Meyer Lansky (
recognize_an_opportunity) wrote in
kore_logs2013-06-10 01:21 pm
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Entry tags:
It scares the hell out of me...
Who: Meyer & Ned, possibly Bruce & Charlie later.
Where: Starting near the woods. A little too close to the woods.
When: Late evening, Day 81
What: Meyer got a little too close to an angry sabertooth tiger, and unfortunate mauling occurred. Ned is his rescuer.
Warnings: Tiger attacks, and all the blood and pain that they entail. Swearing. Angst.
Lying there, facedown in the dirt, unable or unwilling to move -- was he supposed to be playing dead? He couldn't remember. What had seemed very important at the time now seemed like nothing more than a hazy, half-formed thought. There was something you were supposed to do in a situation like this. There was a protocol, a way to survive being attacked by an animal, but Meyer didn't recall it.
He knew what to do when people attacked, knew that if you were outnumbered or overpowered to curl yourself into a tight ball and protect your head and neck, protect your vital organs. He'd managed to curl himself into a ball of sorts, protecting his face, but there was a screaming pain in his abdomen -- maybe his ribs, he didn't know -- that prevented him from curling himself up entirely.
Motionless, barely breathing -- was he not breathing on purpose, or was he losing the need to breathe? -- he wanted to reach for the gun that had been knocked out of his hand after firing one shot. The animal had been on him in seconds, knocking him to the ground, although from the noise it had made, the outraged and pained roar, he might have shot it. He hoped so.
Maybe someone would hear the shot. Maybe someone would come. Maybe he'd die here. That thought enraged him; he'd fought tooth and nail to live his whole life, and now this. He moved his head slightly, trying to see if the tiger was still there; it was. It was watching him from a slight distance, and for a moment he thought about going for his gun, about finishing off the animal completely -- if he was going to die, he could take the damn thing with him -- but he couldn't seem to get up the strength to do. There was blood, he realized, blood all across his back where the tiger's claws had gouged him, blood trickling down his sides and onto the dirt, but that, he thought grimly, wasn't his problem. No, it was the problem of whoever showed up and discovered this scene, once the tiger gave up its waiting game and ate him like he knew it intended to.
He let his eyes slip closed. He let his breathing grow stiller. He hoped he looked dead. He wondered if he might be.
Where: Starting near the woods. A little too close to the woods.
When: Late evening, Day 81
What: Meyer got a little too close to an angry sabertooth tiger, and unfortunate mauling occurred. Ned is his rescuer.
Warnings: Tiger attacks, and all the blood and pain that they entail. Swearing. Angst.
Lying there, facedown in the dirt, unable or unwilling to move -- was he supposed to be playing dead? He couldn't remember. What had seemed very important at the time now seemed like nothing more than a hazy, half-formed thought. There was something you were supposed to do in a situation like this. There was a protocol, a way to survive being attacked by an animal, but Meyer didn't recall it.
He knew what to do when people attacked, knew that if you were outnumbered or overpowered to curl yourself into a tight ball and protect your head and neck, protect your vital organs. He'd managed to curl himself into a ball of sorts, protecting his face, but there was a screaming pain in his abdomen -- maybe his ribs, he didn't know -- that prevented him from curling himself up entirely.
Motionless, barely breathing -- was he not breathing on purpose, or was he losing the need to breathe? -- he wanted to reach for the gun that had been knocked out of his hand after firing one shot. The animal had been on him in seconds, knocking him to the ground, although from the noise it had made, the outraged and pained roar, he might have shot it. He hoped so.
Maybe someone would hear the shot. Maybe someone would come. Maybe he'd die here. That thought enraged him; he'd fought tooth and nail to live his whole life, and now this. He moved his head slightly, trying to see if the tiger was still there; it was. It was watching him from a slight distance, and for a moment he thought about going for his gun, about finishing off the animal completely -- if he was going to die, he could take the damn thing with him -- but he couldn't seem to get up the strength to do. There was blood, he realized, blood all across his back where the tiger's claws had gouged him, blood trickling down his sides and onto the dirt, but that, he thought grimly, wasn't his problem. No, it was the problem of whoever showed up and discovered this scene, once the tiger gave up its waiting game and ate him like he knew it intended to.
He let his eyes slip closed. He let his breathing grow stiller. He hoped he looked dead. He wondered if he might be.
