trans_9 | Treating the Wounded [Open, Bendytimed to a few days after the Ohm fight]

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Treating the Wounded [Open, Bendytimed to a few days after the Ohm fight]

The dead of night—or at least a simulated night, but the crew took to it in their usual patterns and created a deadness that was acceptable—that was the time, the reason. The place was the Hangar, cluttered even now and moreso than ever with parts of damaged vessels in stages of repair, their insides strewn about their bases in careful (or careless) heaps, looming shadily in the subdued lighting. One particular ship, pure black like the darkness that surrounded her, was the destination; the lone traveler hobbling amongst the piles to reach her was Dustin.

For the few days allotted for him to heal, the frail genius had been making remarkable progress. He could breathe well enough to make this journey without becoming completely winded, he was strong enough to carry his backpack full of tools, his shoulder and ribs had healed to the point where both of his arms were mostly functional—but most importantly, Dustin now had the capability (and a properly sized crutch) to sneak his way out of the Medbay in the first place. He was well enough now, considering, and though it would take another few weeks for his shattered leg to completely mend he would’ve been released within the next day or so. This was merely a test, a way to see how well the ship’s technology was holding up and combining with his own internal synthetic systems.

He was also obviously checking in on the one patient not immediately attended to after the battle.

The Dart loomed in front of him, broken and forlorn. Only a week ago Dustin had finished the final adjustments, soldered the last wires; now she was a crippled veteran. Just like her creator, yeah?

There was a movement nearby. The scraggly man stumbled and froze, piercing green eyes searching his surroundings.

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And how very predictable it is that Yoshimi emerges from the shadows, glaring tiredly at Dustin. Both of them know damn well that they ought not to be out of the MedBay yet, but Yoshimi will follow him, dammit, if only to make sure he doesn't blow himself up again. If he has any grace, he'll notice that she looks pale, and is holding herself awkwardly so as to avoid pulling at the healing tear in her side, and he'll agree to leave the Dart alone for a few more days, because they also both know that she's not letting him out of her sight anytime in the near future.

Of course, she knows him better than that--odds are he'll tell her to leave, looking vaguely concerned at her exhausted swaying (or not), and just go to work himself. And she won't listen, and she'll sit down and ignore him all night while she refuses to sleep, because he might wander off if she sleeps.

Man, this relationship is unhealthy.

"You're not supposed to be out of bed yet," she says quietly, far from pleased.

Somehow Dustin was both expecting and not expecting this. Part of him knew that Yoshimi would find him as soon as he wandered off, as she usually did when he was trying to be sneaky (ironic how that happened—perhaps she knew his usual mold of slinking about and could trace it, like weather patterns or something unpredictable yet predictable like that). The other part always assumed that she was a heavy sleeper, especially when on morphine so it seemed, and thus wouldn’t notice him trundle past on his way out. Apparently whatever feminine instincts Yoshimi had towards keeping track of her errant boyfriend overpowered the latter assertion, thus, there they were.

He frowned at her. Pointedly. “Neither should you.”

She arches an eyebrow. Also pointedly. "I know."

The thing is, Yoshimi's tolerance for anesthetics is quite high, so the routine dose of morphine they've been giving her hasn't been doing much--her sleeping patterns tend to be upset by shivers of pain as she fades in and out of consciousness, and honestly, she's been expecting him to sneak out for a while. It so happened that she was experiencing one of these periods of Awake and In Pain when he left, and she had groaned inwardly and rolled out of bed and followed what she assumed would be his path, and thus, here they are. Frowning at each other and invalid.

To make the situation weirder, her hair is in a ponytail, successfully pulling most of the hair out of her face, making her expression of disapproval ~~and pain~~ that much more potent and obvious. Without a curtain of pink framing her face, it's a bit easier to see the flat, cold woman she had been for years living in the exposed angles of her cheekbones, the set of her eyebrows. The pigtails she had once worn on a daily basis had been adopted pretty much for the sole purpose of showing these details, because, oddly enough, they had made her more intimidating, and she's well-aware of that fact. The ponytail may or may not be a deliberate addition.

