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In the chaos of Rose Creek, Vasquez knows things are overwhelming, confusing, and terrible.
The pain his arm is blistering and terrible, the blood soaking through his shirt, but he has no time to go check on the bodies of his fellow rescuers and can't corral his horses and supplies because when he'd stumbled out of the little church, he'd found himself on the stoop of a place he doesn't recognize. There are things in the streets that dart past, like little trains, and the people are so noisy and so loud and wearing things he doesn't understand.
Hand tight to his guns, Vasquez struggles along and tries to ignore the pain, but the nip in the air means that it's next to impossible to do. It keeps biting at him, reminding him it's there, making Vasquez hate whatever this place is. He pushes through the crowd of people on the walkway, not sure what to do about how many there are, and when he sees a tall building that looks like it might have medical help, he stops in front of it with a decision.
With the bounty on his head, it's not smart to go in. If someone flags him, recognizes him, they could take him in. Maybe he's imagining all these things because of the strain of the battle or the blood loss, or maybe he just doesn't know what's going on and it's something that a power above him has done.
Whatever it is, he's hurt and he can't decide whether to go inside. People are inside with crutches and casts, treating maladies, and Vasquez's cold state makes his decision for him, but he only gets so far as one of the lobby doors before he presses to the wall with a curse in Spanish for the pain, sagging a little.
He curses at Sam Chisolm, because he knows that none of this had been part of their arrangement. Vasquez wouldn't have been stupid enough to agree if it were.
The pain his arm is blistering and terrible, the blood soaking through his shirt, but he has no time to go check on the bodies of his fellow rescuers and can't corral his horses and supplies because when he'd stumbled out of the little church, he'd found himself on the stoop of a place he doesn't recognize. There are things in the streets that dart past, like little trains, and the people are so noisy and so loud and wearing things he doesn't understand.
Hand tight to his guns, Vasquez struggles along and tries to ignore the pain, but the nip in the air means that it's next to impossible to do. It keeps biting at him, reminding him it's there, making Vasquez hate whatever this place is. He pushes through the crowd of people on the walkway, not sure what to do about how many there are, and when he sees a tall building that looks like it might have medical help, he stops in front of it with a decision.
With the bounty on his head, it's not smart to go in. If someone flags him, recognizes him, they could take him in. Maybe he's imagining all these things because of the strain of the battle or the blood loss, or maybe he just doesn't know what's going on and it's something that a power above him has done.
Whatever it is, he's hurt and he can't decide whether to go inside. People are inside with crutches and casts, treating maladies, and Vasquez's cold state makes his decision for him, but he only gets so far as one of the lobby doors before he presses to the wall with a curse in Spanish for the pain, sagging a little.
He curses at Sam Chisolm, because he knows that none of this had been part of their arrangement. Vasquez wouldn't have been stupid enough to agree if it were.
A day, another day, the same thing and yet always different, when working the ER. Just a day, Claire thinks as she goes through the motions of admitting patients and helping others out of the doors, running tests and keeping some of them from blowing their brains out, or attacking each other. Another day where she has to be nurse, mother, sister, friend, enemy, shield and sword all at once. Draining, for some, but this is her life. This is what she knows and what she loves, despite the heartache and the fatigue.
A normal day, all in all, until she walks to the ER doors to wait for an arriving ambulance and is faced with a man that, for all intents and purposes, looks entirely out of time. He's dressed like a cowboy, dirt sticking to his clothes and skin, as much as - blood, that is definitely blood. He's also - Claire swallows down the curse word that threatens to escape her when she darts forward, and then stops herself. She has no way to defend herself if he decides to pull a gun on her.
"Are you openly carrying and walking into a hospital? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He looks visibly hurt, but Claire's heart is threatening to beat right out of her chest, worry and tension warring with her oath to help. Finally, with her hands held up, she takes another step forward, cautiously.
"Sir, I'm a nurse. You're visibly hurt. Did you get shot? You need help, but I can't have you come in with these guns, it's too dangerous."