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That reverie is interrupted by the violent report of a gunshot from within the woods. For a second, Ned freezes. Experience tells him not to go in the woods and instinct tells him to head away from the sound of gunfire. But he stays where he is. What if someone is in trouble in there? Someone he knows, someone he cares about? He thinks about Jesse, dying in the woods with no one to help him, and makes his choice.
He doesn't have to go far before he spots the two of them. Ned has never seen one of the tigers this close to the edge of the woods - never seen one of them at all, actually. Perhaps they are encroaching on the town because their prey is getting hunted by the captives, or perhaps it's the start of some new sick experiment. Maybe it's bad luck. In any case there's a saber-toothed tiger right there and a huddled body on the ground. Ned can see blood on the man's shirt, see that he's not moving.
Then he recognizes Meyer, and his stomach clenches with panic.
The tiger is creeping closer to Meyer, cautious but predatory. It is barely putting weight onto one of its back legs, and Ned spots a trickle of blood running down from its haunch. Without thinking, without further hesitation, Ned runs over, puts himself between the tiger and the curled-up body of his friend. There's a broken branch on the ground nearby and he picks it up, swinging it in front of him like a baseball bat. That's what people always did in the books - the boys' adventure and wilderness survival stories - when they ran into mountain lions. Saber-toothed tigers can't be all that different, can they?
"Why d-d-don't you p-pick on someone your own size, huh?" he bellows. The tiger hesitates, sizes him up. Ned does his best to look big and terrifying. His whole body is shaking with fear but he holds his ground. The thing must be quite hungry, or else aggravated over its injury, because it lunges for him regardless. He swings the branch, manages to hit it squarely in the ear. Pain blossoms in his arm, hot and sharp; Ned glances down to see his sleeve shredded, three long claw-marks on his upper arm.
The tiger is reeling, disoriented from the blow, and Ned spots Meyer's gun on the ground between them. He lunges for it, fires off a shot in the tiger's direction. His hands are shaking so badly that he almost misses it entirely, hitting it in one of its front paws. Apparently, that is the last straw for the thing. It turns and runs off, back into the forest, its gait unsteady.
Ned drops the gun immediately, turning back towards Meyer and sinking to his knees. The man hasn't moved, doesn't look like he's breathing.
"Shit," he says under his breath, hands hovering indecisively in the air. Should he feel for a pulse? What if he's dead and in doing so, Ned brings him back? He knows already that if he did that, he wouldn't have the heart to touch him again, to kill him a second time, and then someone else would have to die. "Oh God, please don't be dead, Meyer, c'mon. C-can you hear me?"
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Maybe, he starts to think, maybe that means he's still alive, and that the tiger hadn't finished him off. There's voices, he thinks, or maybe he's just hallucinating -- the voice of a man yelling, words indistinguishable to him, mixing with the roar of blood in his ears. The noise of the gunshot startles him, though, although to an outside observer, the slight twitch of his hand is the only noticeable sign that he's moved, that he's still alive. His breathing is still slow, and he doesn't dare open his eyes. If there's someone out there, if they're fighting with the tiger, if they're shooting the tiger, maybe they'll help him. He'd say something, but he can't seem to figure out how.
When Ned bends down beside him -- although he doesn't know it's Ned, doesn't know anyone is there at all until he hears the voice, coming from a great distance off, it seems -- he struggles to open his eyes. They're hazy and unfocused, seeming to stare at something beyond Ned, but he realizes very suddenly that he's alive, he's alive and there's searing pain coursing through his body. It must have been Ned, then, that fired the shot, and if Ned's not injured, if Ned's here, then Ned's driven the tiger away. He's never known Ned to carry a gun, and he deduces after some struggle that Ned must have used his gun, the one he'd dropped onto the ground.
"Did you waste all my bullets?" he asks weakly, and it's meant to be a joke, a reassurance that he's not dead, but the fact that it comes out of his mouth in a barely audible whisper and the fact that it's not in English but in Yiddish might not reassure Ned much. He tries again, mustering his brain power -- had he hit his head somehow? Why does he feel so groggy? -- and manages to focus his eyes a little more on Ned. "I can hear you," he chokes out.
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"Oh thank God, okay, okay, good, you're gonna be okay. Just- hold on." Ned lays a hand on Meyer's shoulder gently, not sure if he's reassuring Meyer or reassuring himself. What should he do? He knows that you aren't supposed to move injured people until qualified medical help arrives, but aren't exactly EMTs in this place. Besides, who is to say that tiger won't be back, isn't going to get a few of its tiger friends to help finish the job? No, best to get Meyer out of here, to the clinic. Yes, that's it.
