singillatim | ( openish ) hear the whispers in the street

( everything hurts.

see, the smart thing to do when arriving in a new area with fucked ribs and a fucked up arm would have been to lay low, keep himself out of trouble so he'd heal up before he messed himself up more. except - sometimes a guy just shows up in a real shit mood and decides, fuck it, starting shit is a great way to make himself feel better. it'd made him fast friends with wynonna and logan, even if it had ended up with a broken nose and fucked knuckles. which had ended with them all drinking together, and started yet another fight that'd only ended up with jason even more bruised and bloodied.

it's fine. he's fine. wynonna had gotten dragged off, jason had gotten dragged off, and now he's here: inside some shitty run-down shack with his back up against the far wall, facing the door, arm shoved over his abdomen and eyes closed while he takes in a breath.

lets it out real slow. his armor's still on, covering the massive collection of bruises over his midsection, and his right arm's resting at an uncomfortable angle at his side but, fuck it, he doesn't give a shit. what's the worst that can happen, it doesn't heal right? he's already fucked up, it's not like it's gonna mess him up all that much worse. maybe he deserves it. )

( that shitty shack happens to be the doctor's latest destination, a sagging frame barely visible in the fog, its shape broken up by the skeletal fingers of long-dead vegetation.

jesus, he's getting flowery now, he chides himself.

picking his way around a knot of grasping brambles, the painters' bucket in his other hand full of other collected items, mccoy reaches the door, tests it, and lets it swing inward with a begrudging wail of disused hinges.

at least you're on earth, he reminds himself, tacking what little optimism he can muster onto his fraying nerves. at least the sheets he's found are cotton; the cast iron pan actual cast iron and an actual pan, instead of a mysterious alien substance liable to fry human synapses when looked at funny.

he catches sight of the huddled man out of the corner of his eye. thinks, at first, that he's a corpse, with the unnatural set of his arm, the bent knuckles, and his breath catches. then, it escapes him in a soft 'whuff'. )

My God, you're alive? It's freezin'; what are you doing back there?

( mindful that he oughtn't rush right forward, he sets his items down on the dusty floor a few feet away, kneeling with it. scoots closer, caution at war with his concern. )

I'm a doctor. Doctor McCoy.

( he is alive. what had looked like a corpse quickly comes back to life the moment he hears noise; his body shifts to sit more upright, eyes opening and managing to look more irritated at his nap being interrupted than as exhausted as he's really feeling. call it a family talent: being broken into pieces and yet still finding some way to be bitchy and put out by everyone else around them. )

I was trying to get a nap in. ( with a roll of his eyes at how cautious the guy seems to be approaching him. yes, it's cold as hell even inside as they are. jason's jacket is meant to weather gotham winters, not this bullshit. a problem he's already put on his to-do list for later, rather than add it to the list of bullshit he's managing now: like the lack of sleep, his nose he still hasn't fixed, the fucked shoulder, the fucked arm - you'd think he would have learned to stop starting fights after getting the shit beaten out of him the first time, but what fun would that be?

instead, he gets the fun of sitting himself up while some asshole scoots closer to him like he's some feral animal he's stumbled across, mouth twisting into a scowl. )

'm fine. Just need a minute. An' I'm not gonna bite you, jesus.

Good, ( he says smartly, utterly ignoring the young man's complaints, ) Your ears 'n mouth are working. How about the rest of you?

( If he had a dollar for every injured patient who sassed him, he'd have a whole Hell of a lot of useless fucking money. Like, who needs that? Bones finally gets a seat in beside him, stuffing his gloves away in his winter parka. He sheds the coat without preamble, and drapes it over him, mindful of the angle of his broken arm.

It's cold as balls, but McCoy's in layers under his jumpsuit, and he's not the one at risk of freezing to death before he can address anything else afflicting this guy. )

Do me a favor and keep talkin' while you get toasty. ( And while he presses warm fingers to the side of his neck, counting his pulse. ) Neither of us need you going hypothermic; it's a pain in the ass.

