[IT LOOKS A LOT WORSE THAN IT IS]
@acewing
“If happy thoughts make you bleed slower, then it’s as bad as you damn well want it to be.”
James had a whole arm that couldn’t feel pain or bleed, so, of course, it wasn’t the one he’d gone and got pulverized; he was wide open from the elbow down, and now Falco had to familiarize himself with parts of his first-aid kit he hadn’t so much as glanced at since he first got it. The bits that stopped things from stinging so much were all he’d cared to memorize, quick and easy; throw it on and get back to business.
Quick and easy didn’t leak this much.
Hell knew what else he’d hurt.
He couldn’t go down just a little closer to an outpost, either – had to be miles out from the nearest radio tower under a rocky outcropping stretching back to hell knew where. Falco didn’t need his dashboard to know the hottest part of the day was coming up quick; the air rippling like water off the dunes said more than he cared to know.
“You wanna try flyin’ like you ain’t already dead some time soon, asshole?” Falco said irritably, shoving aside a wipe that’d gone dry awhile ago. That was probably his fault, too. “The hell do you think you’re doin’, huh?”
Odd that, of all times, NOW James found his mind back on that rock he’d left behind decades prior. Perhaps it was the smell of blood, the bite of frustration and the sting of the encroaching high-noon, or perhaps the desert that swallowed the horizon in stoops of sand moved only by the wayward howls of dry wind. It hurt, but it was far from the worst pain he’d ever experienced, and why (or so it seemed) Falco would regard the laceration with the critical eye it probably deserved. James smiled, and something of a laugh bubbled--it was funny, in a way. It had to be. They were fucked, at least for the time being.
Why not laugh?
“Y’aint goin’ soft on me, are you?” It was a joke. Mostly. He grit his teeth and removed his sunglasses with his undamaged hand for a moment, hissing as a fresh stripe of pain rushed up his affected arm. Somehow the idea of wiping the blood from his face seemed less important--that was, until he took hold of the dried sanitary wipes Falco had discarded. Better than nothing.
It was deep. This complicated things.
So what Falco crowed in his frustration truly hung like a meaty vestige of shade over them both, it was fair enough question: what WAS he doing?
“Not dead, just half.” He remarked shortly before ripping what bandage they could find free of its confines. Better not to think of how the mesh material offered no sensation, nothing but the hollow echo of what once was, and how that steel forced the ache into his bones. No telling what else he’d damaged on his way down, and it wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. Not now.
“This really the time for small talk?”