"Listen, we need to get you to the doctor, okay? Can, um- can you move?" He doesn't like the look of how pale Meyer is, or of the amount of blood on his shirt from those gashes.
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There's a long deep gash across his collarbone, too, and although he can't see it, he's becoming slowly aware of just how much it hurts. In fact, it's bad enough that the bone is showing through the cut, which might alarm him slightly, were he aware of it. He manages to uncurl himself, but knows better than to roll over onto his back, not with those bleeding wounds, so he stays uncomfortably on his side, which should expose the majority of his injuries to Ned. "I'm..."
He coughs a little, wincing again at the pressure it puts on his ribs. "Maybe if you can..."
A deep breath, and he makes an obvious effort to focus. "If you can help me, maybe." He doesn't want to stay out here, but despite the fact that his legs, fortunately, seem relatively unhurt, he feels woozy from the blood loss and can't move his upper body without his ribs screaming out in protest, neither of which seem conducive to walking.
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Ned's mind is racing with these and a thousand other questions, but he lets them race in the background, focuses on what he can do right now.
"I'm gonna pick you up okay?" He's already moving as he says it, lifting Meyer into a sitting position by his shoulders, shifting his own stance so that he can get to his feet more easily. "You c-can yell at me for this later if you want but for right now I need you to put your arms around my neck and hold on, okay?" Ned works an arm under Meyer's knees and another around his shoulders, higher than the cuts. As gently as he can, Ned picks him up, gets to his feet. Meyer isn't exactly light, but Ned manages it with only a small wobble.
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Carefully, he puts his arms around Ned's neck, wincing as he does so, shaking his head slightly. Just when he thinks he's realized how badly he's hurting, he seems to find another new and exciting way of experiencing pain. He's felt pain before, many times, been beaten and bloodied and bruised, but this is a new experience, and not something he can honestly say he'd recommend to anyone.
He knows the blood from the wounds on his back has ruined his shirt entirely, and he feels vaguely embarrassed, too, that he's probably staining Ned's shirt red with it, too, even if Ned's cautiously avoiding the injured area. "How bad is it?" he manages to ask, and he really wants to know. He doesn't want to hear reassurances that he'll be okay (he's fairly sure he'll live, at least), he wants to know what kind of damage he's looking at, whether what he feels matches up with what Ned sees.
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But still, it's a bit more than he can manage to casually chat at the same time, so he merely answers Meyer's question with a small shake of his head. He's thankful, perhaps for the first time, that this town is so small, that he can get from the edge of the woods to the clinic so quickly. He tries not to let the impact of his steps jostle Meyer too badly, but he knows he's causing him additional pain with every second he's carrying him. Time seems to distend around him, seconds stretching themselves to the breaking point.
The door to the clinic is closed, but Ned doesn't want to set Meyer down on the ground. So, he compromises, leans one shoulder on the doorjamb for support and kicks violently at the door - once, twice, three times. He accompanies this by yelling, "Bruce! Bruce, open the door!"
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Or, you know, deal with people banging on his door and screaming. He's up and headed over, moving from a walk to a jog-shuffle-thing, until he gets to the door and yanks it open.
Right, okay. That's a lot of blood.
"Get him in on the table." Bruce moves in to help support him in any way he can, whatever way might be needed.
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However it happened, he knows he ended up on the table, though, trying to find a way to lie down that doesn't further hurt the bleeding back wounds, the possibly broken ribs, or the serious gash across his collarbone. He settles for his side again, letting them help him, hating that he has to be helped. Of course, he wouldn't have preferred to die out there, but the pain and indignity that has come with this particular set of injuries would be more than he could bear, if he weren't concentrated quite so much on how all of this hurts.
Then he remembers something, or thinks he does, at least. "Where's my gun?" he asks, raising his head to look at Ned and visibly wincing as he does so. Was it left in the woods? Did Ned pick it up and bring it with him? He's somehow aware that he should be asking more pertinent questions, questions about his injuries, but this is what springs to mind, what strikes him as vitally important.
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Not that his hands are going to be very useful, if they keep shaking so badly. The fatigue in his arms and the comedown from the adrenaline surge both hit him hard; he stands there trembling like a leaf, can't even process the meaning of Meyer's question for a few seconds.