( maybe he should bite him, just to be an ass. the arm that isn't broken raises to shove off the coat, because fuck you he's fine. jason considers pushing himself up to his feet to leave, but realizes also that - he probably wouldn't get very far. sometimes it's easier to deal with crap he doesn't want than to fight it, and given the whole i'm a doctor crap, he's inclined to let this guy have his way unless he starts pissing jason off. his head tips to give mccoy better access to his pulse, which, while on the slower side, is fine. he's athletic, not dying. yet. )

I know. Wouldn't be my first time, but I'm fine. ( tongue pressing to the top row of his teeth, and considers - leaving him to his check over, kicking him off, giving him the rundown as jason's gotten used to doing when he does have a field medic after getting himself fucked up. ) Some chick broke my nose, haven't had the chance to fix it. Fucked my right arm up, but I've still got movement in my hand with only moderate pain. 'm not going over all of it, it'd be a pain in the ass an' I've already got you in my face.

( mccoy is enough of a pain in the ass already. )

( slow pulse, not slow enough to be a concern. yet. "yet" is always a factor in particularly stubborn patients, convinced they'll never need an ounce of help until it's too late.

mccoy shifts to gently cradle his face, palpating gently to feel for any swelling that isn't his nose, and running his fingers up his nape and into his hairline, tracing the cervical vertebrae and resting on his occipital ridge. no spinal injury, or none that he can feel anyway. couple decent goose eggs under his sweaty hair, but he doesn't seem concussed, lucky for them both. )

All that and you're still 'fine'. Never heard that before. Hold still.

( just gonna reset his nose like an old pro, a grasp of his chin and the quick movement of mccoy's other hand. )

( he's taken several hard hits to the head over the last few weeks. but luckily for them both, jason is nothing if not hard-headed. and his hood had taken the brunt of the kick to his face, then the punch, before it'd crumbled to several pieces leaving jason now hood and maskless. not that it matters much for him; no one would connect jason todd with red hood if he hadn't explicitly told them.

and this guy doesn't know. fingers run over his face, through his hair, and it's gentle enough in a way he isn't used to that he does start - relaxing a little. shoulders loosen, and he snorts, opening his mouth to give a smarmy comment in return only for fingers to tighten on his chin, the other hand raising to realign his nose and - yeah, that's not pleasant.

he sucks in a breath through his mouth, but manages not to flinch. )

Ow.

( he waits a moment to be sure it's set properly, then lowers his hands to the younger man's coat. )

Sorry.

( it's a sincere apology, and it won't be the last. mccoy shifts to inspect his arm, and the way it juts oddly at his elbow beneath the leather. he lets go a sigh of discontent. )

Things are gonna hurt a little while longer, unfortunately. I can't set anything if I can't see it, so we need to get your jacket off.

( there's sheets in his collection of scavenged odds and ends, he knows, more than enough material for a makeshift wrap and a sling. positively medieval by his own standards, but it'll do. )

( mccoy's hand lowers, and jason's left hand raises, index and middle finger feeling along the line of his nose even as touching it makes him wince. it's been a little fucked since long before this break, but feels closer to how it should around the swelling. most people might say thanks for fixing my fucked nose, but jason's just offering a stupid, smarmy little grin. it'd probably be more effective if his face wasn't busted.

but the guy knew what he was getting into when he decided to interrupt jason's nap anyway. )

If you wanted to strip me, you could've just asked.

( there's the leather jacket, bloodied and ripped in a few places but overall still in decent shape. numerous extra pockets are sewn in all over, although most of them are where it's easier to hide shit. under that, the kevlar-laced compression shirt is armored, but the armor itself doesn't extend down to where it goes down over his elbows, covering just a third of the way down his forearms. it's less for people trying to fuck up his limbs, more for people with guns who might get a lucky shot in. )

( Oh, a flirt. Bones snorts while he eases the jacket back off his shoulders and uninjured arm, doing his best to navigate the material around his injury. )

Bruised and bloodied really ain't my type. ( After he drapes the jacket in his lap, sweet as cherry pie: ) Cute as y'are. Keep still, I'm gonna put together a wrap before I try to set it.

