[ 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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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. ]