There was a rather awkward pause as he continued to stare, breaking only once to blink, as if befuddled or inquisitively puzzled in the way he might’ve been if confronted with a particularly complex circuit. Not that some of the more tender moments between the pair had resulted in Dustin pulling back the pink mop of hair on Yoshimi’s head to get a better look at her face, but that was always due to his own meddling—a forced movement, one that she would often reject within several moments with a casual flip of the head—and now he could see why she did so. Those angular features weren’t something Dustin was expecting to see on a stout nineteen-year-old girl, making him ponder for those silent few seconds whether or not he should continue to regard her in the previous image or try and adapt to this new one.

Instead he took the easy route and, playing on the obviously pained set of her expression, Dustin decided that he was also not feeling so fantastic after escaping his…admittedly very comfortable cot and painkiller drip. He folded his brow and leaned a bit heavier on the short crutch.

“…Granted, there’s nothing saying that we can’t just…lie down here for a minute or two,” the genius sniffed through a stiff jaw, “Right?”

She has to fight not to smile, because of course he'd choose now to be slightly less stubborn than she'd thought he would. Not that it's much of a concession--she's holding out for her cot. Still, as her lips twitch in a way that would go unnoticed if it were any other moment of their acquaintance (maybe), the ponytail also does a good job of accentuating the shifting of the muscles around her eyes as she schools her expression back into a vague glare.

"I can't, seeing as I'll rip my stitches out if I move more than a few centimeters in any direction," she says as blandly as possible, obviously exaggerating, but the point is gotten--no, Dustin, she can't lie down, because the floor of the Hangar is not the MedBay, and she's not at all pleased with the idea of you not being in the MedBay.

Also, yes, she is going to stand here looking far too pale and a little ill until you follow her back to that little cozy place with the morphine, so don't even try.

Ah, so Yoshimi wishes. Dustin sniffed, an abrupt allusion to what may have been a chuckle if he wasn’t feeling so sore, and stood his ground.

“Funny how you managed to follow me all the way down here, then,” he pointed out matter-of-factly, shifting his free (but still somewhat crippled) arm in an attempt at folding it across his chest, “But if you insist …”

See, the logic here is that Yoshimi has admitted to not being able to move. Which means that Dustin can work on his ship without having her gnaw his fingers off or something unpleasant like that. He flashed her a clenched, supercilious smile and began the long hobble towards the Dart’s cracked windshield.

Her glare hardens back into place, eyes darting to the Dart before fixing again on Dustin.

"She can wait, Dustin. She, unlike you, is not going to go crawling off in the dead of night to tend to inanimate--and before you start, yes, I know, ridiculously beloved--objects. And you're... you. You can fix her in... days. You're still using a crutch! I don't want you crawling around on the floor and-and being an idiot, because even though that is so very like you, I still... get..... really worried." She pauses, looking away, cheeks tinged with pink. "And I'm not going to leave until you at least agree to not-not... I don't know, break yourself further, and yeah, we both know I'm the worse off of the two of us right now, and we also both know that I'm using my own health and safety to attempt to pull some human compassion out of you, but really." She points at her side and the few spots of blood seeping through the dressings and clothes covering the wound, evidence that getting out of bed was a really, really bad idea. "Ow."

She somehow doubts that that rant will end up being effective.

Far from it, actually. Dustin staggered to a stop, craning his neck to throw Yoshimi the most cynical look he could possibly conjure—made more effective because he really was concerned, and damnit, Yoshimi, why did you have to crawl all the way down here where he has to worry about you? Why couldn’t you just stay up in Medbay where the cranky EMH can make sure you don’t bleed out while he’s gone?

“Look, I promise I won’t break myself any further,” Scruffy McJackass insisted in a last effort of dark humor, but it failed miserably when he caught a new glimpse of the pink-haired teen grumbling at him nearby, “Just…hell. How am I supposed to bring you back up there?”

Yes, that might be something of a problem. The man could barely bring himself down to the Hangar, let alone carry another human that might weigh as much—if not more—than he did.

She snorts, looking away, a few bits of too-short-to-stay-in-the-ponytail hair slipping in to partially obscure her eyes. She puffs them out of the way impatiently, eyes sliding back to him as the strands of hair settle in a wave above her eyebrow.

"Nobody said you have take me back up there. I've had worse than a few loose stitches," she says, thinking of that ragged, silver dollar-sized scar in her stomach, the one Dustin had never asked about, the one that has a matching scar--an exit wound--in a corresponding place on her back, the one that was caused by having a twelve-foot, sharp, high-velocity pipe shoved through several layers of skin and a lot of highly important internal organs. She's had worse than a few loose stitches. Which is why she edges towards him, going back to ignoring the shooting twinges of pain coming from tugging on sutures, her eyes dark and kind of scared.