( And off he goes to consult with his bucket of odds and ends, unearthing a dull green top sheet he promptly tears into with a pocket knife, pulling it apart in long strips. )

( bones starts pulling at his jacket, and jason - gives up. snorts, and leans forward a little so he isn't pressed up against the wall anymore to slide his good arm out of it before helping to yank off the sleeve of his other arm.

there's a few cuts in the back of the jacket where the glass bottles had cut through, but the glass is gone. so there is that. )

Damn. You really picked the wrong profession then, didn't you?

( The sight of those cuts had made him press his lips together, swallowing the outburst on his tongue. It wasn't like it'd help any, just scowling and swearing at the unknown person who worked the man over.

Bones rips another section of sheet down to the end and chuckles, breath clouding in the air. It's barely warmer in here with the both of them, still better than being outside. A fire would be best instead of that cold grate, a thought for later. )

Must be the masochist in me.

You should really get that looked at.

( jason leaned up and off the wall to get his jacket off, and opts to stay slouched forward while bones continues to fuck with his collection of sheets. he could lean back, but figures - it's a waste of energy if the guy's gonna be yanking at him again in a minute anyway. without the jacket, it's fucking cold, but jason doesn't seem worse off for wear. not yet. give him enough time, and his lips'll start turning blue long before he starts bitching in front of people he's unfamiliar with. )

I hear therapy helps.

( Sheet-mauling complete, Bones casts a despairing look around their cabin...shack. )

Yeah, ( he says, absently, seizing on a sagging wooden chair where it's huddled up near the fireplace grate, and smashing it against the stone. ) Heard of any good therapists in town?

( Don't let his, y'know, furniture destruction put a pause on their banter. He finds what he's after when the chair back cracks, tossing a couple spindles into the bundle of cloth. )

Unfortunately, everyone I know here's batshit as is.

( it's funny because, you know, batshit. less funny because out of all the people it could have nabbed from jason's side, canada skipped right over the mostly well-adjusted ones and went straight for the three less well-adjusted robins. he's pretty sure damian rates somewhere above him and tim, which is just - sad. he's met others, but not enough to get that good of a gauge on them. it's a work in progress.

much like how fucked he is. )

I could point you to a few clever kids, but I don't think you'd like what they'd start spouting out their mouths.

Mm, think I'll pass on that then, but thanks.

( Taking therapeutic advice from a kid? Terrifying.

Seated once more, Bones reaches out to start properly assessing his arm. What he wouldn't give for a working tricorder right now, or even an ancient X-Ray machine. The Franklin's medical tools, old as they were, would at least be of some use.

He's as careful as he can be, palpating with deft, chilly fingers in a slow pathway up his arm, as focused as if he were in surgery. )

( sometimes, when a man gets very pissed off, shoots a guy on live tv, then gets thrown out of an invisible craft floating above gotham onto a very hard rooftop where their adoptive father figure is lurking in the shadows - the land very, very hard on their arm, and fracture their olecranon. jason, at least, is a decent patient once he's been caught by someone who he isn't inclined to run from, and this guy hasn't given him any reason to take off for the hills yet. he's sitting up and letting mccoy fuck with his arm, giving a very monotone ow when he prods at tender areas - less because he's bitching, more because they don't have equipment, and figuring out what the hell's wrong with it could probably use more than just digging his fingers into muscle and bone. )

If you ask me real nice, I'll play therapist.

( with a playful grin, and maybe he's trying a little too hard to get mccoy to fuck off on his own, because, )

Spent enough time in asylums to pick up a few tips and tricks.

( openish ) hear the whispers in the street

closed; bones

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