#snarky steelponcho

[thedistantstorm]

First Aid

Steelponcho + Actual First Aid + Zavala is afraid of needles + Suraya is best unofficial medic + Part 1 of maybe 2 or 3 or 7? I have a lot of ideas, ok?

For the prompt: “I don’t know why I bother patching you up when it takes you all of five minutes to get hurt again.” from @bump-of-whump

-----+++++-----

It starts with him bleeding on her freaking table, on her scouting reports. FOTC worked hard on those, and it isn't like she has copies lying around. Suraya wonders if he notices, until she sees him wince.

“Would you like some help with that?”

Zavala looks at her, startled and just a touch apologetic. “I'm fine.”

She raises an eyebrow and steps around him so she's on his right. The blood has saturated his clothes, pooling in the crook of his elbow, to the point where it's dripping from the tip of the joint below.

“I'm sure you are, tough guy. Surely that's what triage told you, too.”

“Triage?”

“Y'know,” She says, talking slowly as he studies the reports, reaching for the strap of his pauldron - of course, it's the huge one, “The place where the injured go to have a professional evaluate their injuries.”

“This,” He uses his left arm to motion to his right as he allows the clearly damaged limb drop so that it's straight and not dripping blood on her reports, “Is hardly an injury.”

“Maybe not,” She concedes, bracing his large shoulder guard with nimble, unnoticed fingers, “But it will be if you continue to let it fester under that heavy armor.” As she says the words, the last buckle falls away and he hisses when she pulls the the red, white, and silver piece of gear from his arm and drops it to the table with a clatter.

“Hawthorne!” He bites out, meaning to admonish but it comes out a bit more strangled and surprised.

She hushes him, looking at the stain on his arm. “This is an old wound, isn't it?” And, suddenly, without asking, she's pulling away the fabric from his skin and slashing it with a small, sharp knife pulled seemingly from nowhere. It burns.

He attempts to step away from her, but she's managed to put one of her legs between his. If he moves, she's primed for a takedown. Not that he couldn't take her, but certainly someone will hear and come running, especially since the animals in the stable have already fidgeted nervously at his sharp tones.

“How long have you been here again?” She asks, almost idly, as she peels away the fabric from his arm.

The Commander tenses, looks down at his arm. That's going to require serious patching. The fabric is mottled copper and black. It smells of methane and grime. He has not stopped since he arrived...

“Four days,” He answers, sound barely passing his lips.

She frowns. “You didn't have anyone look at this on Titan, did you?”

“There were more… pressing matters,” Namely setting up a command center overrun by the Hive, and losing more than half their forces to the worm-worshiping bastards.

“I'm sure.” She doesn't sound like she's placating him, either. “You need to get this cleaned up,” She finally says, after an uncomfortable few moments looking at his skin. His responding harrumph is an expected protest. “It looks infected.”

“The Hive is an infection,” He replies tersely.

Her tongue peeks out from behind her lips as she pushes on it, and he bites his lip to keep from hissing aloud again.

“I'll make you a deal,” She tells him, stepping back and withdrawing her hand from his arm. “I won't make a fuss about sending you to Triage for patching,” He looks at her like she's crazy if she thinks he's going, “If you let me look at it instead. I kind of think you need stitches.”

The lights that dance under his skin bleed away, making him look exceptionally pale. He shakes his head. “That will not be-”

She squeezes his arm, right above the ugly injury. He clamps his mouth shut, jaws all but grinding together to prevent the startled howl that tries to escape.

She smiles a smile so saccharine it makes him feel nauseous.

“Fine.”

Hawthorne hands him back his ridiculously sized pauldron. “Go to the Farmhouse and shower. I'll get supplies and something for you to wear while this,” She gestures to his battle-mucked undersuit, “Gets laundered.”

-/

Nearly an hour later, he sits on a bed in a room that he's never seen before in the tired farmhouse, feeling like a new Titan in the Vanguard Barracks. His arm is bleeding though he's tied some gauze around it to try and keep this new shirt clean - how the woman has managed to size him up is both concerning and impressive. The shirt and utility pants are standard issue, and hardly appropriate for wear under his armor stacked carefully in the corner between his scout and sniper rifles.

She enters the room with a gentle knock, her grubby poncho absent as well. She looks very small without it, all lean curves from the waist up. He can see her collarbones, the swell of... For some reason his cheeks feel warm.

She sets the white metal kit on the bed beside him and looks at the wound he'd cleaned gently moments before.

“Okay tough guy,” She says with a look that's strangely gentle, “Before I get to work here, how bad was it, before?”

He scrunches his brows. “What do you mean?”

