@dispatched / semi-plotted
“you’re a mess,” billy says, dabbing carefully at a cut above frank’s eye with a rag. it feels natural as anything, like they haven’t missed a goddamn beat in spite of everything they’ve done to each other. the feeling still hasn’t returned to his wrist, and part of him is pissed off about it, pissed that he’s going to have to set his nose with one bum hand. the other part knows he’s damn lucky to have walked away with just a sprained wrist and a busted nose.
well, not just. his eyes cut from his own bloody fingers back to frank’s face. he’s still not sure what they’re doing here, or what stopped frank from pulling the trigger, or exactly what’s tying his stomach in fucking knots. he focuses instead on frank here, at his mercy, alive and bloodied and his. that’s easier. satisfying. familiar.
“frank. hey, frank. stay with me.” billy snaps his fingers sharply, ignoring the pain that motion sends shooting up his arm. he keeps talking, mostly to keep frank awake and focused on him, but maybe because not everything’s changed, and at the very least he still never knows when to shut up.
“you’ve had worse. so have i. you remember babylon, our first tour?” before the morphine kicked in, anyway, billy remembers it like it was yesterday— the way the sand filled his eyes and nose, the stutter of the ak and how frank realized he’d been shot before the pain hit him. he remembers frank shouting himself hoarse over his comlink, his face blurring in and out of focus, his big hands pressed over the bullet wound above billy’s hip. most of all he remembers how young he’d looked, and scared. “took five guys to drag you out of that medical tent. you saved my fucking life.” billy wrinkles his nose, wincing a little at the motion. “bet you’re regretting that right about now.”
thoughtfully, he wipes a trickle of blood from frank’s lip before standing. “—so, you got a first aid kit around here somewhere?”