A normal day, all in all, until she walks to the ER doors to wait for an arriving ambulance and is faced with a man that, for all intents and purposes, looks entirely out of time. He's dressed like a cowboy, dirt sticking to his clothes and skin, as much as - blood, that is definitely blood. He's also - Claire swallows down the curse word that threatens to escape her when she darts forward, and then stops herself. She has no way to defend herself if he decides to pull a gun on her.
"Are you openly carrying and walking into a hospital? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He looks visibly hurt, but Claire's heart is threatening to beat right out of her chest, worry and tension warring with her oath to help. Finally, with her hands held up, she takes another step forward, cautiously.
"Sir, I'm a nurse. You're visibly hurt. Did you get shot? You need help, but I can't have you come in with these guns, it's too dangerous."
Vasquez stares up at the woman, squinting at her in the flourescent lights (not that he knows what they are other than too bright) and wonders for a brief moment if he's died and gone to heaven, because he'd always hoped that he could make it to heaven. With a woman this beautiful looming over him, he can't be in hell.
Then again, telling him that he can't use his guns isn't very nice. He keeps his hands near them, even as the left one trembles and shakes from the pain and the fact that the Gatling gun took out a chunk of muscle in the process. "I was shot, Gatling gun," he spits out the words, trying to haul himself into a sitting position. "I'm not leaving my guns," he warns. "They're protection."
He won't shoot unless someone shoots at him, but he's also not stupid enough to let go of them, not when Bogue's men might still be kicking around.
Then again, telling him that he can't use his guns isn't very nice. He keeps his hands near them, even as the left one trembles and shakes from the pain and the fact that the Gatling gun took out a chunk of muscle in the process. "I was shot, Gatling gun," he spits out the words, trying to haul himself into a sitting position. "I'm not leaving my guns," he warns. "They're protection."
He won't shoot unless someone shoots at him, but he's also not stupid enough to let go of them, not when Bogue's men might still be kicking around.
His English is heavily accented - South American, but she can't quite pinpoint where exactly yet - and she finds herself switching to Spanish, when she takes another step and starts talking again.
"I'd like to help you. Would you let me do that? I can't do it in there if you keep these - you'll get arrested before you're through anything."
She doesn't know, exactly, why he thinks he needs this kind of protection while walking into a hospital, like he has no idea about laws and just - societal rules, but she can't quite let him bleed out by the front door.
"But in here, you're safe. You'll get your personal effects back once we've treated you, I promise. We're all medical professionals in here, and it's our job to make sure you're okay, and safe."
She pauses, takes another step. "Please?"
"I'd like to help you. Would you let me do that? I can't do it in there if you keep these - you'll get arrested before you're through anything."
She doesn't know, exactly, why he thinks he needs this kind of protection while walking into a hospital, like he has no idea about laws and just - societal rules, but she can't quite let him bleed out by the front door.
"But in here, you're safe. You'll get your personal effects back once we've treated you, I promise. We're all medical professionals in here, and it's our job to make sure you're okay, and safe."
She pauses, takes another step. "Please?"
It's not normal for anyone to speak to him in Spanish, let alone when he's in America. For that alone, he eyes her warily, especially when she doesn't have the usual terrible accent that makes him hate the attempt. While he's struggling with blood loss, the bounty on his head makes him too paranoid to give in so easily.
"I can't give up my guns, I need to protect myself," he says, his words more rapid and sharp now that they're speaking in his native tongue. "I don't know you, I can't trust you," he warns, because he doesn't. She says 'safe', but other people have said safe too, before they called on someone who was ready to hang him.
"If I go in there, with or without guns and there is law, I get arrested," he hisses out, cursing as a fresh wave of pain hits him and he bites down on his tongue to stifle it. "No, no, I can't." He's already stumbling, fighting to his feet despite the lack of grace he has. "Show me where I can go, I'll patch it up myself," is his spat demand, because as beautiful as she is, he can't be tricked by beauty.
It's not safe, not for him.
"I can't give up my guns, I need to protect myself," he says, his words more rapid and sharp now that they're speaking in his native tongue. "I don't know you, I can't trust you," he warns, because he doesn't. She says 'safe', but other people have said safe too, before they called on someone who was ready to hang him.
