haley and arcade
“Ow, christ, I thought you were a doctor.”
“It’s a little more complicated than–just hold still.”
They’re in an old abandoned gas station now, dust glittering in sunlight filtered through broken windows.
Haley has been staring at the same fission battery on one of the shelves this whole time, better than watching Arcade stitch his arm up. It occurs to him that he should probably grab the battery on their way out; those things are rare and they’re good for repairing–FUCK–a surge of pain so bad it leaves a wake of nausea; he has to fight every instinct in him to not jerk his arm away and bites his lip instead.
“Sorry,” Arcade says, his voice is still gentle but Haley can hear some strain; the man never did like seeing him in pain.
“Almost done, just a few more stitches.”
“You sure we’re out of Med-X?”
“What, the whiskey not helping?” Arcade says wryly.
Haley turns to pass him a look of exasperation but sees the gash in his arm instead and his stomach turns, feels the needle tug and– “God, Jesus, fuck, shit.”
“There’s that way with words we all admire so much.”
Haley doesn’t have a retort, starts bouncing his leg to distract himself.
“I hate to say this Haley but, you’re moving the table.”
Something like a whimper makes it past Haley’s gritted teeth.
Arcade’s hand on his briefly, voice goes soft like it always does whenever Arcade sees him upset. “I’m sorry Haley, it’s really almost over.”