( she digs the first kit out from one of the cupboards, popping it open atop the counter and singling out the gauze, bandages, a sterile stitching needle that's still wrapped in thin, translucent plastic and a bundle of nylon thread. if she hadn't been through... well, everything she has, she'd find it difficult to get past the dried blood on the tips of her fingers, under her nails, not to mention the man propped at her dining room table that'd just managed to take out at least six other men and lived to tell the tale. as it is, for the wounds he's harboring, he's taking it a lot better than most would, too — which leaves her to think it's not exactly new for him, either.
realistically, neither of them should be as comfortable as they are.
she's toeing out of her heels en route, tugging open the medicine cabinet in her bathroom to grab for the alcohol and snatching a few freshly-washed cloths to clean the sites on her way back towards the kitchen. the last thing she ventures to carry is a bottle of aged whiskey set beside her coffee pot, for good measure, hugged beneath her forearm. even if he's the type to shrug it off as if it's 'just a scratch', digging the bullets out without causing any further damage to the surrounding tissue was't going to be pretty for either of them. honestly, the whiskey's just as much for her as it is for him.
when she's back beside him she's leaning down to settle everything atop the table, cheeks carrying a slight flush — she stretches over to toggle on the nearby lamp, and it's the first time she's afforded an honest look at him without the grim shadows of that alley painting over his features. a breath eases from her, as if lungs were finally afforded a moment to catch up. )
Karen.
( the edge of her jaw flutters — standing before him with a suggestive point of her chin, shrugging out of her own wool jacket. )
Do you need help? ( she assumes he'll understand; she can't exactly get to the wounds with all of those layers in the way. )
no subject
realistically, neither of them should be as comfortable as they are.
she's toeing out of her heels en route, tugging open the medicine cabinet in her bathroom to grab for the alcohol and snatching a few freshly-washed cloths to clean the sites on her way back towards the kitchen. the last thing she ventures to carry is a bottle of aged whiskey set beside her coffee pot, for good measure, hugged beneath her forearm. even if he's the type to shrug it off as if it's 'just a scratch', digging the bullets out without causing any further damage to the surrounding tissue was't going to be pretty for either of them. honestly, the whiskey's just as much for her as it is for him.
when she's back beside him she's leaning down to settle everything atop the table, cheeks carrying a slight flush — she stretches over to toggle on the nearby lamp, and it's the first time she's afforded an honest look at him without the grim shadows of that alley painting over his features. a breath eases from her, as if lungs were finally afforded a moment to catch up. )
Karen.
( the edge of her jaw flutters — standing before him with a suggestive point of her chin, shrugging out of her own wool jacket. )
Do you need help? ( she assumes he'll understand; she can't exactly get to the wounds with all of those layers in the way. )