"If I go in there, with or without guns and there is law, I get arrested," he hisses out, cursing as a fresh wave of pain hits him and he bites down on his tongue to stifle it. "No, no, I can't." He's already stumbling, fighting to his feet despite the lack of grace he has. "Show me where I can go, I'll patch it up myself," is his spat demand, because as beautiful as she is, he can't be tricked by beauty.
It's not safe, not for him.
This isn't going to work out, especially not for Claire. She can't let someone just bleed out on a park bench because they both dug their heels in/ Her job is to save lives, it doesn't matter if she does it in the hospital or not. Matt would agree, after all.
She takes a deep breath, and then holds up a hand, eyeing the open ambulance a few yards away.
"Okay, don't move."
She runs off to the back of the ambulance, grabbing an EMT bag before jumping out, slinging it over her shoulder as she walks back to the man.
"All right. I can help you, okay? I'm a nurse - I'm qualified for this. I'm not letting you stitch yourself up, you'll do a terrible job. Are you able to walk? I live three blocks away."
Being able to walk to work had been one of the best things about her shitty apartment, after all. Might as well try and make the most of it now.
She takes a deep breath, and then holds up a hand, eyeing the open ambulance a few yards away.
"Okay, don't move."
She runs off to the back of the ambulance, grabbing an EMT bag before jumping out, slinging it over her shoulder as she walks back to the man.
"All right. I can help you, okay? I'm a nurse - I'm qualified for this. I'm not letting you stitch yourself up, you'll do a terrible job. Are you able to walk? I live three blocks away."
Being able to walk to work had been one of the best things about her shitty apartment, after all. Might as well try and make the most of it now.
Vasquez doesn't think he could move if he wanted to, but when she suggests it, he thinks about it. For a brief moment, he thinks that he's not dizzy enough now that he's been collapsed as long as he has and maybe he could get away with escaping.
He's on his feet by the time she gets back, a mildly sheepish look on his face because it's not hard to figure out what he's doing. "I can walk," he says, seeing as he'd been in the process of it. His legs are fine, his body is fine, it's just his arm and the disorientation of wherever he is. "Who are you?" he demands, still speaking Spanish. "Where am I?"
He's on his feet by the time she gets back, a mildly sheepish look on his face because it's not hard to figure out what he's doing. "I can walk," he says, seeing as he'd been in the process of it. His legs are fine, his body is fine, it's just his arm and the disorientation of wherever he is. "Who are you?" he demands, still speaking Spanish. "Where am I?"
Carefully, she guides him back onto the street, wincing at how obviously he is bleeding. If she'd thought twice about it, she'd have grabbed a jacket or a blanket to throw over his shoulders, but as is, they have to make do.
"My name is Claire. I am a nurse, I work in the emergency department of the hospital we just left. And we're in New York. Devil's Kitchen, to be precise. Where do you think you are?"
Depending on his answer, she might think he's concussed, or in worse shape than he looks...
"My name is Claire. I am a nurse, I work in the emergency department of the hospital we just left. And we're in New York. Devil's Kitchen, to be precise. Where do you think you are?"
Depending on his answer, she might think he's concussed, or in worse shape than he looks...
Nothing of what she's saying is making sense to him, only becoming dizzily worse to think about. He knows New York, but he's never been to it. "Rose Creek, California." And here is the worst part of all that he dreads having to say. "1879." Nothing around him looks like that belongs to his time or any that he understands.
He winches when the fabric catches at the wound, staring over his shoulder at the building they just walked away from. He's never heard of an emergency department before. He's never seen anything like this place and he suspects it's not just the blood loss that's making him see these things.
"None of this can be possible," he vows.
He winches when the fabric catches at the wound, staring over his shoulder at the building they just walked away from. He's never heard of an emergency department before. He's never seen anything like this place and he suspects it's not just the blood loss that's making him see these things.
"None of this can be possible," he vows.
Claire blinks, reaching out with a hand to keep him upright and going when he winces. 1879. He said 1879, right? That...