"D-dropped it," he says, distractedly. Who cares about a silly gun, right now? Meyer must be delirious, might have hit his head, or maybe it's the blood loss or the pain or both.
Ned runs an unsteady hand across his mouth. He realizes a few seconds later that his hand was covered with Meyer's blood, that he's smeared that blood on his face. That detail somehow makes it all real, snaps him out of the half-dreaming haze and fully back into reality. He makes a tiny, panicked noise and wipes at his face frantically with his sleeve, looks down and sees how much blood has gotten onto his (unfortunately white) shirt. His arm hurts and he looks at it, is surprised to see the claw marks. He'd forgotten about them.
His head is spinning pretty badly. Actually, the whole room is spinning. Ned leans his shoulder against the wall, tries to focus on breathing deeply, holds onto self-control by fingernails. He can't let himself slip over that edge into complete panic.
"C-c-can I h-help?"
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"Tell me what happened." He turns that same look on Meyer too, giving a nod. "Tell me everything you can."
While they do that, he'll wash his hands and sterilize some scissors to cut Meyer's shirt off.
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"I was on the edge of the woods," he says, immediately attempting to make it clear that he hadn't been doing anything stupid, hadn't been doing anything reckless. He takes a deep breath, which he immediately regrets as pain lances through his side again. "I don't know where it came from, but a tiger attacked me, threw me to the ground..."
He tries to recall the exact circumstances. "I shot it once, but I guess it must have clawed my back first, then my..." He gestures to his collarbone, too tired to think of the right word. "I think the force of the attack broke some ribs." He's had broken ribs before: he knows what they feel like, and he feels that way again.
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That is just... an awful lot of blood. Ned has never been squeamish around gore, but it's different when it's someone he cares about, when that person is so obviously in a great deal of pain. That thought - that his panic springs from his concern for Meyer as a person - puts an idea into his head. If he can't be immediately useful to Bruce, maybe he can help in a different way.
That's what they do at hospitals, isn't it? Get a hold of the emergency contact. Ned lets out a steadying breath, turns his attention to his wrist communicator. He inputs the settings to contact Charlie privately, doesn't think twice about the wisdom of turning on the video settings. Ned doesn't worry about what a bloody mess he looks, or the fact that Meyer's occasional and muffled hisses of pain are audible in the background.
"Charlie," he says. The video feed is doubtless unsteady, no matter how still Ned tries to hold his wrist. "Listen, Meyer's hurt. Run in with a t-tiger. We're at the clinic. He's gonna be okay-" there's just a hint of uncertainty in his voice then, and he looks up at Bruce as he says it, expression twisted in pained uncertainty. Please, let it be true, he thinks. He looks back down at the video, says, "-look I better go the doc might need help."
With that he cuts the connection, only realizing a few seconds later that that might have been rude, that the whole message might have been ill-advised.
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"Okay, Ned? Get me some of the sterile saline from that cabinet over there and gauze, a lot of it. A lot of both."
Bruce is thinking he'll have to put in some stitches, but first he wants to clean the wounds out and make sure the bleeding's stopped, and he also wants to make sure Meyer isn't suffering internally.
"Meyer, I want you to tell me if you're feeling lightheaded or out of breath. If you've been vomiting or coughing up blood." He reaches around to his abdomen, palpating his stomach to see if it's rigid. "And if this hurts a lot."
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"No vomiting, no coughing up blood--" That's a relief, at least. He knows those are signs of something potentially worse than a couple broken ribs. "A little lightheaded and a little short of breath, I guess." He'd been lightheaded enough that walking steadily would have been difficult, even had he not been seriously injured, but he's sure the dizziness and shortness of breath has something to do with his injuries.
At the pressing on his abdomen, he winces a little. "It's not there, as much," he says, gesturing higher up, on his left side, the middle of his ribcage, "It's more here that hurts. That's why I think my ribs're broken." He has no idea how many ribs are broken, nor how severely, but he's absolutely certain that his back wounds are going to require stitches.
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He goes for the saline next, getting an armful of the plastic bottles from the cabinet. Unfortunately, when his back was turned Bruce had moved and is closer than he'd expected. He turns and nearly collides with Bruce, reels out of the way at the last moment, dropping several of the bottles. He winces when they hit the floor, though they don't break. His heart is racing and there is a tight feeling in his chest as if it were being crushed between metal bands. Shaking badly, Ned bends and picks up the scattered saline bottles, deposits the lot next to the bandages.
