The next morning, Jack doesn't wake easily. Mired in disturbing dreams, he tosses slightly as sleep eases its grip and as the dream fades and reality replaces it, he has a growing realization that he's not alone in the bed.
"Thanks," he reaches for the shirt, pulling it closer. "Shirt's all that's missing."
It takes him a minute to sit upright without feeling like he's going to puke all over the sheets, but he manages. If he didn't have to piss so damn bad, he'd stay horizontal and burrow under the blanket in an attempt to hide from the sun.
The bruises along his spine and shoulders have set in, and the white bandage on his elbow is spotted with hints of dried blood.
Getting to his feet will take a moment longer. Not moving just yet is a good idea.
Jack looks over as Carl sits up, blinking at the bruises and the bloodied bandage. He vaguely remembers Carl mentioning something about an explosion, but he's pretty sure they hadn't gone to the infirmary. He would have remembered the anxiety he would have had just walking in the doors.
"Yeah, but you wouldn't have to bother with either, considering someone here could heal it up completely a lot faster than medics outside. Or so I've heard."
Despite the injuries he'd come in with and the aches and pains he still has, the temptation of not being in pain isn't enough to override his suspicion--even fear--of infirmaries and doctors. His experience with either in the last couple years have made them something to avoid at all costs.
"I can't walk back into North Carolina without a scratch on me, it'd look...really strange."
Carl flexes his arm. He probably needs to yank the bandage off and wash the wounds, but he's not sure if he has the stomach to confront a patchwork quilt of sutures and bruises just yet.
Feet planted on the floor, he pushes himself off the bed. He's glad of the fact that he's facing away from Jack -- the other man won't be able to see him wince as he straightens and stands up.
"Remind me that getting that close to a grenade is something I never want to do again."
(Only in their line of work would it be a possibility that it would even occur a second time.)
"Yeah, I don't particularly want you to, either. Mind if I take a piss before you get in there?" Jack asks, not sure he can hold out until Carl's finished his shower.
Jack hauls himself to his feet and stumbles over to the bathroom, fighting to stay vertical despite the pain in his head. A couple minutes and he's back out with an empty bladder and two aspirin in his stomach, heading straight for the bed.
"All yours," he says, flopping down on the bed. "Let me know when you need my help with your arm."
If Carl doesn't need him right away, he's going to be trying to stay as still as possible, as moving didn't do his stomach any favours.
Carl tosses Jack a mock-salute as he picks this way across the floor to the bathroom. Stripping is difficult when you can't balance, but he manages to get rid of his clothes, relieve himself, and get the shower going without falling over.
He washes the scent of alcohol off his skin, taking stock of his scrapes and bruises in the process -- making certain not to soak his elbow under the spray.
After a slightly-longer-than-normal (for him) shower, he's out and redressed in his jeans. He wanders out into the bedroom with the first aid kit he'd found stashed under the counter tucked under one arm, feeling marginally more human.
Carl passes the kit over as he sits back on the bed, extending his left arm to make it easier on Jack to reach the part that needs to be bandaged.
He looks over the skin -- a handful of lacerations crisscross the area near his elbow. Smaller ones simply glued shut, and larger ones stitched closed. It's sore, but he can still move his arm and flex all his fingers, so he'll take what he can get.
"Could have been worse. Rather taken it in the arm than in the face."
"True. Still looks pretty bad, though. Do you need to keep taking any antibiotics?" Jack asks.
The sight of the sutures and wounds isn't helping Jack's stomach any, but he still forces himself to pick up a tube of antibiotic ointment and start slathering it on.
"Does Bar give out medication, do you know?" Jack asks. Considering aspirin and things just appear in his medicine cabinet, he'd think she'd give out something like antibiotics.
He hasn't asked her about other kinds of drugs, as much as he's been tempted.
"Yeah. I can't really say what your best option is."
On the one hand, he's not sure Carl's in the best frame of mind to do a debriefing, particularly one about this type of situation. On the other hand, putting it off isn't going to help.
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It takes him a minute to sit upright without feeling like he's going to puke all over the sheets, but he manages. If he didn't have to piss so damn bad, he'd stay horizontal and burrow under the blanket in an attempt to hide from the sun.
The bruises along his spine and shoulders have set in, and the white bandage on his elbow is spotted with hints of dried blood.
Getting to his feet will take a moment longer. Not moving just yet is a good idea.
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"Jesus Christ, Carl. Just how beat up are you?"
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He glances down at his elbow.
"They pulled the frags out of my arm on the flight to Germany. Don't remember how many pieces there were."
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"Told you you should get looked at by the infirmary."
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He's taken the antibiotics, but not the painkillers. Yet. This headache might just be the end of him.
Carl swallows lightly, inhaling through his nose. The floor is still spinning, and it really needs to stop that.
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Despite the injuries he'd come in with and the aches and pains he still has, the temptation of not being in pain isn't enough to override his suspicion--even fear--of infirmaries and doctors. His experience with either in the last couple years have made them something to avoid at all costs.
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Carl flexes his arm. He probably needs to yank the bandage off and wash the wounds, but he's not sure if he has the stomach to confront a patchwork quilt of sutures and bruises just yet.
He glances at the bathroom, then at Jack.
"Y'gonna want a shower?"
It is Jack's room. So Jack gets first dibs.
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Feet planted on the floor, he pushes himself off the bed. He's glad of the fact that he's facing away from Jack -- the other man won't be able to see him wince as he straightens and stands up.
"Remind me that getting that close to a grenade is something I never want to do again."
(Only in their line of work would it be a possibility that it would even occur a second time.)
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"All yours," he says, flopping down on the bed. "Let me know when you need my help with your arm."
If Carl doesn't need him right away, he's going to be trying to stay as still as possible, as moving didn't do his stomach any favours.
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Carl tosses Jack a mock-salute as he picks this way across the floor to the bathroom. Stripping is difficult when you can't balance, but he manages to get rid of his clothes, relieve himself, and get the shower going without falling over.
He washes the scent of alcohol off his skin, taking stock of his scrapes and bruises in the process -- making certain not to soak his elbow under the spray.
After a slightly-longer-than-normal (for him) shower, he's out and redressed in his jeans. He wanders out into the bedroom with the first aid kit he'd found stashed under the counter tucked under one arm, feeling marginally more human.
Aspirin helps with that. Quite a bit.
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"Okay, take a seat and let's take a look at this," he says, holding out his hand for the first aid kit.
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He looks over the skin -- a handful of lacerations crisscross the area near his elbow. Smaller ones simply glued shut, and larger ones stitched closed. It's sore, but he can still move his arm and flex all his fingers, so he'll take what he can get.
"Could have been worse. Rather taken it in the arm than in the face."
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The sight of the sutures and wounds isn't helping Jack's stomach any, but he still forces himself to pick up a tube of antibiotic ointment and start slathering it on.
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The corner of Carl's mouth twitches at the contact of the ointment to his skin, but he doesn't wince outright.
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Part of him wants to go and get the briefings and questions over with. The other part of him doesn't want to go back at all.
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He hasn't asked her about other kinds of drugs, as much as he's been tempted.
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He's watching the progress being made on his arm, as Jack places the gauze pad against the skin. His eyes are still a little distant.
"Kind of just want to get it done with."
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On the one hand, he's not sure Carl's in the best frame of mind to do a debriefing, particularly one about this type of situation. On the other hand, putting it off isn't going to help.
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"Probably could use some time to get my thoughts together. Put things down so I've got the story solid before I head in."
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"If they didn't have any questions, I'd wonder what the fuck was wrong."
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