"You-you could have died. You should have--ju--I--think about it, Dustin. It makes total and complete sense that I would refuse to let you out of my sight for the next millenium, because if I hadn't had a Grunt tear through my goddamn stomach lining, I doubt I would have found out about any of this. Trudy wouldn't have told me, you wouldn't have told me, and I'd just be left to wonder how the Dart got this royally fucked." She points sharply at the ruined ship, eyes flashing. It should be noted that Yoshimi almost never says anything worse than "damn". "I'd've spent the last week wondering where you were, refusing to let myself check the MedBay out of some idiotic level of fear that I'd find you mangled or-or dead or worse, because no one would have told me, and I can't lose you." She inhales, shuddering, eyes closing. "I just... I can't."

…Oh. Well then.

Dustin took an almost unconscious step backwards, eyes squinting in rarely-seen confusion. He knew Yoshimi was definitely more compassionate than he was, sure—that was why she took care of him in the first place, why he always came back for mental support, among other things—and he’d already told her about what essential role she played in his life, how he was always concerned for her safety, and how he always would be up until he died protecting her and he passed on the job to whomever was most able.

This was the first time anyone returned the sentiment. Well…more or less. Clay had taken the position of group medic back in his time and universe; he’d helped to clean off what was left of Dustin’s arm and provided the tools necessary to attach the prosthetic. But that was a different sort of job, and it was far from any sense of duty or personal need, they both understood that all too well.

Regardless.

The initial shock over with, understanding returned to Dustin’s visage once more and he softened, hobbling up to meet her, raising a jerky arm with shuddering fingers to stroke her cheek. “Yoshimi, I…” The words stuck in his throat for a moment or two. “…Thanks.”

No, he’s not going to elaborate. Yoshimi can guess what he’s thanking her for.

She swallows, meeting his eyes--she'll never get used to how green they are, really--for a second before sighing and looking at the ground between them.

"I'll leave you alone if you promise to come back in a few hours." Evidently, that little rant sapped the rest of her energy, because now she just looks like she wants to sleep for the next ten years.

She pauses, looking back up at him with a faint smile fixed on her face.

"And don't thank me--worrying is my job, unfortunately. I'm pretty sure I'd do it whether you liked it or not."

[ooc: late tag is many much late. >>;]

Jamie regarded the man with no less surprise; he thought he'd be the only one here at this hour, appeasing insomniac urges with idle mechanical work. A diagnostic was currently running on the Geno Saurer, some distance away - not that she needed it, but since the battle Jamie had felt an almost frantic need to care for her - and in the meantime he'd been inspecting the various other craft that awaited repairs. He'd paused at the battered black ship, noting how badly damaged it was but unsure if he should tamper with it; it was unfamiliar, after all, and while he was reasonably sure he could figure it out eventually, he didn't want to do so without proper authorization.

Jamie glanced from the injured man to the ship that so obviously held his attention, wondering if he was actually going to attempt working on it in his battered condition. "This one yours?"

Good thing he hadn’t, then. If one mechanic put their hands on his child…

Dustin didn’t relax. It was dark, he hadn’t seen Jamie at first and the fact that someone else managed to get the jump on him was more than mildly disconcerting. He tensed and raised his shoulders, as if he were getting ready to hiss and scuttle off. Maybe he would have if he was in better shape.

“…Yes,” the scruffy man shifted awkwardly on his crutch and glanced at the giant…what exactly was that, anyways? A mecha of some sort, apparently. Oddly stylized. Bit like a dinosaur, really. “Is that one yours?”

Jamie recognized that hunched, defensive, ready-to-bolt posture, if only because it was one he himself had assumed a great deal over the past few years. He was both bewildered and very, very faintly amused that someone else considered him worthy of such a response.

He followed the man's gaze, eyes flicking briefly away. "The Geno? Yeah, she's mine. Just down here seeing what needed to be done with the X-wings and the Gundams after..." He trailed off, shrugging uneasily. The battle and its immediate aftermath weren't his favorite things to think about. "Anyway, just. Wanted to check up on her, too. 's kind of a habit. She wasn't out there fighting, but she still needs to be kept up when she's sitting in here, y'know?