"I'm-" he chokes out, glancing at Bruce, feeling wretched that he can't be more useful but knowing that he's going to cause more harm than good if he's in here when Bruce gets down to the delicate stuff. "I'll- I think I'm gonna-" he can't even get enough breath for a proper sentence, shakes his head and moves out of the immediate area, hovering near the door to the clinic but letting Bruce work in peace.
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Anyway, back to the patient who thankfully probably isn't injured internally. If he was, Bruce probably would've had to call for Mina to help. Bruce can handle surgery on his own, but he's not a surgeon, and there's a difference.
"Okay then. Good news is that I think what you see here's what you got. I'm going to work on cleaning up these wounds, making sure the bleeding's stopped, and then start stitching. How're you on pain? You want something now or you want to hold out longer?"
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He's past the point of even particularly noticing that Ned's stepped away. He's trying to concentrate on the one thing he can: Bruce's words. The injuries hurt, there's no doubting that, but it doesn't sound as though Bruce is overly worried. That's a good sign, he thinks, although he's not thinking entirely clearly at the moment, despite his pause for thought.
"What do you have for pain?"
If they don't have anything good, anything strong enough to knock out a significant amount of this pain, he'll hold out longer. He doesn't like the way drugs make him dopey and out of it, but that might be the only choice right now. The pain just seems to be getting steadily worse as the shock from the attack starts to wear off.
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He covers up the stitches carefully when he's done, then loses the gloves and washes his hands, letting Meyer get his breath, before he comes back around. He pulls up a chair so he's closer to his eye level as he checks him over from the front again. His ribs are going to be really painful, but there's not much Bruce can do; they can try to manage some kind of brace, but with the injures to his back, that won't feel good either. For now, Meyer needs to lay here for a bit though.
"Okay, I'm done poking at you now. I think that's the most stitches I've done all at one time on one person, so that's something to take away from this." He has a glass of water with a straw, which he holds up. "You want some? How're you doing?"
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He licks his lips, trying to figure out how to phrase it. The drugs Bruce had given him for the pain are already starting to kick in, leaving him feeling distanced from what's going on around him, but that doesn't mean that the stitches hadn't hurt like hell.
He looks at the water thoughtfully, then nods, wanting to reach out for the glass, but finding that even movements like that hurt his ribs. "I'm not sure whether I should take it as a mark of pride or a mark of shame that I've got the most stitches you've ever done," he finally says, attempting to find humor where very little exists.
"I feel fine," he states, although from the look of him, that's far from the truth. He feels embarrassed, is what he feels, and while the drugs dull the pain, they don't dull the embarrassment. He's had stitches before, but never quite as extensively as this.
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"You should go for the pride angle. You saw the bad end of a tiger and came out with an impressive, but ultimately non-life-threatening batch of stitches. I could go into all the other outcomes we could've had here, if it'll make you feel better."
When he's done drinking, Bruce sets the glass aside and picks up his candy dish, shuffling the contents around. He has suckers, though they might be difficult to manage; maybe some good meltable chocolate?
"Avoid the major choking hazards, okay? And if you want to add a few more badass details to your story, I'll back you up."
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"I shot it and didn't kill it. Not sure how 'badass' the story can be."
In truth, he thinks, it's Ned who should be telling the badass version of the story. Not because Ned had killed the tiger -- he hadn't, the damn thing was still out there somewhere, albeit with two gunshot wounds -- but because Ned had saved him. He hasn't fully processed that. Why would Ned save him, endangering himself in the process?
For now, though, there're others matters to attend to. "I know we don't have money here, but how can I pay you for all of this?" He gestures around the clinic; every time he's been stitched up before, back home, he's given the doctor cash and a stern warning not to talk to anyone about his injuries, but he's not sure how it works around here.
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The offer to pay surprises him, enough that he takes the sucker out of his mouth.
"You don't owe me anything, except taking good care of those stitches and yourself while you heal up."
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"So what're my orders? Don't pull the stitches out, don't go get in another fight with a tiger...?"
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"I could list off everything bad you could've had. Severed spinal cord, which could lead to paralysis; internal bleeding. Things I couldn't easily treat." Though he could call in one of the angels, come to think of it. He'll file that away mentally, but not mention it now. Let people think they shouldn't go and severely injure themselves. Because obviously.
