@nadryva
"Знаю, знаю ..." he sighed under his breath. Where once the remark would have been met with biting scorn, Ilya now simply accepted Gilbert's right to call him an idiot when it was deserved. He sat still on the drab workplace break room chair as Gilbert looked at his head wound. Maybe he was becoming a little bit useless, after so much time spent away from the battlefield. Never in a million years had he thought he would need to call someone to play doctor for him after hitting his head against a piece of satellite metal, at work.
But there was always a first time, he supposed.
He closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose slightly, trying not to wince as he felt Gilbert apply some pressure somewhere on his head wound, but the pain was soothed by Gilbert's fingers, gentle as they caressed his face. Maybe he had not been expecting it, and it made his cheeks heat up slightly.
"Well, what is your assessment, Dr. Beilschmidt? Will I live?"
“Mm, hard to be certain. It’s not everyday someone walks into a satellite.” Gilbert’s tone is light and easy, the concern that had coloured his voice when he’d gotten the somewhat frantic call from the Russian was much more subdued. Head wounds were not to be taken lightly, but the nations were far more robust than a human of the same calibre. Still, the medic couldn’t understand how Ilya had managed to smack his forehead so fully against such an assumedly huge piece of metal. Surely, he had seen the thing sticking out, right? The cut was superficial and clean, perhaps needing a few steristrips to hold the skin shut until their stupidly efficient healing kicked in. The palm of Gilbert’s hand still rested against the other’s cheek, thumb grazing Ilya’s skin in idle thought as the Prussian continued to examine the gash. Steristrips would do fine.
“I think you’ll be fine. Let me bandage you up. You might have a headache, though. Not sure how hard you hit it.”