She sifts through the large box of equipment. “Did your ghost heal it at all, or are we starting from scratch?”

He looks away.

“I'm sorry,” She says, turning so she's in his line of sight. “I was told to ask. I know it's a sore subject.”

“She could barely phase into me or maintain a neural link by the time we left the city. The others-”

“Got it,” She replies, hand on his good shoulder. “Say no more.” She opens a plastic container and pulls out a syringe of liquid.

He immediately tenses.

She looks down at her hand and then back. Then once more. “I’m gonna take a shot in the dark here and say you do not like needles.”

“Is it absolutely necessary?”

Suraya nods. “If your ghost is unable to completely heal you, you're open to a ton of diseases. We've been vaccinating the survivors as they come in. Lots of people in a small space is a paradise for disease.” She shrugs. “Better me doing it than some of those medics.”

“Aren't they trained professionals?” He looks exasperated.

“Well, yeah. But they'll also say things like 'okay, you're gonna feel a pinch,’ and 'almost done, you're doing so great.’” She holds the vaccine in front of him, the syringe empty. “But, I just gave it to you and you didn't notice.” She smiles. “Could be worse.”

“Aren’t you supposed to prep the site beforehand?”

She nods, but doesn’t look back at him, instead continuing to rifle through the white metal kit. Gestures to a small pad of alcohol prep on which the used syringe now lies. “I did. You were too busy asking me if this whole thing were necessary.”

He blanches again as she pulls out a sealed suture kit. “I truly do not believe this needs stitches, Hawthorne. It looks fine. Surely a bandage can hold it in place.”

“Not as well as stitches, especially since you’re not going to walk around without your armor on.” She hands him the bottle of peroxide. “You want to do it or should I?”

He grits his teeth and takes the bottle from her while she grabs a pair of gloves and opens the kit anyway. He doesn’t make a sound as he splatters a gratuitous amount of hydrogen peroxide onto the ugly wound. The slash is actually pretty deep, and it froths and burns.

Suraya sighs, and dabs at it with a clean flannel. The skin is torn, and the tissue underneath as well. It’s deep enough that she actually should look to make sure there’s nothing underneath, and she does just that, peeking under the loose skin while he grimaces. “I’m sorry,” She says. “Just don’t want anything bad to happen because I’m a shitty nurse.” She douses the wound in something else that almost makes it sting less but then it’s back to angry and burning when she rubs a different flannel across the majority of the slash.

This time, when she pierces his skin, she positions herself so that she’s standing beside where he’s sitting on the bed, her torso blocking his view. She offers his pain killers but he refuses. Stubborn Titan, she thinks, as he flinches when she makes contact with the skin begins to stitch it back together.

“You aren’t going to pass out, are you?” She asks, when he’s sweating and she’s only gotten two of the estimated twelve to sixteen stitches it’s going to take to patch him up. His arm is huge. “We’re like maybe twenty-percent done.”

He inhales and it’s a wet sound. “No.”

“Breathe, Commander,” She says, stopping to tilt her head over her shoulder and look at him. “This isn’t that scary. The needle isn’t that big.” It’s actually kind of big, and hooked too, but that’s why she’s not letting him see it.  “Want to know what is actually scary?” He doesn’t look up at her but she tells him anyway, as she arcs the needle through tough, blue skin.

“Bears.”

He inhales sharply, a laugh mixed with discomfort. “How so?”

“One, they’re huge. Two, they’re stinky.”

“Those aren’t - erhm,” She ties a knot and cuts the thread of another stitch. “How is that frightening?”

“Well, I suppose it’s not. I’m sure you probably could fight a bear and win, Light or not.” The compliment doesn’t light his ego as it might have in the past. “But I think they’re positively terrifying. Used to try to sleep in trees to avoid them when I travelled. But the little ones,” She looks over her shoulder again, he’s listening intently. “They can freaking climb. Not okay.”

Something about the tone of her voice is soothing. The pain becomes duller as she tells him a story about how one time, she managed to be followed by a brown bear cub, with their mother close behind. She had been alone in the wilds for days, and ended up breaking into some random cabin she came across trying to get them off her trail. Her saving grace had been that the cub was too short to see into the tiny port windows and eventually lost interest. And the whole thing would’ve been fine too, if there weren’t two survivors in the cabin she’d let herself into, thinking she was some wayward bandit trying to rob them. By the time she’s done telling her tale of woe, the wound is almost completely mended, and the Commander is more relaxed than she’s ever seen him. She snips down the last of the stitches, wraps him up so that he won’t inevitably pull one of them out when he puts on his armor later, and smooths his shirt back down his arm.