Okay. Ninjas and resurrection is a thing, in the world she lives in. She's seen it, with her own two eyes. She's met the Iron Fist, as much as a douche as he is. She knows a man who can't see but who can hear, for miles. Who can feel the flutter of a heartbeat in someone else's ribcage. She's lived through an alien attack.
So, time travel really isn't as crazy as it should be, or would have been, just a few years ago.
"Okay. Okay, I agree, it shouldn't be possible, but fact is, you're here, now. Just another block and we're at my place. We can talk there. Are you okay? Any dizziness?"
1879. Now, the clothes and the guns make a lot more sense.
Okay. Ninjas and resurrection is a thing, in the world she lives in. She's seen it, with her own two eyes. She's met the Iron Fist, as much as a douche as he is. She knows a man who can't see but who can hear, for miles. Who can feel the flutter of a heartbeat in someone else's ribcage. She's lived through an alien attack.
So, time travel really isn't as crazy as it should be, or would have been, just a few years ago.
"Okay. Okay, I agree, it shouldn't be possible, but fact is, you're here, now. Just another block and we're at my place. We can talk there. Are you okay? Any dizziness?"
1879. Now, the clothes and the guns make a lot more sense.
The blood loss has been happening long enough that the dizzy spells keep happening, no matter what he wants to believe. He needs treatment, he knows, but he'd been intending to shove a rag in it to stop the bleeding before pouring some liquor while he stitched it up. Now, though, there's a beautiful nurse insisting that she can help him.
"I've felt better," is his smirking retort, because he's fairly sure that this is one of the worst he's felt in his life. He hadn't even been shot that badly, but then, he hasn't eaten much in hours, he just lost his almost-friends, he got shot, and now he's somehow in a strange city he doesn't recognize.
Grimacing, he leans on her a little more than he should, feeling guilty for it, but it's that or pass out on her and he thinks she'd prefer this.
"I've felt better," is his smirking retort, because he's fairly sure that this is one of the worst he's felt in his life. He hadn't even been shot that badly, but then, he hasn't eaten much in hours, he just lost his almost-friends, he got shot, and now he's somehow in a strange city he doesn't recognize.
Grimacing, he leans on her a little more than he should, feeling guilty for it, but it's that or pass out on her and he thinks she'd prefer this.
"Yeah, you don't say," she replies softly, not as acidic as she could make it. They're not walking very fast, but she really doesn't live very far, and even at a sluggish pace they make it to her apartment without the guy passing out in her arms yet. It's more of a struggle to get him inside, but thankfully the elevator is working. Small mercies.
She gets him inside and on her couch, going straight to the bathroom for a couple of towels, which she drapes on the back of the couch, between his wound and the fabric.
"Can you take your shirt off, or should I cut through it?"
She gets him inside and on her couch, going straight to the bathroom for a couple of towels, which she drapes on the back of the couch, between his wound and the fabric.
"Can you take your shirt off, or should I cut through it?"
Vasquez feels like the walk is an eternity, because every step of the way he sees something new that he doesn't understand and can't account for. It's something that's overwhelming him, making him anxious and angry, but then, he also has a beautiful woman to lean on. That can only make up for so much ground, though, when suddenly he's in a mechanical lift, but he can't see the pulleys that they'd use.
He puts it out of mind, trying to forget it as he heads inside this strange set of rooms wondering where he's managed to get to and how. "I might need help," is his distracted reply, easing his hat and holsters down on the ground before he gives her a pressed-lip look, seeing as the one side can't really lift.
"You have a habit of taking strange men home and undressing them?" he wonders.
He puts it out of mind, trying to forget it as he heads inside this strange set of rooms wondering where he's managed to get to and how. "I might need help," is his distracted reply, easing his hat and holsters down on the ground before he gives her a pressed-lip look, seeing as the one side can't really lift.
"You have a habit of taking strange men home and undressing them?" he wonders.
Claire can't help the smile that breaks over her features at his question, a huff of quiet laughter escaping her as she reaches out for the buttons of his shirt, the moves entirely professional.