"Both of those are good. I recommend a lot of rest, definitely don't overtax yourself. Your stitches are sort of all over, and in twisty areas, so you shouldn't move around too much or you'll pop them. You should get someone to change your bandages, or I can come around and help you with it. I'll send some home with you, along with stuff for the pain. Do as best you can with that; it's not an unlimited supply. I'll check up on you to see how you're healing, and then when the time's right, I'll take your stitches out and we can talk care again."
That sounds like everything, but it's been a while since he gave this kind of talk.
"Do you have any questions for me?"
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Admittedly, that someone might complain about it, but he'll do it nonetheless. He tries to think of any questions, brain still fuzzy and slow, although he's starting to feel a little less baffled by the whole incident. It had occurred, it's over now -- except for the unsettling fact that the tiger's still out there, potentially threatening other residents -- and he's alive, albeit in pain. He has to focus on that for now; anything else just gets his brain whirring, makes him start worrying again.
"Yeah, just one question -- what kinda pain stuff are you going to give me?"
It's not like he's going to come right out and say it, but he's got a stash of something back home that can help with the pain, too, if he runs out of whatever it is Bruce can provide. It just depends on how good the stuff the doctor wants to give him is. If it's good enough, maybe he won't need to break into his stash just yet.
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That should be enough to ease the pain without being too much. Bruce was glad to get a supply of it in that pile o' stuff that fell a little while back. It still seems so odd to him to be doing, like, actual doctor work. It feels like an age since he tackled anything this serious. Ruby had some stitches on her finger, but nothing like this.
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He gestures to the stitches, not knowing exactly how to phrase it, but knowing that Bruce will understand what he means anyway. He's always been suspicious of doctors, but in this instance, he might have to reconsider his stance; Bruce has been nothing but helpful to him, even if getting the stitches hadn't exactly felt great.
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"I'll pop back out and talk to Ned. You lay there and rest, okay? I don't want to move you yet."
He slips outside.
Some time later... a Chawlee!
But it doesn't take him long.
He's overly familiar with the feeling that follows. He may be better at controlling it these days, but it doesn't mean those fits of rage which have plagues him almost his whole life had ever gone away. And this one is a slow burn, starting in his gut and moving through him until he's shaking with it.
He's not sure how he manages to find his shoes, only that he got them on somehow. For all he knows he might have left the front door open and he couldn't give less of a fuck.
He barges straight through the clinic door, looking nothing less than wild and practically boiling over.
"Where the FUCK is he?!"
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He is distracted enough not to see Charlie's approach, jumps half out of his skin at the bang of the door being flung open. The look on Charlie's face and the growl in his voice certainly don't help matters. To Ned he doesn't seem worried, or frightened, or even grateful that things aren't worse: he seems uncontrollably, violently angry.
"He's g-gonna be fine," he says, answering a different question than the one Charlie asked. He holds up his hands instinctively, calmingly, "Bruce's stitching him up in the back, b-but we should probably w-wait here-"
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There's a cheap plastic chair nearby, and that gets kicked across the room. Ridiculously unhelpful, maybe, but it feels fucking good. That's when he sees the door, and the way Ned was pacing in front of it when he came in, and his brain finally calms down enough to put the two together and he makes a dash for it.
"Meyer!?"
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"Look I understand you want to see him and you're really worried but Bruce needs peace and quiet, okay, and- and so does Meyer. You g-going in there like this is gonna get him all worked up and that could be seriously bad for him in the state he's in, okay? So if you're g-gonna go in there I'm gonna need you to c-calm down a little, first."
The words are a quick, nervous prattle, but he doesn't step out of the way, jaw clenching with determination. Like hell he's going to let Charlie jeopardize Meyer's health for his tantrum. Ned knows he looks a wreck, shaking and exhausted and covered in blood, but he tries to get across with his expression how serious he is about this.
Perhaps it's not quite as necessary as it seems to Ned just now - perhaps it's some subconscious lingering overprotectiveness, from the fight with the tiger. His brain can't help but register Charlie as dangerous, as a threat, and he can't help but want to get in between that and his friend when he's in such a defenseless state.
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He can tell that Charlie is beyond all rational arguments. It would be touching, how devoted he is to Meyer, how he isn't willing to listen or even wait thirty seconds before going in to check on him, if it weren't so inconvenient.
"Alright, alright, just t-take a deep breath first, okay, and keep your voice down in there."