"What about you?" he added, with another subdued but critical glance between the black craft, the man, and the backpack he carried. "'s gonna take some work to get yours back in shape."

And in return to that critical glance, Dustin gave Jamie a more inquisitive glance over by way of figuring out his stance in all of this. He was younger, considerably—about the same age Dustin had been when he started building the Dart, back in his prime—a bit less wiry but still anxious that he’d been spotted, somewhat nervous about the more touchy subjects. Possibly submissive. He’d have to test that theory. Dustin shifted upright, taking a dominant pose that was in stark contrast to his earlier stance and current physical condition, emphasized with the faintest twitching of a smug, knowing grin.

“Why do you think I’m down here?” he quipped, raising a large eyebrow critically, “The longer I sit around on my ass, the longer my ship goes without repairs and the less chance she’ll be fully functional the next time we meet up with the Ohm. ‘S worth the trip.”

This was a reaction to which Jamie was more accustomed: smirking superiority. It rankled, but Jamie, true to form, said nothing, his own posture adjusting in response to this new display of attitude. Shifting his weight slightly backwards, Jamie only just managed to refrain from folding his arms across his chest defensively as he regarded Dustin with renewed wariness.

"You're not going to get very far in your condition," he ventured. "There's other people around who can take care of stuff like that. Y'know, during the day."

This looked promising. His position established, Dustin backed off for the moment and returned his attention to what he originally came here for—the crippled ship nearby, the Dart. Dustin took a deep breath and, shifting the overcoat draped over his shoulders, took several hobbling steps towards his destination.

“Tell me—“ He didn’t know this other fellow’s name, but the pause was conveniently masked by a particularly difficult stumble-and-gasp combination—which was either a good thing or a bad thing in this context. “—I’m guessing that you’re attached to your vehicle, if you’re running full diagnostics on it at this hour—What if you brought it out against the Ohm, and in the end you were hit and she was badly damaged? And what if the EMH told you that you couldn’t leave Medbay for a week, not even to check and see if she was being taken care of—properly, mind—while you were left to lie around and twiddle your thumbs and wait for the morphine to kick in? What would you do, hmm?”

With the hypothetical scenario fully elaborated on, Dustin found himself in a convenient location where he could pause to lean against his ship and recover before he began repairs.

Familiar as he was with being ludicrously attached to inanimate hunks of metal, Jamie'd anticipated an argument somewhere along these lines. Somewhat dispassionately he watched the man limp his way to the ship.

"Sure, I'd wanna come down and see that she's being taken care of," he conceded. "But I wouldn't kill myself trying to do everything myself." Maybe. Common sense had, of late, taken a backseat to the need to fill every waking moment with constant activity. "Even if she's in fighting shape, she's no good with a pilot stuck in the medbay trying to recover from fixing her."

He shrugged passively. "'s nothing wrong with wanting to take care of her, as long as you don't overdo it and make things worse for yourself."

The kid had a decent argument, but even the most well-intentioned, straightforward logic had no place in Dustin’s mind when he was in one of his more stubborn moods. He passed Jamie a sidelong glance before shrugging off his backpack, the magnetic clasp making it easy to remove with the one prosthetic arm still available for use (and even that one was busy with the crutch), and pausing to ponder over where to start first.

“So you say,” Dustin sniffed skeptically, trying a tender step with his splinted leg (he quickly thereafter was content to stick with the crutch), “Of course you’re not in that situation, so you can’t really talk, can you?”

A beat as he let that sink in.

“I’ve had worse, I can heal, I’ll get better. My ship can’t and won’t unless I’m here to tend for her, and I’ll be damned if I let a few busted limbs get in my way.” Understatement of the year, but you get the idea.

This was another thing to which Jamie was accustomed: being summarily told to shut up because he didn't know what he was talking about. Expression flattening, he looked just this side of backing down entirely. Wasn't his business if the guy killed himself fixing his ship, after all.

Even so, watching him limp around like that was almost painful. Jamie took a couple of cautious steps closer to the battered craft.

"Yeah, well, you don't have to do it all yourself, either. Not when there's other people that can help."

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Treating the Wounded [Open, Bendytimed to a few days after the Ohm fight]

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