"It's actually not that strange of a thing in this day and age, although usually it's about sex, not potential surgery."
Gently, she pulls the fabric of his shirt down his arms, helping him lean forward a little to expose the wound. She looks up into his eyes, still sort of amused. Obviously, she has to think back on Matt - not Matt, at the time, and how they met. Claire doesn't really live a regular life anymore, and this guy, on her couch, is further proof.
"But you could say I've done this a few times in my day. Be glad, I didn't pick you out of the garbage. Okay, can you tell me what happened?"
"It's actually not that strange of a thing in this day and age, although usually it's about sex, not potential surgery."
Gently, she pulls the fabric of his shirt down his arms, helping him lean forward a little to expose the wound. She looks up into his eyes, still sort of amused. Obviously, she has to think back on Matt - not Matt, at the time, and how they met. Claire doesn't really live a regular life anymore, and this guy, on her couch, is further proof.
"But you could say I've done this a few times in my day. Be glad, I didn't pick you out of the garbage. Okay, can you tell me what happened?"
It's not the first time that a beautiful Latina woman has undressed him, but it has been a while. He lets her pull him in, slowly walking the few steps towards her as he leans his hips a little forward, wishing that it was more sexual, but the dripping blood that's rolling down his arm probably isn't helping his cause.
"If it weren't for the hole in my arm, it could be about sex," he says bluntly, feeling like if he's going to end up dying of infection or something else, he might as well try and go out with a bang.
Huffing a soft laugh when the shirt comes off, he doesn't dare blink when she looks at him, half like a challenge. "I was shot in the arm, with a Gatling gun," he says. "I know I survived, though, I was going to go out in the field, looking for survivors, then all of a sudden, I was here."
"If it weren't for the hole in my arm, it could be about sex," he says bluntly, feeling like if he's going to end up dying of infection or something else, he might as well try and go out with a bang.
Huffing a soft laugh when the shirt comes off, he doesn't dare blink when she looks at him, half like a challenge. "I was shot in the arm, with a Gatling gun," he says. "I know I survived, though, I was going to go out in the field, looking for survivors, then all of a sudden, I was here."
She laughs again, raising an eyebrow as she snaps on bright purple latex gloves before testing the skin around the wound on his arm.
"Oh yeah? What makes you think I'd be interested?"
Not that she wouldn't be. He's a handsome man - with the blood and the grime all over him. She imagines he's even better looking while clean and healthy, but even right now, she wouldn't exactly be disinterested.
She starts cleaning the wound, checking for an exit wound - if there's none, she's going to have to dig in, and he won't be having a good time of it.
"I genuinely don't understand how you ended up here, but -" She looks up into his eyes, serious and gentle. "I promise you, I'm very good at what I do, at least."
"Oh yeah? What makes you think I'd be interested?"
Not that she wouldn't be. He's a handsome man - with the blood and the grime all over him. She imagines he's even better looking while clean and healthy, but even right now, she wouldn't exactly be disinterested.
She starts cleaning the wound, checking for an exit wound - if there's none, she's going to have to dig in, and he won't be having a good time of it.
"I genuinely don't understand how you ended up here, but -" She looks up into his eyes, serious and gentle. "I promise you, I'm very good at what I do, at least."
Vasquez hisses at the first touch, which probably makes the answer he's supposed to be giving fall apart a little, because he can't be very charming and handsome and good at this if he's sitting here twitching in pain. Then again, he hasn't been shot in a very long time, so maybe he thinks he's allowed to be a little sensitive. "What, am I not handsome enough for you? Maybe I need to bleed more?"
"Or do you want me to bleed less?" he suggests, because he's struggling to deal with the way that she's cleaning the wound. "Just don't kill me and I won't have complaints for you," is his grave, rough response, even if it's a bit impatient. "Though, working faster would be good."
"Or do you want me to bleed less?" he suggests, because he's struggling to deal with the way that she's cleaning the wound. "Just don't kill me and I won't have complaints for you," is his grave, rough response, even if it's a bit impatient. "Though, working faster would be good."
