Nick nodded at Billy's time estimate and tried not to think too hard about it. All that stood between them and a crushing death was a god damned magic bubble and that wasn't too comforting. With nothing better to do and far worse things to think about Nick's own attention was now captivated by his wound and he carefully shrugged off his jacket, revealing a network of straps on his shoulders and down to his waist that seemed to hold at least two gun holsters (one of which was empty, its usual inhabitant currently in Tony's possession), a large knife, a smaller knife, and a pouch for a hip flask.
He fingered the wound on his chest, blood soaking a dark patch onto his navy colored tee shirt. It was already healing itself, the skin knitting back together, but that certainly didn't mean that it didn't hurt like a motherfucker. He winced a little as he drew his fingers away and muttered at Tony, "Don't hover, bitch-" and waved him back. Billy's query got another dismissive wave.
Nick watched as Billy pried open the aspirin and worked his flash from its pouch, asking as he did, "Can you swallow that-" before he paused and shook his head. The kid could probably swallow just fine. Instead he held out his hand for a few aspirin, knocked them back, and chased them with a swig from the flask. Not the smartest thing to do but pills always choked him and he didn't have water handy. Wordlessly he passed the flask over to Tony, the warm scent of scotch whiskey filling their protective bubble. Sure, it wasn't professional to carry a flask and offering it to an alcoholic was another unsound move, but Nick had learned on several occasions how fortifying and calming a drink of liquid courage could be in a dire situation. This was certainly a situation that called for a little serenity.