If you're comfortable with this, I'd wish to have some fluff with Hanzo. As usual. I'm really predictable.
“Hanzo, it hurts.”
The archer does not bother responding to the complaint that you have been repeating for the past ten minutes, instead focusing on getting you both out of here in one piece.
“Hanzo...” you whined.
“Be quiet! Enemies will hear us.” He wished he could just drop you off his back and leave you to suffer (and possibly get killed), but then he’d have the rest of Overwatch to contend with, not to mention the fact that he'll have to live with being the reason why one of the healers can no longer use either of their hands.
He grimaced.
If he wasn't so careless and so focused on keeping his distance from you, he would have not been in such a predicament and neither would you.
"We should probably wait it out in a safer spot. Or just leave me somewhere so you can keep helping out." That was honestly the most sensible thing you've said since you came to his...'rescue'. "But I think they have it covered. More importantly, it hurts." He immediately retracts anything decent he said about you.
Peering around the walls, he ducks into an alleyway before lowering you onto the ground.
"Show me your hands," Hanzo demanded urgently.
To his relief, you didn't fuss--you really must be in more pain than he thought--immediately holding out both hands for him to see in the dim light of the alley.
He inspected them carefully, gingerly releasing the gloves from your hands, barrelling through the stabbing pain the gets in his gut whenever he hears you take in a breath or wince, revealing the swollen and bruised skin beneath. He almost feels guilty he made you hold onto his shoulders as he carried you.
"Where are your supplies?"
You made a face he could only describe as guilty. "Left them with Lùcio."
He stared at you, deadpanned. Of course you did.
He checked around--was there anything...?
He reached behind him and undid his ribbon. It's not ideal, but it'll do for one of your hands.
"Wait, you don't have t--"
"Quiet," he reminded you. Without giving himself anytime to second-guess his decision, he began to wrap his ribbon around your forearm and wrist. Your skin was feverish and swollen. There may be just more damage than simple bruises or sprains, and that makes him work all the faster. The sooner you have your hands splinted, the better for your recovery.
Then, you cough on something that sounds like a mix of a grunt of pain and a laugh. He cannot help but look up and sees you smiling at him despite the pain in your eyes.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing," you snorted, "just wondering who is the real doctor here, is all."
"Not you," he slinged back easily.