Opening the door he sees that Bruce has finished stitching Meyer up, is to be looking through a small collection of prescription medicine cylinders for something to give to him. Relieved, Ned opens the door fully and steps out of the way, letting Charlie in, hoping it's the right decision.
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Seeing him like that, laid out and helpless and bloody, it's a sharp stab straight in the gut. He finds his hand, relatively unscathed, and covers it with his own. It doesn't help much, but it's something.
"Meyer?" He's barely above a whisper, but sticks to Yiddish anyway as he speaks. "You stupid fucking idiot what the fuck did you get yourself into?"
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"I wasn't... doing anything stupid," he manages, shaking his head a tiny bit, although every movement sends a stab of pain through his collarbone. It's a good thing Charlie can't see the fact that his bone had been visible through the cut -- that probably would have made things even more stupid.
"I'll be fine."
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"He's coming home tonight, ain't he?"
Because otherwise it's going to be a very long night sat in this chair. Now that Meyer's hand is in his, he doesn't plan on letting go. He leans in closer, face practically right next to his now that he's sitting down. "I'm gonna have to drag your ass home myself, ain't like we have any taxi in this place."
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Giving Charlie's hand a slight squeeze, he attempts to reassure him. "Ned already carried me here," he says, sounding a little sheepish about it, "I'm used to being dragged places by now."
Being carried hadn't exactly been his idea of him, but it had got him here in one piece. He has to give Ned that, and he does give him an appreciative, if pained, smile.
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"I think so." Ned looks over, sees a nod from Bruce, amends his statement to a definite, "Yes."
Like Meyer and Charlie he starts thinking logistics, spots the wheelchair in the corner. It's got a stack of papers resting on it - probably from Bruce's research. He goes over and sets it aside on the ground, wheeling the thing forward a little, meeting Meyer's eyes and raising his eyebrows in mute suggestion. It would certainly be a bit more dignified than being carried, and probably significantly less painful, too.
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"Yeah, that works. Can you sit up?" He switches back to English, since Ned seems to be involved in the conversation now. It's fucking weird, he keeps forgetting he's even there.
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Glancing at Ned, he nods. The wheelchair looks like a far better option than anything else, and as much as he's generally comfortable with accepting more help from Charlie than from anyone else, he's still not particularly interested in having Charlie carry him back home. He doesn't think Charlie would like it, either: he's pretty damn heavy for such a small person.
"Okay," he says, finally getting up the energy to sit up fully, although it takes some significant effort.
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"Help me lift him down," he says to Charlie. They will be able to do it much more gently if there are two of them, and right now he's less concerned with making a nuisance of himself than he is with minimizing Meyer's pain.
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So they lift him into the chair together. Every noise of pain Meyer makes sends another knife into his gut, so he keeps mumbling to him in Yiddish, insults and pet names overlapping with each other, because talking is better than this ridiculous, repressive silence punctuated by Meyer, his Meyer, sounding in pain.
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The cynical part of his brain wonders what's in it for Ned, somehow believing that nobody would be so helpful and solicitous unless there was an ulterior motive, but nothing immediately occurs to him. It makes him take pause for a moment, completely ignoring the pain to focus on the fact that Ned might be helping him simply because he wants to. Does this make them friends?
His contemplation is broken by a stab of pain in his ribs as he's involuntarily jostled, and he can't help the sharp intake of breath as he's finally set into the chair. He's trying not to be dramatic about this whole thing, trying not to let on to too much pain, because he doesn't want to worry either of them. He just wants to get back to the house, just wants to sleep, wants to forget the pain and the embarrassment for now.
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He can't understand what Charlie is saying to Meyer but the tone and pace of the words, the repetitions and cadences communicate plenty to him. It strikes him as curious for perhaps the first time that Charlie would know Yiddish. That can't be common, considering his own background and the time and place in which he grew up. Ned glimpses the look on Charlie's face as he's staring at Meyer, the focus of it, the worry and obvious love. It strikes him as particularly intense, but he doesn't think any more of it just yet.
Once Meyer is settled he lets go of him quickly, takes a respectful step back.
"Call me if-" he doesn't want to say if something goes wrong, substitutes, "-if you need anything." He addresses the words to Charlie, hopes that he will heed them, hear them through the haze of his concern.
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If he were paying more attention to anything but Meyer, maybe he would have seen that look Ned gives them, the one that seems to understand more than it used to.
But as it is he only nods, and wheels Meyer out into the night, back home.