longer than he had, use his ability for what he could, but it hadn't been long before he couldn't ignore how desperately his other skills were needed elsewhere.
it's probably just as well. he's recently discovered a new downside to being able to access a person's mind.
Stephen's at the counter when he hears steps at his back, and turns to confirm his suspicions of who—
God.
he made it back, sure, but the operation looks like it was messy. Stephen looks him over, a swift up and down, hunting out the damage, noting the difficulties, trying to find any hint of things being worse than the definite evidence presents... decides he'll be okay for the short term. decides, in the grand scheme of things, that they have bigger problems. if Fitz is happy to keep going, he's going to let him.
because Stephen's got something for him to do, alright.
he's been able to treat a lot of things himself, rudimentary setting of broken things and cleaning of grazes and everything in between while doing his best to organise the medical effort elsewhere, but there's some kinds of precise work he just can't do.
there are treated wounds on his face that he patched up as best he could because nobody wants to be treated by a doctor who can't even see to himself, but it's surgical tape instead of stitches that hold together a wound that'll need more than that later. on the counter in front of him, a dish containing a few supplies: surgical thread, antiseptic spray, tweezers, cleaning fluid for the tools left open on the side like it's been recently used. like he's tried. and like he's not trying anymore. ]
Wash your hands and face, do what you can to look less like you're fresh out of a slasher movie, then there are a couple people left to see to here and we'll head out and sweep through safehouse by safehouse. You'll be on sutures. And if there's any need for more involved surgery -
[ a glance up from where he's started fishing into his pack with gloved hands that are tremoring even in simple action, worse for all that's happened and happening still, as he lets implications of what he's throwing out as such straightforward direction speak for themselves.
for the time being, Fitz is all the hands he has.
locating the small box of gloves, Stephen crosses to Fitz, holding them out. ]
You're not to carry anything else. Nothing heavy.
[ Stephen's not quite sure what he's done, but he's done something. if he's going to be any use for rounds, they're going to need to do what they can to mediate that in the short term. which means not making it worse with heavy packs, even if they have to make it worse by moving around. ]
[ for all his bullishness (immovable on some theories, reckless in his pursuit of answers, calculated and confident in his risks), an order issued directly, quickly, with no room for argument works. it's familiar (that's not shield training; that's hydra in his marrow), so he falls in line. with a brief scan, he flags stephen's own injuries on the implant (pop-ups that flicker on the heads-up display, reminding him to tend to the doctor when they've a quieter moment).
fresh out of a slasher movie, come off it — fitz looks down, gaze sharp. oh, right. blood splatter is rather unsettling, isn't it? his brow creases, features tightening in thought. somewhere between Patil's ruined apartment and the safehouse, he'd buried the part of his brain panicking over it (already patching over the feeling, the memory), but Stephen's comment creates an opening for it to eke through again. ]
Okay. [ a little nod first, when he stops unpacking. as strides to the sink embedded in the wall, he rolls up his sleeves to the elbows, hiding the worst of the mess there before scrubbing at his hands, dragging a cloth up his neck, over the beard. that clears the worst of it, besides the vest, and the bits dried in his hair.
he's in the middle of unbuckling the former when Stephen crosses, hastily shrugging out of it to take the gloves. a flicker of his attention between Stephen's hand and his face. with considerable effort, Fitz smooths out his expression, forcing it into something neutral. the command relating to his injury (what else could have prompted it?) makes him shift his weight from one foot to the other, discomfort over being seen evident. ]
Yeah, okay. [ then, firmer. ] I can handle sutures and surgeries. [ pulling on gloves with a snap. ] If you're with me.
[ Stephen can be the brain today, with Fitz's body on autopilot. not that kind of doctor and all. he's helped Jemma with several vital procedures, and he knew how to take people apart in the other reality — a transferable skill, sure, when it comes to stitching them back together.
he turns to walk down the makeshift ward, grabbing a fresh kit along the way. ]
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it's probably just as well. he's recently discovered a new downside to being able to access a person's mind.
Stephen's at the counter when he hears steps at his back, and turns to confirm his suspicions of who—
God.
he made it back, sure, but the operation looks like it was messy. Stephen looks him over, a swift up and down, hunting out the damage, noting the difficulties, trying to find any hint of things being worse than the definite evidence presents... decides he'll be okay for the short term. decides, in the grand scheme of things, that they have bigger problems. if Fitz is happy to keep going, he's going to let him.
because Stephen's got something for him to do, alright.
he's been able to treat a lot of things himself, rudimentary setting of broken things and cleaning of grazes and everything in between while doing his best to organise the medical effort elsewhere, but there's some kinds of precise work he just can't do.
there are treated wounds on his face that he patched up as best he could because nobody wants to be treated by a doctor who can't even see to himself, but it's surgical tape instead of stitches that hold together a wound that'll need more than that later. on the counter in front of him, a dish containing a few supplies: surgical thread, antiseptic spray, tweezers, cleaning fluid for the tools left open on the side like it's been recently used. like he's tried. and like he's not trying anymore. ]
Wash your hands and face, do what you can to look less like you're fresh out of a slasher movie, then there are a couple people left to see to here and we'll head out and sweep through safehouse by safehouse. You'll be on sutures. And if there's any need for more involved surgery -
[ a glance up from where he's started fishing into his pack with gloved hands that are tremoring even in simple action, worse for all that's happened and happening still, as he lets implications of what he's throwing out as such straightforward direction speak for themselves.
for the time being, Fitz is all the hands he has.
locating the small box of gloves, Stephen crosses to Fitz, holding them out. ]
You're not to carry anything else. Nothing heavy.
[ Stephen's not quite sure what he's done, but he's done something. if he's going to be any use for rounds, they're going to need to do what they can to mediate that in the short term. which means not making it worse with heavy packs, even if they have to make it worse by moving around. ]
no subject
fresh out of a slasher movie, come off it — fitz looks down, gaze sharp. oh, right. blood splatter is rather unsettling, isn't it? his brow creases, features tightening in thought. somewhere between Patil's ruined apartment and the safehouse, he'd buried the part of his brain panicking over it (already patching over the feeling, the memory), but Stephen's comment creates an opening for it to eke through again. ]
Okay. [ a little nod first, when he stops unpacking. as strides to the sink embedded in the wall, he rolls up his sleeves to the elbows, hiding the worst of the mess there before scrubbing at his hands, dragging a cloth up his neck, over the beard. that clears the worst of it, besides the vest, and the bits dried in his hair.
he's in the middle of unbuckling the former when Stephen crosses, hastily shrugging out of it to take the gloves. a flicker of his attention between Stephen's hand and his face. with considerable effort, Fitz smooths out his expression, forcing it into something neutral. the command relating to his injury (what else could have prompted it?) makes him shift his weight from one foot to the other, discomfort over being seen evident. ]
Yeah, okay. [ then, firmer. ] I can handle sutures and surgeries. [ pulling on gloves with a snap. ] If you're with me.
[ Stephen can be the brain today, with Fitz's body on autopilot. not that kind of doctor and all. he's helped Jemma with several vital procedures, and he knew how to take people apart in the other reality — a transferable skill, sure, when it comes to stitching them back together.
he turns to walk down the makeshift ward, grabbing a fresh kit along the way. ]