“Your clothes will be ready in a bit,” She says softly, de-gloving, and throwing the used supplies into a wastebasket. “If you want to crash here until they’re done, feel free. I’d rather you not rip them out wrestling Shaxx or whatever it is you Guardians do for fun.”

“Actually,” He says, deadpan, “We wrestle bears.” She throws an unused roll of gauze at his face. Which he catches, with his big, dumb hand. His eyes are practically glittering they’re so bright. She makes sure to look away, lest she continue to feel their pull. Which, when did that start happening? Wasn’t he some stoic commander? What the shanks was this?

“Ugh! I’m going to find a big needle to chase you around with,” She says back. “You are absolutely the worst!”

-----+++++-----

She more sees his face than she hears the sound of his agonized half-swallowed yelp. Hidden behind him, the Shipwright - Amanda, she tells herself - is curled up into the smallest ball in which she can make herself, and Zavala is using a very questionable pipe to thwart some Fallen scalvagers who are trying to make off with the Shipwright’s very meager workshop. How in the world they’ve managed to get into their base this far is unknown, but it’s a definitive problem.

In the seconds it’s taken her to analyze this problem, they turn toward her. It’s for the best, anyway, because she’s already got her rifle in hand, and the first one goes down easily. The second, however, manages to thump Zavala hard in the side with the butt of its weapon and knock him down before Suraya can end him.

He’s grunting as he gets to his feet, ignoring his own injuries in lieu of making sure Amanda is alright.

She is, just terrified. There isn’t a scratch on her. But the wheeze when he breathes is a new sound the blonde is used to hearing from her beloved Commander. She gasps and begins looking him over, exclaiming that he must go get checked out. The look on his face says that is the literal last thing he would like to do.

She wonders why he’s so adverse to that. Ah well, she reasons. It isn’t her problem, really.

“Amanda, go tell the FOTC guys what’s going on, have them come check the perimeter,” Hawthorne hears herself say. “I’ll get the Commander checked out.”

The Shipwright looks thankful as she runs off and Suraya sidles up to him. “So, you find yourself on the ground a lot or is this new?” He glares at her as she continues, “Seriously. I don’t know why I bother patching you up when it takes you all of five minutes to get hurt again.”

“It was several days.”

The corner of her mouth pulls up in a little smile before she can help herself. “Same thing. C’mon, let’s go get you looked at.”

“Do we have-”

Placatingly, she quips, “I’ll take you back to the Farmhouse. No need to waste Triage’s time with the worst patient, ever.” When he sighs in relief, she chuckles. “You’re a mess, you know that right?”

The real mess is the fact that the good commander decides to forego changing before he allows her to address his wounds, instead peeling off the top half of his armor and standing there, decidedly nude from the waist up. She gulps as her eyes take in what seems like miles of musculature and sinew.

“Do you strip for every woman who patches you up? Or am I just special?”

He raises his eyebrows and looks at her pointedly, as if to ask if she were really going to start this. Then flexes.

She almost - but doesn’t - ‘eep’s on the spot. Ridiculous bastard.

“To be fair, Hawthorne,” He intones cooly as she trails her fingers down his right arm to evaluate the damage, “There is no way for me to possibly allow you to look at my arm or side without devesting this much of my attire.” He cocks his head at her. “Watching you squirm is just an added bonus.”

She growls, digging her fingers in just a little too tight over his reopened wound. “You’re rather small without your armor.”

He straightens, smirks. Doesn’t make that hissing sound she’d hoped to get out of him. “Feel free to insult me to make yourself feel more in control of this situation.”

She’s shaking her head, but the laughter is bubbling up in her chest no matter what she thinks otherwise, so she plays it off with another half-smile and looks at the wound. “So, I think you’ll need at least another ten stitches.”

He jolts, and swings his arm around to evaluate it. It’s barely bleeding. He scoffs. “How so?”

The laughter brims and overflows as she snorts out, “I’m messing with you. I can just put a little bandage onto the end of it where you ripped the stitch. No needles required. It looks pretty good, actually.” Unable to resist, she adds, “You must’ve had a pretty incredible person patch you up.”

Zavala chuckles at that. “If by incredible you mean someone incredibly infuriating.”

“I’m sure you’re a real pain in her ass, too.” She sticks her tongue out, and retrieves the bandage he needs, a little butterfly one that adheres quick and easily. He watches her all the while, and when she’s done, she looks up into bemused eyes. His lips are set into a straight line, but his eyes are something else entirely, all glow and spark and smile. The patterns on his face swirl in somekind of contented hum that she almost wants to touch.

And just like that, she slams on the metaphorical brakes.

This is not the time.

And he cannot be the one.