"Oh, you're plenty handsome, but that's not necessarily all I'm looking for. Maybe I'd rather if your conversation was stellar," she replies, her eyes still on her work. She moves to get closer, angling her table lamp towards the wound, and finds that straddling one of his legs is the best way to get the best view.
"Sorry," she says, absent-mindedly. "At least it's a through-and-through. Will take me longer to close you up, but I don't have to open up further to get the bullet out, so you're lucky."
He squirms under her, and Claire sighs, turning towards his face. One of her gloved hands reaches for his chin, holding him in place, his face close to hers. She leaves a streak of blood into his stubble. "If you don't move, I'll be faster. I won't make a botched job of it just to be fast. If you're good, and let me work, maybe I'll give you a reward."
Just like little kids, at the hospital.
"You can even pick what you'd like. Also, if you feel sleepy, you have to tell me. You can't fall asleep just yet. Now, you ready for me to suture?"
"Sorry," she says, absent-mindedly. "At least it's a through-and-through. Will take me longer to close you up, but I don't have to open up further to get the bullet out, so you're lucky."
He squirms under her, and Claire sighs, turning towards his face. One of her gloved hands reaches for his chin, holding him in place, his face close to hers. She leaves a streak of blood into his stubble. "If you don't move, I'll be faster. I won't make a botched job of it just to be fast. If you're good, and let me work, maybe I'll give you a reward."
Just like little kids, at the hospital.
"You can even pick what you'd like. Also, if you feel sleepy, you have to tell me. You can't fall asleep just yet. Now, you ready for me to suture?"
He's not really thinking about anything but the pain right now, or having a woman on top of him like this might be more of a problem than he wants to think about. Grimacing, he adjusts himself a little and tries not to hiss in pain, scowling when she grabs at him and gets him to sit still. "How am I supposed to fall asleep when you're torturing me?" he spits out, irritable at the fact that he's being poked and prodded like a pincushion, even if he knows that she's helping.
Cursing under his breath (which is pointless because he knows that she can understand him), he performs the sign of the cross on himself like he's preparing for the worst.
"Fine," he says. "Go, take it out, do whatever you're going to do."
Cursing under his breath (which is pointless because he knows that she can understand him), he performs the sign of the cross on himself like he's preparing for the worst.
"Fine," he says. "Go, take it out, do whatever you're going to do."
At his irritated tone and words, Claire can't help but grin. It reminds her of Matt, grudgingly taking her assistance all the while complaining - at first, anyway, until he found himself in her living space in the middle of the night looking for a bandaid and a kiss from the nurse. Both things she provided, too, despite herself.
Vasquez is not quite as mysterious as Matt was back in the day, but he's definitely more dramatic, which amuses her immensely. She pats his cheek before getting to work, not talking while she sutures, clean stitches to close to wound on his arm, moving both herself, and Vasquez into better positions to get the exit side as well, making sure it's a clean job.
It takes her the better part of twenty minutes, but then she's done - it's a patch-up job, but it should keep him going and heal okay, over time. Grabbing a bandage, she wraps it tightly around the sutures after applying antiseptic gel, and sits back on her couch, next to Vasquez, as she snaps her gloves off.
"There you go, all done. Wasn't so bad now, was it?"
Vasquez is not quite as mysterious as Matt was back in the day, but he's definitely more dramatic, which amuses her immensely. She pats his cheek before getting to work, not talking while she sutures, clean stitches to close to wound on his arm, moving both herself, and Vasquez into better positions to get the exit side as well, making sure it's a clean job.
It takes her the better part of twenty minutes, but then she's done - it's a patch-up job, but it should keep him going and heal okay, over time. Grabbing a bandage, she wraps it tightly around the sutures after applying antiseptic gel, and sits back on her couch, next to Vasquez, as she snaps her gloves off.
"There you go, all done. Wasn't so bad now, was it?"
He doesn't exactly like the kiss on the cheek, because it feels degrading and like he's a child, but he can hardly snap at her without looking petulant, so he stays quiet and allows her to do whatever work she wants to, scowling as he bears the pain and endures the misery of the bullet being taken out.
The Gatling had only struck him the once, so he knows he's lucky, but it's not like he's going to stay quiet about it now that it's coming out. "Have you ever had a bullet ripped out of you?" he demands with a pointed look at her.
Now that the bullet is out, he's staring at her warily, looking at all the items she's using. This place is stranger than he knows what to do with, honestly, so he's not entirely sure that he's ready to process it. "How do I get back to Rose Creek?" is his automatic first question.
The Gatling had only struck him the once, so he knows he's lucky, but it's not like he's going to stay quiet about it now that it's coming out. "Have you ever had a bullet ripped out of you?" he demands with a pointed look at her.
Now that the bullet is out, he's staring at her warily, looking at all the items she's using. This place is stranger than he knows what to do with, honestly, so he's not entirely sure that he's ready to process it. "How do I get back to Rose Creek?" is his automatic first question.
She lifts her chin at him defiantly when he asks if she's ever been shot, like he's challenging for not knowing the pain she's making him go through. Her jaw clench, her easy-going nature dropping for a moment as the memories flood through her.
"No," she answers, through gritted teeth. "But if you're asking because you're wondering if I know pain, I'll tell you, respectfully, fuck you."
There are days where she still wakes up gasping, the phantom feeling of the bat crashing over her ribs fresh as the night it happened. The fear, the smell of gasoline and piss, the sweat and blood rolling down her temples.
She pulls back, sitting back on her couch, grabbing one of the unused towels to wipe her hands, even though she was gloved up the whole time.
"I don't know. I'm a nurse, not a time-traveler."
"No," she answers, through gritted teeth. "But if you're asking because you're wondering if I know pain, I'll tell you, respectfully, fuck you."
There are days where she still wakes up gasping, the phantom feeling of the bat crashing over her ribs fresh as the night it happened. The fear, the smell of gasoline and piss, the sweat and blood rolling down her temples.
She pulls back, sitting back on her couch, grabbing one of the unused towels to wipe her hands, even though she was gloved up the whole time.
"I don't know. I'm a nurse, not a time-traveler."
He chuckles under his breath when she swears at him, always having liked a spirited and fiery woman. The challenge is met with the amusement that would be better if the laughter didn't hurt, making him cough a little as he swears and reaches over to press his fingers just above the wound.
Glaring, though, he's not sure what time travel has to do with him. He's clearly in the future, but he has no idea why, apart from finding himself a spitfire of a woman who can patch him up. She's not Mrs. Cullen, but he's not complaining to look at her either.
"I can't stay here," he complains, trying to lurch to his feet so that he can start to try and make an escape. It's not that he wants to go home, but he also doesn't like being trapped. "I don't even know why I'm here."
Glaring, though, he's not sure what time travel has to do with him. He's clearly in the future, but he has no idea why, apart from finding himself a spitfire of a woman who can patch him up. She's not Mrs. Cullen, but he's not complaining to look at her either.
"I can't stay here," he complains, trying to lurch to his feet so that he can start to try and make an escape. It's not that he wants to go home, but he also doesn't like being trapped. "I don't even know why I'm here."
"Neither do I, but you've lost a lot of blood," she replies, dropping the anger as quickly as it rose up, because she is a carer above all else. She hovers, not touching but not standing very far from him, either.
"At least take the evening to rest up. I make a mean quesadilla."
"At least take the evening to rest up. I make a mean quesadilla."
He doesn't think that he could go very far, if he's honest. Sagging over and letting himself grab onto the nearest cushion for support, he gives her a wary look, wondering if she's going to sell him out for the money on his head or if he's going to have something else to worry about, but maybe he should just trust?
It will be strange for him to try that with someone else, so soon after losing the others, but does he have a better choice? "What about whiskey or tequila to go with it? I could use that more than the food."
It's a lie, but he'd like to believe it for a moment.
It will be strange for him to try that with someone else, so soon after losing the others, but does he have a better choice? "What about whiskey or tequila to go with it? I could use that more than the food."
It's a lie, but he'd like to believe it for a moment.
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